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pluviosa2024-06-02 03:36 am
pluviosamods) wrote in pluviosa2024-06-02 03:36 am
Entry tags:
SO BELOW - EVENT LOG
SO BELOW
Not that you'd know it, looking out the windows. A foreign ocean stands outside, on the other side of the glass - the ghost of an ocean, long gone from the truth of this world.
Just like so many other things, which have become visible to those who are willing to pay attention.
This is the event log for SO BELOW. Information for the first part of the Event (days 15 and 16) can be found here, along with sign-up options for the second part of the event.
no subject
Sunday had to believe it would be perfect. Just as he had to believe there was still time, that he could still step in and fulfill his duty, as both the Dreammaster's son, Robin's older brother, and as the Head of the Oak Family.
"It allows me to try to understand where we might be located. With the lack of any large landmarks, knowing the shapes that the stars make at certain times of the year, or in various locations, can be helpful."
He gets whispers of confusion, a sort of longing, a worry, from their link, their halos frequencies gently interacting. Still clashing, still full of various noise, but... The feelings were real. He stops what he's doing, as Federico presents him with the box, the singed flower within, beautiful as the day he'd found it.
The sankta speaks of its origin, and asks the halovian to declare its worth. Sunday looks between Federico and the flower for a moment, expression unreadable, silent. After some thought, Sunday presents his answer.
"Not at all. The flower is very precious. I.. I would have done everything I could to ensure it was preserved, and kept safe."
Sunday understands where Federico is going with this, and closes his eyes, sighing. He puts his paper down, as well as the pencil he'd found. All four of his wings lower, relaxing entirely, the large dark ones at his waist splaying out around him.
"The difference between my attempts here, and this flower, is... More difficult than them simply existing. I do not think of anything that can be found in reality and nature as worthless." He says, hands settling on his thighs, balled up into fists. He puts weight on them so they don't shake. Sunday looks at the other man, a quiet plea for him to understand. "It's that all of this here, was done by my own hand. Other things can be imperfect. There is beauty in that."
The Charmony Dove too, had been a similar lesson. It had been beautiful, and its life had ultimately been short, spent within a cage. Crashing to its death while taking its first flight.
"I, however, can't be." Sunday's voice is firm, and he closes his eyes, as though reciting a mantra from memory. "I cannot waver, and I cannot be weak. I have to be proper, I have to be pristine, and I cannot afford any error."
Gentle waves of doubt and fear seep through their connection. Sunday doesn't know what to do with himself anymore.
no subject
He nods, watching Sunday make likes on the paper, matching the stars. It would be good to not be lost in this strange world.
Federico takes Sunday's answer in, considering. "I agree. I do ask sincerely, as the gardener who planted the field...he believed the flower broken beyond repair, and not of worth. But it did not change the fact that the flower was still there. It is...a miracle that it survived," he says, soft and thoughtful. Not in judgment, but of the pure want to understand.
He watches the Halovian lose some tension, setting down the pencil. Federico himself stows the flower safely away. He watches Sunday's hands, how he presses them down, willing the trembling away. He feels...a sort of desperation roll over him, through him. Why? What did it mean?
He...reaches forward. If Sunday lets him, Federico will try to take one of Sundays hands in both his own. Physical contact. He's found it can be...comforting. It seems like something the man before him needs, right now.
Sunday seems...in pain. From something internal. Emotion. Something in Federico's chest tightens at the sight. Imperfections are acceptable, as long as it is not in Sunday? But...are not all living beings flawed? Richele is lazy, and Spuria went off on her own too often with no warning, but they are still both exemplary executors, able to carry out tasks he cannot. Executor Federico himself strove to complete his tasks with utmost efficiency, but even he knows that mistakes...happen. Change happens. He may not know the meaning behind those changes but he does his best to adapt to them. To ask questions. Now...here...
"What...law do you follow, Sunday? That forbids you from imperfection, from mistakes?" He squeezes the other's hand, not to hurt or hold it in place, but to...he doesn't know. It feels correct, as the other's doubt and fear run over him like agitated ripples. He has his own doubts and questions about Laterano's laws, but this is even more confusing...Sunday does not seem like a sinner to Federico. He is breaking no laws that he can think of. "What does it matter if the lines on the paper curve too much, or are a little askew? If there are wrinkles? It is still a map to guide by, that others can follow."
