Things of the Past

The blustery wind scattered leaves across Thursday's wake as he walked. He was still waiting for word to see if the military had accepted him. He saw no reason why they wouldn't- after all, he was physically fit, and his alias here on Earth was supposedly a very well-behaved, able human- but he was still worried about that slim possibility that he'd be turned down.

Thursday was, contrary to popular belief, an observant, musing fellow. He had, for example, noticed a tension between Saturday and Sunday that he figured wasn't the usual age-old tension present since Saturday learned of Lord Sunday's existence, and Wednesday was acting intensely odd, skipping meals with the Days, claiming she would eat later. She was spending hours preparing food she wouldn't so much as taste. Tuesday and Monday were absolutely everywhere, walking around, fixing the odds and ends in the tenement, and just plain goofing off, and Friday was either at work or hogging the television or bathroom.

He shivered and pulled his coat closer to his body. He didn't like noticing the cold. It was unnatural for one like him to be susceptible to such weakness.

He also wasn't used to being lonely.

Thursday hadn't realized how much he'd liked the Marshalls until now that they were gone, and his face flushed with embarrassment when he remembered the last things he'd said to them. "Go jump in a pit of Nothing! You deserve to be swallowed by the Void, turning on your commander like this!"

Apparently- at least, according to Saturday, who'd seen the Army after his death, as she and the Piper were quite busy trying to defeat it- every soldier had worn funeral armbands for him. Even after his millennia being such a jerk. He wasn't sure he believed Saturday, especially considering her history and flippancy with the truth, and he didn't know who else he could ask for confirmation, but the thought made him both very happy and very ashamed.

"You can change, I know it!"

The words echoed in his head. Dawn had told him that, when, exasperated, he'd admitted he was hating the monster he had become. Noon had added, "Past mistakes don't need to govern our futures."

Don't they, though? Thursday thought bitterly. One mistake. Breaking the Will. It had been one fixed, small moment in time compared to the eons and time he'd spent in the House, and that one moment had ruined everything after it. That past mistake had governed his future, and in a drastic, terrible way.

He stopped.

"Who's there?" he called, turning around. "I know you're behind me."

He thought he glimpsed hazel eyes and chestnut hair, and wings that reminded one of turkey feathers, but then his stalker disappeared, melting into the air.

Shaking his head, Thursday continued on his way and entered the pub, sitting down at the bar. He made sure he sat a good distance away from the other mortals enjoying their drinks. Thursday was not much of a drinker, himself. Unlike most of the House, he preferred wine to vodka, but he drank it on very seldom occasions. It was his opinion that soldiers and intoxicating substances had no right to mix. Peoples' lives were depending on you, after all; you wouldn't want to be in a stupor when you need to take up arms and answer that call.

He sighed and rested his head in his hands, wondering if he'd actually get to do something. Monday, Tuesday, and Friday had jobs. Saturday was working and tutoring the little mortal brat. Wednesday had a hobby. Only he and Sunday weren't really doing anything, and that bothered him. Thursday was not one to be complacent.

Thursday absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the counter, not thinking of ordering, though the bartender scuttled towards him anyway.

"Uh, water," Thursday said, frowning. That same uneasy feeling as before had returned...

He turned around. The same hazel eyes, devoid of either goodwill or malice, stared back at him, eyes that said it wouldn't matter one way or another what happened to him. The girl smiled thinly. Like her eyes, it was a smile that betrayed no emotion towards him, save perhaps indifference. Their gazes locked, and Thursday shivered. He didn't know how he knew, but right away he could tell no one else saw her. Maybe it was the way their eyes lingered on her blankly, unseeing, or the absent dragging of their gazes, sweeping over her without recognition.

"Are you following me?"

The smile crept farther upwards, into a smirk. "Not you personally." It was a soft, warm voice that spoke, with just a tinge of melancholy. Then her smile dissolved, and she hissed, "Run."

Thursday didn't even contemplate it. He leaped into a wild, inhuman sprint just as the bartender returned with his glass of water. For a second, Thursday seemed to slow as he passed the girl, their hands brushing for a moment. Then his momentum picked up again, the spell broken, and he hurtled past her. A moment later, he broke out of the dim pub and, blinking, burst into sunlight.

