CUPID WAS EATEN BY A NITHLING
A/N: Hello everybody! As requested, here is the Valentine's Day special!
I'm having finals all of next week, so my next update may take awhile, but I'm still writing for all of my ongoing fics. Your patience is greatly appreciated.
The Telegram!
Not just any telegram, no sir. THE Telegram, so infamous it was given a capital letter, and all shiver at the mention of it. No telegram could ever compare to the horror of the Telegram, and woe to the poor souls who read it!
Just to clarify, this Telegram is not the sum of interests that Mister Monday owned both Grim Tuesday and the Ridiculously Long-Named Wordy Honorable Definitely Non-cheating Trusty Affordable Incorruptible Bank of the House (which has, to the knowledge of many Denizens, crashed at least fifteen times in the past century). Nor was it the long explanation of why Sunday had permanently and purposefully broken Lady Saturday's weather machine- that was the Letter, which soon became the Burned-Up Kindling in Saturday's Fireplace by 'accident.'
It is very wise not to mention the Letter to Saturday.
Anyway, back on topic. This Telegram was sent to all of the Morrow Days, except Lord Sunday, who had written it.
As if he needed yet another reason for everyone to hate him.
This Telegram required all of them to attend a mandatory Valentine's Day Dance, which, like everything in the House, has a rather long, lengthy, and unnecessary formal name. Because a ball with only seven people, most of whom loathe each other, is not much fun, the Times and several other high-ranking Denizens from each demesne were invited as well.
Nevertheless, this Telegram was still the worst telegram ever.
"This'll be just like the Glorious Prom of the House!" Saturday complained, the disaster still fresh in her memory. "You always need a date to this sort of thing, drat it! Who am I supposed to ask?"
Pravuil perked up hopefully, while Noon and Dusk wished they could become invisible, like their sister. Dawn thanked her lucky stars she was such a forgotten character most people thought Pravuil had her post, and it was even possible she could skip the dance without anyone noticing. As a matter of fact, her own mistress tended to forget she existed, so there was no real danger of anyone missing her.
But instead of thanking the probably sole Denizen in the entire House who would offer to go to the dance with her, Saturday picked up her umbrella, crumpled the Telegram into a ball, and tossed it into the air, swinging the umbrella and striking it like a major-leaguer.
It landed in the fireplace.
"Whoops," said Saturday sarcastically as Saturday's Copy of the Telegram became More Burned-Up Kindling in Saturday's Fireplace.
It is very wise not to mention the Telegram to Saturday.
The Telegram was not well-received in the Middle House either.
"Gee, I dunno," Friday sighed. "I have an experiencing scheduled... I guess I'll have to miss the dance. Oh, woe."
She didn't sound woeful at all.
"But, milady," said Dawn, who all the other Dawns teasingly called "Mr. Dawn," seeing as he was the only male Dawn they knew of and could make fun of (Sunday's Times being, of course, a mystery). He had nicknames for them too in retribution- Miss Smile and Cursty, Miss Sootikins, Miss Sharkface, Miss Marshall Marshmallow, and Miss Invisible. He told them they should enter beauty pageants with those names.
They stopped being friendly after that.
Anyway, Mr. Dawn said, "Milady, it says here that it's mandatory."
"Oh, pooey!" Friday pouted. She reserved this motion for when she was alone or with her Times, as the other Days were of the opinion that pouting was undignified. Not even Mister Monday pouted. "I'll have to reschedule. Noon, see to it, please."
Noon bowed while Dawn wondered if Miss Sharkface would consider going to the dance with him.
Perhaps the only demesne in the entire House that wasn't struck with terror was the Great Maze. Being a soldier is stressful, after all, and any distraction was welcome.
"A ball!" Sir Thursday exclaimed. "It's bound to wrong, seeing as the other idiots will be there, but who cares?" He picked Dawn up and twirled her round and round. "Want to go with me?"
Dawn laughed and nodded.
Marshall Dusk's jaw dropped. "Did you know about this?" he whispered.
"Know about what?" whispered Noon back.
"Thursday and our sister have a thing!"