Sunday, there is no judgement in the gentle, noisy connection you both share. Just confusion, care, concern; worry for a friend. A deep need to understand.
no subject
Sunday's voice is soft, gentle. He can remember the weight of the dove in his hands, its soft downy feathers, its gentle coos, its trusting eyes. He was the dove and he was the flower, something broken, weak. The flower was beautiful because it had survived. The dove... He himself...
Federico takes his hand, and Sunday can barely stop the words from tumbling out.
"You asked, what could make somewhere perfect. I... envisioned our paradise as a place without sadness, without fear. I have heard so many confessions, too many. From sinners and devout alike. All of it seems to end in suffering. Their choices, their lives... They always choose wrong." He pauses, thinking of Robin. It had all been for her. "I didn't beg her to stay, but perhaps I should have. Maybe she wouldn't have been shot if I had tried harder, if I had chosen to be vulnerable. I try to be perfect, and every day, I prove that I am just the same, just as flawed and ugly and foolish as anyone else."
Sunday had made so many mistakes, he could hardly see himself beyond them. They littered his feet now, broken wings of a dove that would only ever hurtle towards the ground. The sight of it sickens him, but he can't look away just as much as he can't bear to look at Federico.
"People are selfish, greedy, and painfully flawed, and they live and suffer and end up before me, time and time again, begging for answers I cannot even begin to give. What do you say to a man who has sold his children into slavery? What do you say to a gambler who has lost their home and life savings? What do you do when it is on your shoulders to ease their pain and help them absolve themselves of this guilt, and all you want to do is take the choice out of their hands and tell them to sit very still and stop... mucking it all up?"
What law did he follow? To disallow him these mistakes, basic human error. He doesn't know himself, not anymore. Sunday looks up at Federico, frazzled, a quiet desperation on his face. He's talking, spiralling, and he doesn't know how to stop. He squeezes Federico's hand like a lifeline, but his spare hand is already looking for feathers to pull, searching for any signs of weakness, imperfection. Federico is too kind to him, doesn't deserve this.
And yet, he chooses to commit his flawed memories to word.
"It matters because my life's work wasn't enough. It matters because I am not enough. I... Attempted to pull everyone on Penacony into a perfect, eternal dream, with no suffering or pain. I intended to watch over the whole of the planet, and ensure each of them lived out perfect, carefree lives. I wanted them to finally be... happy. I overrode the autonomy of hundreds of thousands of people. And... Isn't it so pathetic, that I'm upset that I failed? That I sit here now, making mistake after mistake, and I really, truly thought that somehow I could be some great shepherd, guiding my people into a blissful, unchanging eternity. How pitiful! How foolish!"
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And then, with the halovian's trembling hand in his own, Federico listens intently to his answers. He speaks of confessions, and Federico...understands the weight of such a thing. He'd only recently become a saint, but last words, last regrets could be similar to confessions. In...some way this feels like one now. Yet Sunday lives. He is not dying. Federico would make sure of that.
He wants to--refute Sunday, blaming himself for his sister's pain. Is this why the memory of firing upon Arturia upset him so...? But the sankta holds his tongue, the rush of Sunday's words only picking up speed, the anguish building. The confusion, the loss. It's as if a pressure had built over much too long, and in the wake of the deluge, Federico can only hold steady, keeping a firm grip on the shaking hand in his own, an anchor.
He...understands Sunday's concept of paradise, but does not believe it possible. Laterano is deemed paradise, and yet there is always conflict, sadness and fear. But there is peace too...happiness to protect.
He does not know how Sunday's perfection can keep his sister safe. No matter how well a mission may be executed, tragedy can still happen. The results can still be...unsatisfactory.
Sunday's head is bowed. Federico will not look away from him. He will witness this in full.
Sunday asks questions he also does not know the answers to. Federico opens his mouth to try, then stops. The way the halovian continues speaking, he may not be actually asking...not him, at least. But who? ...Who laid this burden upon his aching shoulders? Why do people in his world expect this one man to bear their sorrows? There is a reason Laterano's rights are upheld by many executors. Why does Sunday seem to want to add to that weight, to take the choice from them? How is that even possible?