He didn't slow. He kept running until he made it back into the apartment. No one seemed to be in it but Friday, and his urgency must have startled her. For once, she actually turned the dratted television off.

"Thursday?" she cried, standing. "Is something wrong?"

He immediately felt like an imbecile. Had he seriously run all the way back to the apartment as if Nothing was behind him because some teenaged-looking stalker had told him to? How stupid.

"No, nothing's wrong," he sighed, plopping onto the couch.

"That's good," Friday said, sitting down too. She casually rested her head on his shoulder, a relatively innocent action- especially for Friday- but it reminded Thursday of another head on his shoulder, another throat sighing in contentment. That memory, of course, chided him of broken hearts and sobs in snow, and agonized spirits under a green moon.

Thursday gently slid her off his shoulder and groaned. "I'll, uh, be in my room."

Friday drew back, hurt in her eyes as he stood and began to walk away. "Oh, I see. The great player has finally decided to be loyal. Just pick already!"

Thursday gave no outward sign of hearing her, but her words revolved in his mind, bitter accusations ordering him to choose. It was true that he had a weakness for women, something both Friday and Marshall Dawn would constantly complain of or cry over. Choose, hmm? There is no choice when the right one's dead, Thursday contemplated, sitting down on his modest mattress. It wasn't fancy- unlike other Denizens, he never needed anything exquisite. Standard issue was enough for him.

Thursday's hand was stiff and curled into a ball; he realized it'd been that way since he'd run from the pub. He pried his fingers flat with the other hand, revealing a slip of paper. At first, he had no idea where he'd gotten it from, but as he thought about it, it occurred to him that he could only have acquired it when he'd brushed hands with his weird stalker.

If he'd been expecting some sort of secret message, an ambiguous instruction or cryptic order for contact, he quickly saw that there was none. It was blank, no matter how many times he'd turned it over. Why would a stalker give him a blank piece of paper?

He walked to the wastebasket and almost dropped it in, but changed his mind and put it in his pocket instead. Something about the note- no, make that the whole encounter- bothered him.

The Young One licked his lips before uttering a feral growl. It was a grating, screeching howl of rage and frustration that would frighten anyone who heard it out of their wits, but none in the pub heard nor saw him.

None but a creature that preferred the appearance of a teenager with hazel eyes and chestnut hair, large wings of turkey feathers and clothes that were reminiscent of Puritan dress, albeit with a more modern twist. She was no doubt frightened, but she didn't show it, impassive eyes boring into his. Neither the Young One nor the girl spoke, until she broke the tension between them with a laugh.

A laugh!

"You're mistaken," the girl chuckled. "I do not interfere. We do not interfere, merely observe. I have taken precautions in case you screw things up, as you tend to do."

"Lies," he hissed, his blue eyes narrowing in displeasure. "You warned him I was coming."

"What of it? I have no business with him. It matters not to me whether you have him or not. My business... is with you." She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Come, now, Young One. We were once allies. I do not wish to harm you, and it is not my intention that you be meddled with. Just give us the copied soul, and we'll leave you alone."

"It is true we were once allies," he agreed, "and so I know what you and that snow queen will do. I have waited too long to put my pawns into place, and even if Jerald remains, I will not sacrifice even one when nothing is to be gained."

"Jerald may remain where he is. He will not come to harm," the girl promised. "I will stay December's hand."

"Perhaps. But what of my copy? You must admit, it is my finest yet."

"That is true, but I shall have to destroy it," the girl replied. "A copy of a deceased soul is too arbitrary and unpredictable to leave alive. Copies are not meant to breathe, Young One. It does not deserve its spark of life. The danger and the ethics, Young One."

"Ethics!" he snorted. "Since when have you concerned yourself with ethics, November? Ones such as we do not have to resort to such flawed logics."

"We find our hearts resort to them whether we want to or not, making excuses to steady our consciences."

"Now you're being sappy. How can you claim it is ethical to kill a sentient being with a soul?"

