Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix.

A Day like Sunday

I began to lie to get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it…

Now, I'm having trouble differentiating between what I want and what I need to make me happy…

So instead of thinking I just act before I have a chance to contemplate the consequence of action…

-Flawed Design, Stabilo

"Of all damn atrocities of mind," he hissed in response to the silence, his always there albeit unwelcomed guest. With a casted sigh, he leaned back on his chair with eyes directed to the ceiling in an office so vast, it matched the space of a cathedral of the most extravagant detail. What met him was a large, stained glass window to the outside world where sunlight flourished and nature warmed the hearts. This sunlight glided across this glass threshold, illuminating the art in its magnificence. A gilded book of all languages and words of all letters and hieroglyphics surrounded by time and space, nostalgia, a friendly face, came over to him to give back the memories that lived under this roof.

But this was a time of war, defeat, and terror. Back then was then and so he assumed his original position.

Lord Sunday sat hunched over his desk, pen in hand furiously finishing the paperwork scattered upon his burnished immaterial desk. However, even with being created with a material so resilient to all bashes and blows either physical or sorcery, it had still received scars from lashes by Sunday out of anger and frustration over the pressing issues back then to the wars that now plague him now. These plagues he abhorred for they took away from his time and especially himself.

Exhausted, he brought his hands together to his chin and rested. Particular attentions slipped from his grasp. Concentration literally evaded him. A matter, something so very important, drove a spike deep in the lobe of his mind, unrelenting and cold. A matter he could not deal with, a hindering problem that could not be identified. What was the beast with sharpened claws attached to his mind for, what was the problem? "Grrr…"

With eyes simply gazing over words that had no meaning, not anymore, what was all this? He set the file on the polished metal desk, riddled with papers of all kinds. Organizing was never his strong spot, however it never hampered him. A still hand, his, but alien. Frozen like his thoughts, chained to the ground in silver links and rusted shackles, unable to budge, to fly on gifted wings. Restraint, he hated it. He detested it, the clipped wings and failing feathers. Life loves mischief doesn't it, he thought. This feeling, a piercing lance of something that wasn't pain but masquerading as it, lifted in silent feet to then suddenly pounce. What I've received is something that'll never let go.

For every action, every lie, that feeling came alive; burning through his mind to become front and center; he reviled it. With a tightening of his shackles, it always pulled him back unable to complete his goals. My goals, he smirked which then soon faded away to confused and apprehensive movement of his lips. It blazed its way though his words and thoughts exposing the consequences clear and fine. The consequences of my goals, he continued. Everything felt absolute immoral, horrible; it all had become something he disgusted. It all felt wrong. Just wrong.

Was is always so bright and obvious or had he just ignored it. He set the pen down and sighed, running a hand through his hair, a delicate black mixed with lines of auburn. The other traced his chin in heavy thought; handsome beyond human imagination, a pure example of perfection to the utmost. Fitting for the master of the House, ruler of all.

What annoyed him the most, or so he thought, was the wickedness of watching others suffer around him. Safe in his haven, assured of his power, he would make others burn. This offense it caused, it didn't hurt; he just didn't like the feeling. Why the sudden awareness of his malicious deeds? Troubled as well as infuriated, he slammed his fist upon the table, its violent vibration unsettling a stack of papers to the smooth marble floor. His scowl only deepened on his face.

"Something wrong, my lord?" A tall denizen, clad in a black, sharp dress suit, questioned as she entered Sunday's private office. As she walked towards Sunday, her ebony wings flowed behind her with some invisible force of gentle wind, creating the illusion of a long, midnight dress curving ever so smoothly behind her, glistening with droplets of stars that weaved around her body. With a petite frame, she was a stunning woman; flawless features equal to her rank as Sunday's Dusk.

"Nothing Dusk. The report? Specifically the part on my…arrangement?" he simply stated, scowl relaxing to a more natural sneer. Furtively eager to listen for the reply of the results, he leaned ever forward. His hand supported his chin, the fingers of the other simply tapping the table. Dusk flinched at every click, so Sunday soon ceased the action for he wanted her to talk. Time was of essence. In the recesses of his mind, it worked through all possible scenarios. He was careful enough, yes, for everything to end in his only outcome he planned, his success, his victory. Tainted with corruption and wicked wants, argent eyes of blue flare set to a gaze of a merciless demeanor, one that could kill you for no reason whatsoever under unfortunate circumstances."Well?"