Noon eyed him strangely. "You're just now noticing?"
"What, you knew?"
"The whole Maze- maybe the whole House- has figured this out!" Noon said. "It's more obvious than Romeo and Juliet!"
"...Who?"
"I don't want to go!" Wednesday protested.
"But you have to," Dawn said.
"Fine. There better be food," she sniffed, and that was that.
Monday and Tuesday were enjoying themselves in the Far Reaches, playing a leisurely game of table tennis.
Or, at least, that had been the intention, but they were notoriously bad at it. Monday was too lazy to do more than some sort of weird, restrained motion that pretty much guaranteed he wouldn't hit the ball, and Tuesday was getting sick of having to run after it and pick it up after every serve. Eventually, he stopped fetching it and just kept serving balls procured from Nothing, creating a pile behind the sloth.
Tuesday was starting to get immensely bored when (miracle of miracles) Monday actually hit it back. Tuesday missed it, however, when a soot-covered female Denizen burst in, her hands clutching the Telegram.
"You made me miss!" he complained.
"Sorry," said his Dawn. She flinched a little under Tuesday's gaze. She'd heard him muttering something about "the grotesques might be too feminine if I throw Dawn in there too," and since then, she was not comfortable in the same room. Which was unfortunate, considering that was quite often.
"Well, what is it?" he demanded, holding the paddle loosely. Monday's eyelids began to droop.
"This Telegram arrived for you," Dawn said. After a moment's hesitation, she held it out at an arm's length away, as if to minimize contact with him. Tuesday snatched the Telegram, and she scuttled away as he began to read it. His eyes widened, and his hands shook as if resisting the urge to rip it to pieces.
"What is it?" Monday yawned.
"We are required to go a Valentine's Day Dance," Tuesday growled.
"Bother." Monday scowled. "We'll need dates."
"Easier said than done," Tuesday replied. "Who'd want to go with us?"
"We could ask Cupid for help," Monday said. "Friday's been hogging him for the past couple of centuries, it's our turn now! It shouldn't be hard to get someone so full of love arrows they'd look like cacti."
"I thought you heard!" Tuesday said in surprise.
"Heard what?"
"Cupid was eaten by a Nithling."
"Bother." Monday paused to yawn again. "You know what this means."
"We're doomed," acknowledged Tuesday.
"Sire," said the Reaper, "aren't you going to get a date?"
Sunday, his brother, and the Reaper were walking through his rose gardens.
"Of course not!" Sunday replied, indignant. "THEY will try to get ME."
"I don't follow, sire."
"I am so amazing, all of the women in the House will come running right at me," Sunday declared, picking a rose and tucking it into the pocket of his tux.
"But sire, usually the man asks the woman."
"No one's good enough for me to ask. Oh, she's looking up again." Sunday had set up a self-regulated spell that would flash his Key every time Saturday looked up. True enough, the Seventh Key flashed, and the clouds between the Gardens and the Upper House parted once more. "Loser!" he blew a raspberry.
"How immature, brother," quipped the Piper. "I bet I could get her to go to the dance with me."
"With you? Please," Sunday scoffed.
"Think you could do better?"
"I know I could do better," Sunday corrected.
"Want to bet?"
"Naturally!" Sunday drew to his full height. "She'll pick me over you any day."
"Sire, I don't think that's wise," said the Reaper. "If Lady Saturday finds out she is the object of a bet-"
"She won't learn," the Piper interrupted.
"What would she do anyway?" Sunday asked. "Cancel my room service? Tariff my bubble baths? Bore me to death at the next Council of Days?"
The Reaper frowned. "I just do not agree with being so callous over someone else."
"Don't you need to get a date?" the Piper said.
"Well, I'm currently single."
"Come back when you've got one," Sunday dismissed, "and let me get mine."
"Friday would never go out with me," Tuesday said. "You can try asking her."
"Do I look crazy enough to be Friday's date?" Monday replied. They were in his dayroom, trying to decide how to get dates to the dance. This was clearly a large problem, and it needed to be resolved- they would not show up dateless and be the laughingstock of the House, though they probably already were the butts of many jokes.
