A/N: As I have been unable to think of a suitable plot, I have decided instead not to have one ^^ So it's going to be various snapshots of Sunday's life in the New Universe. I'm mainly writing this for my own amusement so it's going to go on until I think I should end it.
It was raining.
The whole notion of rain in the Incomparable Gardens was ridiculous. Apparently the New Architect decided rain would be easier than watering the plants manually. Did he not know that each variety of plants had different preferences about the amount of water they received? Doing it this way was sure to increase disaster.
Lord Sunday scowled as a particularly large drop splattered onto his neck, and slid gently down underneath his shirt. He would have shivered if he was a mortal, but he certainly was not, and so ignored the annoying distraction.
His sleek, dark hair was already soaked, sticking to his head and the wet clumps dropping gracefully over his eyes. Though it might look elegant to any passersby, of whom there were none, Lord Sunday certainly did not feel elegant and proceeded to brush it out of his eyes with a pale hand. His emerald green tailcoat and dark breeches were admittedly also wet and clinging to him, though he barely felt uncomfortable. At least his socks were dry, protected by his black leather boots.
Breathing out a barely audible sigh, Lord Sunday took a few steps forward. They had already recreated his favourite place and his own former dwellings, a majestic European 19th century castle with an immaculate lawn and a thick row of flowers, shrubs, hedges, vines and low trees serving as a fence. Closer to the building were a series of tall pine trees, each exactly alike, having being shaped by the Seventh Key in the Old Universe. There were gaps perfectly positioned, however, as to allow light to enter via large windows of similar sizes and shapes.
The entire block of land was on the flat summit of the tallest hill, and if one were to look from far away, they could only make out through the trees the pinnacles of the towers.
The garden, for lack of better word, stretched for many acres, and was a dense jungle of tall, proud trees which shielded the light from the secretly growing mosses, ferns and vines below. Each competed with the other for height in some areas, and in others they simply fell away into clearings. There were streams and rivers even natural waterfalls, as well as signs of Denizen life, such as huge fountains and lights along the worn path, which would light up at night in a wide array of colours and flash brilliantly.
It was certainly a stunning sight.
But Lord Sunday certainly had no mind as of now to see such a sight. He turned from his residence and looked down at the vast expanse of the Incomparable Gardens. The Elysium looked as before, and temporary houses had been set up for the New Architect and his few followers, who were currently recreating the Upper House. Apart from that, it was simply a prairie as far as his eye could see.
It surprised and pained him that he had, technically, only been alive for one day. The day before, after dusk, the New Architect had allowed him temporary reign over the Seventh Key, allowing him power to reshape the Incomparable Gardens as it was before. Lord Sunday frowned slightly. Temporary reign. The Key was not his as of yet, only a loaned item which, given to him, would save the New Architect from much work there was to be done in the House.
Nonetheless, he had taken the Key and had immediately shaped his own residence, exactly as he remembered it. He would be given today and the day after to rest, and then his work would begin.
Rest from what, exactly? He was not tired, nor did he need to recuperate from shock, injuries, or physical limitations of any kind. So unless the New Architect was giving him time to become accustomed to his failure, there was really no need for such time.
But perhaps it was customary to do so, and it was an opportunity to think by himself at the least.
The rain was coming down harder now, but he paid it no mind. It was quiet and peaceful at any rate, and it had been too long since he had experienced the phenomenon.
Ah, but he had only been alive for a day.
Sunday's scowled deepened and he ignored that thought. He had not been alive for a day. He had been alive for millennia and eons, so long that time had almost ceased to exist. His memories were ancient and wise, and such a ridiculous thing as being recreated would not change this fact. Regardless of his Key, his domain, his pride,—here, he cringed inwardly—he was still Lord Sunday.
But Lord Sunday had failed.
Gritting his teeth, he turned himself away from that line of thought and tried to think of more brightening thoughts, something he had become reasonable at over the last few hours, which was an incredibly short time for a Denizen.
Without conscious direction, his hand crept up to the Seventh Key on a chain around his neck and caressed over its shape, feeling every bump and corner and running over the smooth, flawless edges. At the same time he felt power fill him, the same one which lit up the sky and split the earth and manipulated the elements so easily.
And yet now Sunday had to remind himself that this power was no longer his. The acknowledgement came with a surprising pang of sadness and disbelief. He could use it, yes. He could harness it, yes. But it was not his to keep, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from destroying the things he had just created.
It would not do to get angry now – it would not serve any good.
"Lord Sunday," a voice behind him interrupted.
Sunday spun on his heel, thinking it was ironic that the New Architect had chosen to keep his title, yet nothing else, and seeing none other than the devil in question. "What do you want?" He hadn't even heard him arrive, although that was most likely because of the nature of the Improbable Stair. It had been the Old Architect's favourite method of transportation, after all. Why should it not be the new one's?
The Old Architect. Sunday felt anger course through him again. His own mother, who had left him to die, who had left everyone in the House today die for her own selfish wishes. Who had manipulated the Trustees and twisted their natures so that they were almost unrecognisable to themselves. Who had destroyed this world and took everything he held dear away from him...
Lord Sunday recalled a time before that, when the Trustees lived in peace and the House was governed strategically and normally. It had been a beautiful age back then, when they regularly met for meetings and discussed better ways to improve the House.
"You are rid of it," the New Architect said quietly.
Sunday, having almost forgotten the presence of the other, frowned. "Rid of what?" he spat.
"The Sin of Pride."
"T-The...you did that?"
"Yes," the New Architect sighed. "I thought, on the urging of Suzy, that it would be more beneficial for me to remove that from you now, and to have you assist more willingly in our work, than later. Was I wrong?"