"A stolen, copy of a soul," November said. "A 'bootleg,' as mortals say. It will unravel in time, with intense pain, no doubt. Even you cannot create a copy that will survive that. I do not wish to prolong its pitiful existence, nor its eventual misery, though you are right. The decision bothers me. Luckily, the decision comes from December, for which I am thankful."

"Thankful, thankful," the Young One mocked. "You and your thanksgiving. You should be thankful I'm not striking you down where you stand for ruining this little ploy."

"It is but a mere battle in the war."

"Exactly." The Young One smiled. "It is a war I am winning."

"We shall see about that."

The Young One turned and picked up an apple, raising it with a smirk. Then he sank his teeth into it as he began to stride away. November watched him go, understanding his message. "You think you are a god of death? Whoever said death gods enjoy apples?" she wondered, picking one up herself. With a shrug, she took one delicate bite, then tossed it over her shoulder.

"We don't," she added, and walked away, leaving the bitten fruit to rot on the ground.

Sunday was not one to dwell on his childhood. He couldn't exactly say it was a happy one, but he couldn't honestly say it was terrible, either. He recalled Wednesday trying to teach him to swim before declaring it hopeless. Monday let him spend hours in the library of the Lower House, reading. He was not allowed to go to the Far Reaches (back then a beautiful glade) without his mother, or the Great Maze. Later, he would visit them unaccompanied once he reached a certain age. It was so long ago that he no longer remembered what that age was, and his early visits with the Architect were fuzzy, half-forgotten things.

He also remembered that Saturday had always, always hated him. The hardness in her tone, the way she avoided his presence, the slight venom in her gaze- it was obvious! Over time, he'd realized it was because she felt he was replacing her, and in his smugness, he felt that she deserved it.

He'd been totally unprepared to hear he'd been wrong, but judging from her expression after the talk, he was now guaranteed she loathed him. And now the Piper was possessive of the stupid witch, as if Sunday would steal her away if he got the chance. As if he actually wanted to. Something else that had sprang over the eons was mutual disdain.

Sunday was reflecting on all of this waiting for the elevator to get there. He was not pleased it was taking such a long time. When it finally clicked open, he sighed and was about to step on in when he heard bickering voices.

"Are you seriously stalking me now? Seriously? First you wouldn't let me have that dinner with Thursday, and now you're following me? Do you not trust me?" That was clearly Saturday.

"Of course I don't trust you! You just went to see the Old One, woman!" And there was the Piper. "THE OLD ONE! What are you, stupid?"

Either they didn't notice Sunday, or they were too wrapped in their argument to care. The latter was extremely unlikely.

Sunday pressed himself against the shadows as they stepped off the elevators, walking away but still continuing.

"Don't tell the Architect."

"I'm not about to do you any favors," the Piper retorted. "Then again, Mother was never my- well, considering it's Father... this time."

"Thank you."

The Piper snorted. "Huh. You're thankful? Start proving it. Well, come on. I've composed a song for you."

"Really?"

"Of course. I like to keep the hearts I've locked away." They continued talking, but by now they were too far away for Sunday to catch their words. Peeling himself away from the wall, Sunday shook his head. The Piper may have kept Saturday's secret because he was his father's son, but Sunday would betray it, because he was his mother's.

Sunday spent hours in the tenement's gardens. There was only so much he could do with his plot, so he started work on the 'public' portion of it, since it seemed the gardener was either terminally ill or terminally lazy. His toiling outside was an escape out of the apartment, a welcome excuse to be alone with nothing but the trowel and the flowers, loamy soil beneath his fingers with a comforting touch. Even as the November weather began to chill, he would put on one of Friday's sweaters under his coat and suck it up, hoping the pink would not poke over his jacket.

Some of the flowers were annuals, and their beginning descent out of bloom was slightly disturbing to them- he didn't like to admit it, but he was attached to them. He even sneaked in some sorcery to prolong their lives, and the tenement and Sunday's plot were still in full bloom, even though the other plots in the garden were subduing to the soon-to-come frost. He didn't dwell on how odd this must have looked.

"I wonder if you'd like some roses, as friends," Sunday said. Sometimes he addressed his flowers- unlike actual people, they were agreeable and understood he was their sovereign, their caretaker and king. They also never made him feel stupid.