"Well, no," Tuesday answered. "I want to ask Wednesday."
"She'd pick a platter of seafood over you any day," Monday replied.
"She's allergic to seafood!" Tuesday snapped. "It makes her swell like some kind of belunka."
"Exactly," Monday said, and sipped at some orange juice.
"Don't be stupid. Wednesday doesn't hate me," Tuesday sighed. "Is there no one else?"
"What about Her Majesty Queen of the Upper House?" Monday asked.
"Not in a million years. She does hate me, mainly because I sued the HRS for unfair charges that weren't grounded or even strictly legal."
"The what?" Monday placed a straw into his juice and resumed sipping.
"House Revenue Service," Tuesday answered. "You know, the collection of Upper-Floor economic idiots who collect taxes."
"Taxes schmaxes," Monday said, waving his hand lazily in what was supposed to be a dismissive gesture. "I haven't paid in centuries."
"Lucky you the Accord stops her from FORECLOSING THE ENTIRE LOWER HOUSE," Tuesday snarled. "Anyway, back on topic. I need a date."
"Ask your Dawn," Monday said, then sipped some more. His glass was empty by now, so his sucking through the straw made a strange gurgling noise.
"Do I look like Sir Thursday to you?" Tuesday retorted. "He might be that desperate, but I'm not!"
"Maybe I should ask Wednesday," Monday said. He sucked at the straw again, raising his eyebrows as he kept intaking air. Then he stopped, exhaled and gasped for a bit, and went back at it.
"Okay, why are you doing that?" Tuesday asked.
Monday shrugged, not stopping.
"You're weird," Tuesday added.
Monday nodded, still going.
"Women love flowers," Sunday said. "Watch and learn, little brother." Carefully, he picked up the bouquet of flowers and entered the Stair, clutching the Key with his other hand while the Piper held onto his belt for dear life. A landing appeared in only a few seconds, and they toppled out, the Piper nearly landing on Sunday. "Watch it, you idiot! You'll crumple the flowers," Sunday hissed as they both stood.
Saturday blinked, and the two men blushed as they realized exactly where the landing was.
Her bedroom.
The Day was holding a door opposite them open, steam wafting out. A towel was draped over one arm, another over her shoulders. Her long blue hair hung past her waist, dripping wet, and she was wearing the fluffiest white bathrobe the Sunday and the Piper had ever seen.
Then Saturday did the only thing natural when one has just finished taking a shower and two strange men are in one's bedroom:
She screamed.
Loudly.
Sunday winced at the high-pitched noise. "Calm down, woman!"
Saturday yanked an umbrella out of its stand, brandishing it like a sword, the Sixth Key materializing in her other hand. "How did you two get in here, you per-"
"We didn't mean to!" Sunday exclaimed before she could finish insulting him. "The Stair kicked us off here- you know how stupid that thing is!"
Saturday narrowed her eyes in suspicion but lowered the umbrella. "So where were you planning to go?"
"Well, to see you," the Piper admitted.
Saturday drew an indignant, offended breath, and Sunday groaned at his brother's loose tongue. "Idiot!" Sunday hissed.
"Get out now, before I blast you," Saturday ordered, "and I don't care if you have the Seventh Key with you. Here in the Upper House, they're equally matched."
Which meant that, with her added sorcerous knowledge, there was a fifty-fifty chance she could whup their butts.
Considerably higher than Sunday would have liked it.
"We didn't meant it that way!" Sunday exclaimed. "We planned to land at the bottom of the Tower and-"
"Okay, okay," she cut in. Sunday scowled. To him, it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt her, but the second she interrupted him, it was an act of insubordination and disrespect, and he would not stand for it. He opened his mouth to educate her on this important matter, but she kept talking.
"If you really have innocent motives, then please wait outside in the hall while I put on something suitable," she said.
Sunday, now irritated that she had interrupted him more than he her, hoped the Piper would have enough common sense not to say another stupid comment. If he had any brains, he'd keep his mouth shut and refrain from telling Saturday she looked pretty darn good in that fluffy white bathrobe, which the Piper had to be thinking. He could see it on his brother's face. It worried Sunday that it was going through his mind as well.