"It's all going to plan my lord. We have apprehended Saturday and her forces," Sunday tilted his head. She bit her tongue and quickly added, almost stumbling over the words, "We're also in the process of dealing with the will." Rocking back and forth on her heel uncomfortable under the suppressing leer of her lord, she tried to look as dignified as possible.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," He waved, uninterested. "What about our resilient pest, the "heir" to the throne and our captive?" Those words said brought certain thoughts to mind, certain feelings to rise. Did he feel…sorry? No. He scorned the inadvertent thought. All this was nothing, nothing! He did not care. A frown swept across his face, this was idiotic! Lacing his sight, obscuring his vision, frustration bubbled underneath his calm demeanor, but most anchored inside under vigilantly cared for lock and key, hardly seeping. He closed his eyes.

Frightened as a little mouse in the sight of a voracious tiger, Dusk shuffled away from Sunday, extremely worried if she angered him in any way. The frustration only died down to a simmer, which was as far as he could get it too. He took a quick glance and saw Dusk's petrified expression, her frame growing smaller as if she wanted to disappear. He forced his scowl to abate into a tight thin lipped smile. "Don't…worry Dusk. You've done nothing…wrong. Just give me what you have on Arthur Penhaligon and his mother," so said in a voice so low and lack of usual spite.

Surprised at first at the soft words, he was but this surprise then muddled the shallow waters of their conversation into bewilderment at the forced kindness and false compassion that seemed to strain his muscles to rupture. This didn't even close meet what she was expecting, what she did was a roaring tiger, a burst of fuming rage.

"Well, as far as we know, Arthur Penhaligon is unaccounted for. My forces are on the lookout; they'll report as necessary. As for the prisoner, she's under complete surveillance and currently causing no trouble as all." She was treading warily now; terrified of igniting the spark of Sunday's anger after such the dramatic result before. Being lucky twice in a row was unheard of. All he did was rub his temples without reply.

He could feel the chains tighten, the lance piercing even deeper, nausea enveloped his senses with its vile dizziness. He concentrated on the nearest thing that wasn't his anger to pass the sick sensation; his consciences chose Dusk's breathing. He heard it quicken with slight whimpers of fear, fast and erratic. Imagining what she felt, he was glad. It wasn't of conflicting notions or words rather it was clear, straight, and loyal. Sickness subsided for now.

Now abruptly aware of his length of silence, with a swift motion, he commanded Dusk away. She bowed and placed the files on his desk to then walked, more like a half-run, out the door. Like streams of clear, life-giving water, relief rushed over her as she cleared the door. For comfort and shelter, she wrapped her wings around her. Feathers brushed over her face, she-.

"So, sister, you look quite the fright." Her enjoyment of her wings was interrupted by the merry chiming of Noon's voice, one that brought joy to others around him. Joy, she needed after her bout with Sunday. With gallant wings outstretched, he glided down towards Dusk. "Surely, dear. You'll wait for me?"

"I'll always wait for you Noon," she answered. As soon as his feet tapped the floor, he danced around behind her, and gave a quick peck on the cheek. Blushing in accordance, Dusk hid her face with a giggle. He smiled and embraced her in his arms as tightly as one would do for the love of his life to which her reaction was feeble push and shove."Noon, please."

After minutes of urging, Noon finally let her go and walked with her to their offices. At least, he got off with the compensation of having her hold his arm. "So," he started,"How was your chat with the lord?"

"Could've worse."

"Don't you mean better?"

"He didn't get really angry." Noon leaned closer to her face with the most ridiculous face of curiosity he could muster. Dusk laughed, "Well, it was different."

"Really now," he whistled. "I wonder why?"

"You're not going to spy on him again."

"But-"

"He knows," she said, face blank.

Noon squeaked, falsely horrified! "All this time?"

"Yes."

"Uh-oh."

As the two sauntered off into the sunset, Sunday was left brooding over his damned predication. Pacing back and forth across the marble floor, heels clicking, the file was in hand with his another attempt to focus on the pages. What he ended up with, much to his now frothing frustration was nothing but the thoughts that still tailed him, never leaving the sanctity of himself. Why wouldn't they leave, they weren't his. None of it was. His scowl came back, deeper; his fist clenched so forcefully wanting to break something, anything just because. He took up the file once more and flipped through it for the last time. He involuntarily came to the page of the welfare of Dr. Emily Penhaligon. Maybe, he needed to devote his time to other matters, a technical breath of fresh air.

"I guess it's time for a little visit."