Lord Sunday didn't answer.
"Shall I leave you to it?" the New Architect asked.
"No," he said with finality. "Tell me...what do you know of the time before the Will?" It was a strange question, but it had to be asked.
The New Architect looked taken aback at the question. He thought for a while. "Not much," he admitted. "I have no memories of a time before that. Indeed, I had thought the Will was imprisoned for millennia."
"It was. But as we have lived for more than millennia, it is not the start of time, and seeing as it was not, there would be something before that."
"And that would be?"
Lord Sunday regarded him coldly. "I have no mind to tell you."
He saw the New Architect stiffen and felt the firmness in his unwavering gaze, and he smirked at the thought that he, at least, knew of History much better than anyone else in this House. And it would remain that way.
"I would have thought," the New Architect said coolly, "that ridding you of that Deadly Sin would have made you more...compliant. I see that is not the case."
"Do you honestly believe that Pride made up my entire being?" Lord Sunday snapped. "I have a personality without it too, New Architect, and it would certainly not be in your best interests to rid me of what little control I still possess."
Another silence filled the blanks for a moment, the only sound being the drops of rain which, Sunday realized, had finally begun abating.
The New Architect sighed again. "Will you walk with me, Lord Sunday?" he asked politely. "Things such as this can wait until another time. You can tell me what you wish for your Times to look and act like, so I can create them according to your wishes."
"I already told you, the old ones were fine!"
"Not green!" the New Architect hissed, although Sunday could not see what green Denizens could have possibly done to him. "Why do you insist on having Denizens mimic a tree's appearance?"
"Have you not realized that plants often adapt better than Denizens? My Times have all of the strength of the plants, and none of their weaknesses."
"Was it really necessary to have them green-skinned? They look like aliens!"
Lord Sunday stared at him, uncomprehending. "Which are what?" he prompted.
The New Architect bit his lip, surprised at this slip of information. "Nothing," he brushed it off. "It was simply something which should have went with my...which should not have come up at all." Of course, he had not mentioned to Sunday about Arthur Penhaligon, but there was no need to and it would complicate matters further. But Lord Sunday guessed enough.
"Something from the Secondary Realms again?" he asked with contempt. "I do not see how that place could possibly attract anyone."
"Perhaps not, with your attention trained on your Gardens," the New Architect replied. "But for others who have nothing else to preoccupy their time with apart from their duties, it would be inevitable that they sneak out once in a while."
"Perhaps that is true to the Denizens of the rest of the House, but none of mine. And as such, I simply do not care."
"But you asked," the New Architect pointed out.
Sunday frowned, and then reluctantly admitted he was right. Willing to turn the subject away from the Secondary Realms, for they held no interest for him, he asked, "How is the rest of the House?"
"The Lower and Upper House have already been built, if not populated. As of now, we are working on the Great Maze. Admittedly the machinery in there is rather complex, but it should easily be up soon."
"How soon?" prompted Sunday.
"Soon enough," the New Architect said dismissively.
Lord Sunday glared at him. The New Architect sighed. "It is going to take a long time," he murmured.
"I thank you," Sunday said rather suddenly, "for bringing me back. There was no need to, and there would be much less work for you had you not. I do not believe your excuse about the Incomparable Gardens – surely that was a minor point which impacted slightly your decision."
The New Architect caught the hint. "I told you before, though you did not believe me. You deserved another chance. Everyone does. And you were only fighting for your own survival – I see nothing wrong in that."
Sunday frowned. "You feel sorry for me?" There was no answer, so he continued. "I had once thought that the other Trustees could stop you, that there was no need for me to raise my hand. I was wrong – I underestimated the Architect's Will. My own mother, who tried to kill us all. She poisoned us with the Sins; she neglected us in her arrogance; and she destroyed everything we held dear."
"You speak for many people," the New Architect said pointedly.
"The Trustees!" Lord Sunday hissed. "They were Denizens once too, grateful for life and unwilling to relinquish it. And look what the Architect turned them into! You gave me another chance, why not them too?"
"I plan to. I will remake them, despite the Atlas not having recorded them. They will be remade from memory."
"Your memory is not enough," he snapped. "How can you even try to create them again when you have no idea how they used to be? Even if you had me to advise you, which I may or may not do, you would still be unable to create them perfectly. You are incompetent, New Architect, and you know so."
Once again, the other did not reply. Instead, he turned away and ran his eyes over the majestic castle just created, listening to the sound of rain and relishing every drop. He held the silence for so long that Sunday almost believed he wasn't going to reply.
"What are you unsatisfied with?" the New Architect asked, voice quite steady. "I have given you your life, your Key and your Domain. What else do you ask of me?"
"You know you have given me none of those. They are merely on loan, as is my pride."
"You want me to give you permanent power to the Seventh Key? I will give that to you." With a curt nod, power flooded into the Seventh Key on the chain around Lord Sunday's neck. "I relinquish hold of the Seventh Key. Are you satisfied?"
"The Seventh Key cannot Create, only copy," Lord Sunday replied.
The New Architect's eyes widened. "You wish for power to Create?"
"Not power, perse, but creativity."
There was a brief pause as the other considered his request. "I shall give you both," the New Architect announced with a brief smile – the first one Sunday had seen. "But not right now," he added. "There are many things needing to be tended to, and this rain must be stopped. It may drown the plants."
As Lord Sunday rolled his eyes, the New Architect stepped forward and disappeared.
A/N: As I said, writing this for my own enjoyment, so I apologize for any OOC/boringness. But this chapter was needed.
Review? ^^
~CC