Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix
A Day like Sunday
What is compassion? Say a women refuses to give a beggar anything, passing by ignoring. Horrible. But let us say that money she would not give actually went to a charity. Is it horrible? But is that compassion, ignoring those in need right in front of them?
Screaming pain of ice metal roaring through your flesh, it hurt. He hurt her. The crimson blood flying and falling, drip after drip after drip. Congregating together beneath her from soaking her coat, stained and flecked with dirt, to discoloring her tears. Once the clearness of glass now mottled to a sort of pink, a mixture creating suffering, pain, and fear. Crimson, it was rubbish, stupid, defiled blood, unworthy for a denizen. She deserved it, disobeying his orders. Deserve it, did she now?
He had her blood on his hands now. Blood covered the fingers, palm, and knuckles. If he washed a hundred times over, would it ever go away? Blood is blood and never permanent, but he'll know that it was there. What now? Make her listen? Shimmering silver and red at the point, ugly, ugly red, the blade became too heavy for his hand, too heavy for his…heart.
Run. It was cold. It was dark. It was painful. Clutching her stomach, bleeding so profusely. Copious amounts of blood stained the walls, painting the scream. She wanted to go home, to her family, friends, life. Those matters now so elusive, trapped, alone, and dying. For the weeks she spent here, she found it to be more than a dream, now a cruel reality verging on hell. A metal clatter to the ground and the weapon dissolved away into nothingness. Was he scared? Should he run? Walk away and she dies. Simple as that. Then what?
Help her. Blaring, shouting, kicking, those words kept ringing. It shrieked so loud, it scratched and clawed against the shackles, it wouldn't stop. Tugging the chains, never withholding, but they wouldn't break, it yelled over and over til the voice dry and exhausted, but no one would hear. Lances tried to make it stop, embedding deep, so deep, pinning it down. It kept on. Help her, please.
He ran. Not even to bother closing the door he unlocked by key. The flames died behind him and she may soon join them. With a face set to stone, a mind writhing in agony, trying so hard to push him back, so tempting to just run. I'm going to walk away, and she's not going to die. Mind lashed out calling it a lie! He told the denizen officer standing by the door to apply medical care to the prisoner. He heard not a single word from his mouth as he issued the command. Nodding, the denizen walked inside, never questioning what had happened, torchlight on and sorcery wisps circled around his hand. An officer here was trained in crude medical practices.
Out of earshot, out of eyeshot, he picked up his pace hastening from dank darkness to night, out of the hole, away from everyone. Breath condensing, skin feeling so cold, he ran so much harder, faster. His feet clattering on the stone paths, wind flowing past his face, ice daggers attacking his senses. The distance it carried him, the crunching of fallen leaves as he pounded on, slowly, it started to sizzle, flash. Hate, self-pity, guilt took life and tailed him. Why was he running? I'm scared. Why? Because…because…
Moonlight danced on fluid grounds, the river worming its way through immaculate shrubbery and life burned him. Run, and keep on running. Fear won't let go. Run, just run. For him, pain started growing. For her, it eased. The officer turned her over with no resistance, lost too much of her life to move, unconscious. Adept hands mended her wound. Working its way over and under, skin overlapped and pressed, blood boiled and spilled no more. The job was done, and was now time back to the desk. He might make a new cup of tea. He nodded at this good idea and left the prison.
Sunday stopped running now, sitting under a tree nearby the river bank, small waves rolling, washing with it the shine of the moon, the light of the stars, the untainted specks in the sky. Sweat matted his hair, cooled his body. But thoughts ever racing, ever going. Lord Sunday, master of the House. How long are you going to keep it?
Pip…no, the Piper has mass forces against you, vengeance his goal. He saw the blazing hatred in the Piper's eyes. As his older brother, he did nothing. Rather brotherly love and surprise at his sudden reappearing to be only shattered like a mirror with all the pieces falling into a void as deep as the one Pip fell into. A thought crawled from the deepest niche, your brother, reconcile with him. A hammer struck that insect and boomed: an enemy, destroy him.
The heir, measly Arthur Penhaligon, a formidable force to be reckoned with. His skill and speed had far surpassed his expectations. He had also amassed forces for himself. That worried Sunday. Mind strangely silent of the subject. A matter of time, before one or the other –run- destroys him. He can't keep running. Fight, prove yourself worthy of your power, and destroy them both. But, he was scared. Just wanted to run away, run because it kept you away from the danger. He stood up, a heaving breath –run-.
"Never!" he howled; golden glints fizzled in his hand. "I swear on the paramount key of the House, my title and pride as the almighty leader, that I will defeat all in my path. That I will not be scared of you. You will fall down to me and hail me as your king!"Liar. You know the will. Mind was so secure as a guardian, a stone in his path, besting, blocking all of Sunday's whims. The heir will overtake you. You'll be lucky if he decides for a painless death. He's determined, sturdy, a better denizen that what you'll be. "No, he will fall. No matter what is dictated. Life is never set. The path is paved by the walker not the watchers. Leave me alone."