"I bred roses, back in the House," he continued. "I had all sorts- red and white and yellow and green and blue." He chuckled softly. "It took me a long time to breed them in blue and green. They were my favorites. Maybe you would like some green and blue roses. Would you?"

There was no wind this time to nod the flowers for him, but Sunday didn't need it. "Yes, you would," he answered.

"Is someone there?"

Sunday jumped at the voice, raising his trowel to throw. He lowered it when he realized it was only Mr. Ronne. "Ah, it's just me."

"Oh, Sonny." Mr. Ronne noticed the trowel- how could he not? Sunday was nearly going to club him with it- and the dirt streaked across his pants and hands. "Have you been the one tending the plants? I could never figure out..."

"Yeah." How did you NOT figure it out? I spend hours out here every day...

"You know, this is the gardener's work. I should pay you," Mr. Ronne said.

"No, I don't do this sort of thing for money," Sunday shrugged.

"I see." Mr. Ronne surveyed the flowers, the green and blooms still present. "They look quite healthy."

"Um, thanks."

"Is it all right if I ask you a question about Wendy?"

Sunday raised an eyebrow. What was this, all of a sudden? "Sure."

"Would she- would she mind if I dropped by sometime?" he asked. "I haven't seen her since- well, it's been a while."

"I don't think she'd mind," Sunday said.

"And do you think Susan would? I get the feeling she hates me."

"Susan hates everybody," Sunday said. He had a good idea when and why Wednesday met Mr. Ronne, and he knew exactly how the others would react. Odds were Saturday already knew, but that meant there were four other suckers still pining for a scandal. For a second, he contemplated confronting Wednesday and ordering her to stop acting like a love-struck mortal teenager- for a second. He thought back to the last time he'd given away a secret, and the lesson he'd learned. He would keep one secret, this time around.

Just this once, Sunday was his father's son.

Thursday never slept.

He hadn't since the breaking of the Will. Now, he turned the paper over in his hands as moonlight drifted through his window, not sure why he was so drawn to a stupid scrap. He slipped it in his pocket once more and rested his head on his pillow. His fingers brushed the tiny scrap, and his eyes closed. Nights were the loneliest. There was no one there to talk to or distract him, no one to comfort his insomniac hours. Even if he couldn't sleep, he decided, it'd be a good idea to pretend.

"Please, let me-"

"October, no."

"Please!"

"October, I said no!" December snapped.

"But the Young One is-"

"No!" December pointed a slender switch of white wood at him, as if thrusting a rapier. "Your chance is over. It is now November's time to take care of things. We must follow the rules laid out for us. Go help January with the Archives." When he didn't move, she repeated, more firmly, "Go."

October grimaced and stalked off, ears burning as red as his hair and eyes. January, a blue-eyed, energetic Month, was the lowest-ranked of them, usually just overlooking and sorting the Archive. The Archive was where the records of any soul ever living was stored in the forms of a 'copy,' a better record of their existence than those of paper in the old, destroyed House- records that were kept solely for backup and were almost never to be used, except when the Architect said otherwise. That was one of the rules. The Archive also housed the few precious preserved souls- trapped essences in the limbo between life and death.

October did not usually store or sort souls; that was the job of the Months known collectively as "Yesterday." He also did not make sure that mortals and other beings died on their proper 'death days,' like the middle Months, known as "Today."He belonged to the group "Tomorrow," usually helping November and December decide which beings would have preserves, sometimes (in rare cases) fashioning bodies for those deemed to have a second chance. To make him join January in sorting, December was snubbing him a bit. He must have really irritated her. Or perhaps the Young One did.

"Who does she think she is?" he muttered. "'Don't go in the Realms, it's not your turn. Don't resurrect a preserve unless I say so, October. Don't tell Art, the Architect said we have to be kept secret. Don't do this, don't do that, it's in the rules the Architect left us.' The Architect's dead!" October pulled on some Immaterial gloves to protect his hands from the intense heat of the kindled souls. Not only were souls to be stored, they had to be kept at a precise temperature. The exception were the copies, which were tolerant of any temperature.