"But you look pretty darn good in that fluffy white bathrobe, though," the Piper said.
Sunday would have face-palmed if it wasn't for the flowers, Saturday's surprised and then venomous glare, and holding the Key, which he had a feeling he'd really need to use, really soon.
Friday's Dawn gulped. He didn't think he'd ever been so nervous in his life, which just happened to be very, very long. He'd slicked back his hair with gel he'd nicked from Noon's study, and was wearing his best casual suit (his best formal suit was reserved for the actual dance). He had even considered wearing the monocle before dismissing it as looking stupid on him- Noon might have been able to pull it off, but not him.
His legs were shaking, both from nerves and the rollicking of the Sollemne, the private ship reserved for Duchess Wednesday and her Times.
Miss Sharkface was on board.
His heart thudded as he heard the click of heels on the wooden deck. Then he sighed when he realized it was Wednesday, not her Dawn. Wednesday had listened to his request that he speak to Dawn, and agreed he could remain on the ship until he "finished his matters." Wednesday winked when she said that, and wished him good luck. He replied he'd need it.
"Still here, are you?" Wednesday asked, not unpleasantly. She was by far one of the more easy-going Morrow Days, very genial and composed. Though Friday's Dawn had heard she had a thing for drowning Rats.
Then again, no one was really a big fan of them.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered.
Wednesday smiled. "Aw, how polite! It's refreshing to hear some of that after all the sailor talk. It's all right, I'm not big on honorifics in the Border Sea anyway. You can call me just about anything but-"
"Nessie!" someone called.
Wednesday scowled. "That. Never call me that, or I'll throw you overboard." And she dashed off, yelling, "One moment, Sattie!"
Mr. Dawn sat down, starting to feel a little ill. Maybe he should've asked Miss Sootikins instead, if only to avoid seasickness. Then again, he hadn't even known Denizens could get seasick. Then he jumped onto his wobbly feet- or tried to, anyway- and fell over as Wednesday's Dawn came near. He was deeply embarrassed as she caught him and helped him to stand.
Okay, you've just been rescued by her. Sort of. Smooth, Dawn, you've got to be smooth. He took a deep breath. All right, here goes.
"Hey, Miss Sharkface."
Wednesday's Dawn simply extended her arm and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He toppled over, landing on his keister. "Ow!"
"You deserved that," she said.
"Maybe," he grunted, scrambling back up and leaning against the deck railing. Hopefully, she wouldn't push him off, because he couldn't swim.
"So what brings you to the Sea? Being in the sky so much, I would've thought the land would pose a problem, much less the water," she teased.
Mr. Dawn nodded. "I wanted to ask if... maybe... you... we could..."
Miss Sharkface frowned.
"Will you go to the dance with me?" he said slowly, making eye contact. Hopefully it wasn't creepy but was romantic as possible for Denizen.
But, then again, that may have just creepy. Denizens weren't the best at the whole 'romance' thing.
"Oh." She bit her lip. "I would love to, but-"
"But what?" he asked.
"Thursday's Noon already asked me, and I said yes. Sorry."
Mr. Dawn's knees buckled and he collapsed again. He had no strength to get back up again.
"Let's just go as bachelors," Monday yawned. "Finding a date is way too much work."
"No!" scowled Tuesday. "Never!"
The door burst open, and Monday's Dawn smiled, curtsied, and scattered sunbeams everywhere. Monday squinted at the light. "Can't you control that? Jeez! None of the other Dawns ever do that!"
"Sorry," she said, and frowned. "Er, Lady Saturday is here to talk about the HRS. AGAIN. Sir, maybe if I could simply handle the taxes from now on, we'd-"
"No. It's not that I just don't do the forms. We seriously don't have the money," Monday informed her. "Did Wednesday respond to my inquiry?"
"She said she'd rather go with Tuesday." Dawn turned to face Tuesday. "So, um, she asked if-"
"YES!" Tuesday exclaimed. "A thousand times yes, ha ha, yes!"