Anger subsided, breathing noxious fumes Sunday's way before leaving, compassion ran away leaving behind traces of fear. Did he actually name them that, Sunday scoffed. Anger should be pride or greed, or perhaps the denizen mindset of himself, compassion? Yes, that seemed about right. Something so human, scared in a world meant for the empty, soulless, creatures not deserved to be called men. No passions on which it could feast on, nothing to tangle and twist around itself feeling all sounds, smells, sights. Sunday exhaled and turned his attention to the river, sparkling and glistening in beauty. How long did he have left before he could no longer see this? Compassion panted with the entirely unfamiliar effort of running back, and shyly smiled at the edge of his thoughts.
Hours passed, things returned to a relatively normal rhythm of life, well now Sunday classified it as some sort of non-life. Feet upon his desk, fingers drumming and tapping to the tunes running inside his head. In these technical dead hours of night, things were peaceful and quiet, thoughts kindly kept to themselves, and no one attempted anything out of order. Sight grazing across the room: hey, the view of the gardens from here was quite the spectacle. The brilliant colors drowned out by silver dust, sparking waters rushing on hurried fins to a destination impossible to reach. Mind focused only in the new sensations scattered unknown around him.
"My lord, sir." Both Noon and Dusk appeared at is doorway. Compassion welcomed them in open arms. Sunday shifted to a more proper position and bid them to continue. A smile tugged at the ends of his mouth. Some sort of company would be nice. "You have a visitor," Noon started.
"And someone wishes to have an audience with you," Dusk finished. Incredible, he thought, the way they don't skip a beat. He spied the fingers of Noon entwined around Dusk.
"Who?" he asked, trying so hard not to laugh or to stutter. Compassion always made him feel so giddy, alive with the magic of the world. Unclipped wings of flight unrestricted, freedom above all else!
"The Mariner," replied Noon.
"Dame Primus," replied Dusk.
"How urgent?" Which one? Which one? A new person to talk to, to socialize. In a way, compassion was a child, always aspiring for more and more. To feel everything it could get its hands on. What's worse was that child had power, controlled only by its impulses. But Mind enjoyed all the experiences the same as Compassion and was too caught up to care.
"Enough that Dame Primus is going to kill you is you aren't with her now."
"A message that urgent? Really?"
"Well-"
"Move aside!" A burly looking man, big but not the flapping fat type, just big with rippling muscles i.e. weapons of minor disturbance, blustered through the two sentries. Gigantic, clad in a greatcoat with a polished harpoon in hand ready to be thrown, a figure fit for epics and adventures against giant squids and monsters of unimaginable appearances that raid the seas for sailors and protect the treasures of immense fortune. Well, maybe he did have adventures in the far flung regions of the realms. "Oi! Sunday, I need a little talk with you!" he bellowed as whale, compassion held on to every word, presence, and feature.
"This is compassion speaking, please leave a message at the beep. I've a got date with Dame Primus tonight," clipping the last word. Sunday gave Tom the thumbs-up. Tom glared at his older brother, or rather Compassion. Remember the do's and don'ts with each…level of consciousness; compassion was the hardest to work and deal with, wild and unpredictable. Dusk and Noon took a gander at each other, she held his hand harder.
She opened her mouth to speak in the Mariner's moment of hesitation, "Lord Sunday, the Piper's forces have been camping out on Saturday's tower, so I'll go arranged the forces now to defend?" Noon piped up as she finished, "and Dame Primus wishes to meet you in the lyceum in the Middle House." Leaning over to the side of his chair to look around the Mariner, Sunday nodded almost losing his balanced before he caught himself and straightened.
"You two lovebirds may leave now!" Blushing with the sudden mentions of her feelings, she shied away from Noon, let go, and stared straight to the ground, burning a hole through it. Noon had let go also and coughed. They bowed, backed away, and left. Click of the door and they were alone. With each other, Sunday mused. "Hello, Tom. Beautiful evening is it not."
"You know, compassion isn't very liked by my terms."
"You'd rather speak with empty Mind or brazen Anger?" he said, tilting his head to one side.
"Mind listens to reason. Anger does to a certain extent, in any case his version of correct reason. Both aren't silly mindsets dabbling in mundane things."
"Mundane!" Compassion feigned hurt, "how could you to a brother?"
"How could I?" Tom pointed to himself. "How could you!"
"Can I go meet Dame Primus now? This doesn't seem to be going anywhere," Compassion whined.
"Go ahead; this talk can wait under more favorable conditions. All you do is ruin things. Look around." Thoroughly offended, Compassion scoffed.
"You're not happy right now are you?" it accused.
"You just want to know because then compassion can just mull over it and play with the reactions not that you actually care. Ironic, ain't it? To name it that way." Sunday looked away, shadows obscuring his face hiding what he felt. Was it nothing? Compassion liked the rage and sadness. Mind didn't and said. "Guess I'll be leaving then for the matters currently occupying the time of Dame Primus. Good night, Mariner."
The Mariner grunted and with heavy footfalls, exited the office and out the tower.
"I do not wish you luck my brother."
Lord Sunday stared upon the closed doors in dissatisfaction before calling on his key to enter the improbable stair.
"This is a dysfunctional world. Anyone who finds happiness in it is a lunatic."