"I mean, dead dead," he snarled. "No preserve. She didn't even want a copy! It's like she never existed, for which-" Here he imitated November, someone he hated almost as much as December, "'I'm soooo thankful!'" He chuckled darkly. "Good riddance. The woman's worse than December." He fell silent as he drew up to January. The Month was carefully placing a copy into a storage capsule several feet up, and his feet were balanced precariously on a ladder, at least ten feet above October's head. "January!"

Startled, January fumbled it, but managed to rescue it and stick it in with a sigh of relief. "Are you here to help, October?" January asked, sliding down the ladder with clumsy agility. Like the other winter Months, January had white hair, but his locks were not as brilliant as December's, and February had a slight pinkish tint to hers.

"Yes, I'm here to help," October said impatiently.

"I would have thought someone from Tomorrow would be here to guard them," January said.

"Don't be stupid. The Acolytes guard the souls. It's not our job."

"But the Acolytes let one get stolen," January pointed out. "I thought maybe you decided the souls needed more protection."

"They do not need more protection, save perhaps a slight tightening of security. December was busy being arrogant as usual and didn't bother making sure everything was in order. It won't happen again."

January blinked for a moment, processing this, then asked, "Are you angry at December?"

Honestly, he acted like a little kid, so naive and stupid. No wonder he was such a low-ranking Month. What an idiot. "Yes, I'm angry at December." It was fairly obvious, wasn't it? He was pretty sure everyone knew it- December especially.

"Careful," January warned. "Anger is a monster. It can control you. Don't let it. You know what happened to the Young One. He was angry too."

October did know. If December would punish her own brother without hesitation, in such a brutal fashion, October had no doubt she'd do twice as bad to him without blinking, the tyrant witch.

"Death gods?" the Young One spat. "They have an unusually high opinon of themselves. What else is new?" He scowled. The plan was too slow. Everything was finally falling into place, but if November interfered and got bored with her 'just observing' crap, or if the clueless Morrow Days meddled without even knowing it, they'd put holes in his marvelous weaving. "I will be the ruler of life and death," he said, "bringing a new order and destroying the old, and the first to go will be the Months and their horde of Acolytes, starting with that minx."

"And then?" Jerald asked, face lighting up at the thought of their coming victory.

"Then I shall depose of the New Architect, and my perfect world will be complete."

"How do you overthrow the ruler of the Universe?" Jerald said, puzzled.

"I don't know, but guess who does?" He smiled, a thin stretching of the lips with ice fueling the action. "To destroy an Architect, one must destroy a soul, and who knows how to do that better than the person who destroyed mine? Before December dies, I'll make her sing."

What are you afraid of?

The question was haunting Friday. A patient of hers had come to her claiming she was paranoid and afraid of everything, and that got Friday thinking. Friday wasn't afraid of everything, but there had to have been something.

What are you afraid of?

Friday honestly had no clue.

What are you afraid of?

Unlike the others, she was not afraid of the Architect. The Will had been pretty friendly to her, even when she'd locked it up. (Then it had killed her, so she supposed that didn't account for anything). She knew she deserved the retribution the Architect would give her, and there was no point being afraid of it. The fear wouldn't get rid of it. Besides, they'd beaten Her before- only to lose later, but still. They had won a victory.

What are you afraid of?

The others, she supposed, but not really. What could they do to her? She could stand up to them, especially now that none of them had Keys. She would probably lose, but the rebellion itself would be a victory. Friday was used to having only temporary victories, anyway. She always won battles. She never won wars.

What are you afraid of?

Well, now that she thought about it, there were only two things, the only things she could not fight for even a second.

What are you afraid of?

Death. Herself.

What are you afraid of?

That was all.

A/N: Sorry this one took so long! I was really busy this week. :P But the next updates will be faster. It seems I won't be able to update except for on the weekends from now on, so I'll try to get something done every week by Friday at the earliest.

Fangirl, I'm glad you love this fic so much. I'm working on updating, so just bear with me.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed so far!

If you liked this chapter, please review. If you didn't, review anyway. Reviews make me so happy I can't even describe it in words.

Until next time!

~Dragonlord Stephi