"And about Lady Saturday..." Dawn prompted Monday.
"Tell her to make an appointment. My next opening is in about... eh, three thousand years or so. I'm busy at the moment," Monday said, and sipped at his straw.
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am." He turned to Tuesday. "Shall we play Go Fish?"
"Poker's more interesting," Tuesday suggested.
"Poker's more effort," Monday sighed.
Sunday wandered aimlessly around the Gardens, his pride sorely wounded.
"Sire?" said the Grower.
"She nearly attacked me," Sunday said, "and the Piper. But we got out of there first. She turned both of us down! How could she do that?"
"Sire, it is not the end of the House," the Grower consoled.
"But... I'm so amazing... and she turned me down!" he protested.
"Just go to the dance as a bachelor."
"NO!" Sunday snarled. "That's it- if I can't have a date, no one can! Send a telegram. The dance is canceled!" He breathed heavily. "Oh, and add that it's all Saturday's fault."
"As you command," the Grower bowed.
Thus was another telegram sent, the successor of the evil Telegram. This telegram was happily called the Telegram Amendment.
Saturday had it framed and hung next to some taxidermy Rat tails she was meaning to either throw out or send to Wednesday as an April Fool's gag, but she hadn't gotten around to doing either. The Upper House reported intense laughter coming from her chambers all night as she told herself she had rankled Sunday so much he'd called off the dance.
"Superiority always shines through!" she cackled. "Take that, you mama's boy!"
It was then that her Denizens began to worry for her sanity.
Thursday nearly had a heart attack. He'd had such high hopes for the night! He retreated to his chambers where he may or may not have spent several hours crying, then emerged later, declaring that if the rest of the House wouldn't have a dance, by jove the Great Maze would!
Unfortunately for him, this had to be canceled for some pressing campaign matters. The next year, either an assassin or an idiot gave him a cake with a bit too much Nothing in it, and he needed to see a doctor before it dissolved his innards.
Year after year something popped up and kept him from holding his dance, and as the Will wore on his nerves, Thursday began to lose control. He began throwing temper tantrums that turned into rages.
He began striking the marshalls.
He was too ashamed to ask Dawn for a moment alone again. He was too embarrassed and felt too evil to ask for her forgiveness. Their relationship began to dissolve as neither of them spoke to each other beyond formal or work-related matters.
As if to add insult upon injury, the Will gloated about it, proud it had found his true emotional weakness. Look at you, it'd hiss. You monster. Not even Cupid could make her love you, if he hadn't been eaten by a Nithling.
Wednesday didn't care too much, shrugging it off. She tried calling Saturday, but her friend wouldn't answer. So, she and her Times simply made some popcorn and invited Tuesday and Monday over to watch the Super Bowl.
... What do you mean the Super Bowl didn't exist thousands of years ago in the House? LIES!
Seeing as everyone had a great time, Wednesday threw her own dance and invited everyone. Thursday claimed he was busy, and Marshall Dawn politely declined to attend. Sunday was still wounded in pride and refused to show up, and Saturday was occupied attempting to take some legal action against the Middle House or whatnot. Likewise, this kept Friday away as well. Tuesday and Monday showed up, the former as Wednesday's date and the latter as a bachelor, and no one commented or made fun of him; single life seemed to suit him.
Exactly 849 years later, there came another infamous Telegram. It was a mistake that was supposed to announce Saturday's newest batch of ridiculous taxes and Tuesday and Wednesday's newest pact about something-or-other, but somehow said Thursday and Wednesday were getting married. Marshall Dawn was visibly shaken, which surprised Thursday- he thought she didn't care anymore. In fact, he suspected she had feelings for some Corbie-or-other. Thursday tried denying its validity, but it was clear she didn't believe him.
At that point, he threw the engagement ring he'd bought at least nine hundred years ago into the Void.
It clearly wasn't meant to be.
Poor Thursday! Anyway, I hoped you liked it. Please review if you did, even if it's just a sentence or so.
Until next time!
~Dragonlord Stephi