And then- Sunday looks up to him, feathers ruffled, expression agonized. He confesses, not from guilt, but from failure. One person, removing agency from an entire city, an entire world? That is...breaking many Lateran laws-
But they are not in Laterano. And Sunday is not in his Penacony. Federico does not know how one person can take agency away on such a massive scale. Looking at him now, shaking, anguished on the verge of tears, he does not know how he can bear it. He doesn't know.
He does see the other hand reach for drooping wings, frantically sifting through and tugging, likely causing pain. There is...pain in his own chest at the sight.
What was it the Doctor did with her arms and wings when she'd thought he needed comfort? The bodily contact his Avuncle offered when Federico departed? ....
"Sunday," he says, voice somewhat pained. Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, as if Sunday might crumble to dust if Federico makes too sudden of a movement, the sankta shifts forward on the couch. He...tries to make it obvious what he's doing, but the movements are stiff, unpracticed. He releases Sunday's hand only to slowly open his arms and wrap them around the other. The embrace is angled in such a way to try and gently disable Sunday's hand reaching to hurt himself further.
"I do not...know the answers to your questions." Pouring forth like an unstopped bottle, unable to stop. His Holiness told him there was no turning back from that, only forward. "I have...been told that it is good to question, however. I have heard yours. I hear you." His arms tighten around Sunday's smaller frame. Briefly, absurdly, he thinks of the little bird cradled in too small hands that he'd seen in Sunday's memory. Why? That bird was dying, but Sunday is not. He will not.
Sunday's words have been received. Federico is...unused to there being nothing to execute. The procedure here is unknown. Federico will offer what he can. "I do not believe it is foolish to wish for better for those you care for." He finds himself wishing for that now. "Perhaps...when you find your answers...you will find a better way as well."
no subject
So to have another's arms around him, A friend.... He thinks he could call him a friend, at this point, he freezes, at first, but allows it. Federico's voice is unsure. He doesn't seem to judge him, for his crimes or his failures, his list of mistakes.
He didn't know the answers, just as Sunday didn't. Just as Fou-Lu hadn't. It seemed these were questions that would plague him for some time, until he could find his answers, his best way forward. He's told that it was good to question. That he was heard. Sunday leans into the touch, then, breathing deeply. Fighting tears, then, hot and stinging in his eyes.
"I live every day terrified that if I make one wrong move.... I'll lose her. That something will happen out of my control and. I can't rest. I can't let myself simply be. I pray and I repeat the same actions for minutes, hours at a time, in the hopes of assuaging my fears, in the hopes that whatever awful thing my mind has latched on to does not come to pass if I am perfect enough."
Federico's words resound gently in his head. Find a better way. Was that really possible? Could there be a paradise outside of a dream, built on coercion? Could there truly be a haven for anyone in such a cruel, uncaring world? Was it even possible to create?
Sunday wants to believe so. Sometimes it makes him feel like a child, lost in a dream too fantastical and unrealistic to bring to life. And yet. He remembers the smile of his sister, the concert he'd put together for her, encouraging her to sing to an audience of himself and every toy they ever loved... And he knows, if he can't do it for everyone, then he must try, for her.
"I know it seems foolish. I know it doesn't make sense."
In time, he relaxes against the Executor. Closing his eyes and just breathing. Feeling the warmth of the other, the discordant thrumming of their halos. He thinks that perhaps, on a small level, that this was something he needed, but could never quite find the words for.
"Maybe... I suppose. You could be right. Perhaps there is a different way. A better way."
And trust did not ultimately come easy to him. It was... Difficult. But there, in such different circumstances. With another, similar enough to him. Who came to his side without a second thought, without hesitation, to offer guidance, companionship. A shoulder. Arms around him.
"I... Thank you, Federico. I'm sorry, to lay everything onto you so heavily like that."
Perhaps his time here would offer him some clarity. As much as it pained him to be without his sister, to leave Penacony in such a state, a mess for her to clean. Perhaps it was better for him, to stand on his own, without resorting to the Dream. He slowly pulls away from the other, looking at him, wiping away at his own tears.
Feeling foolish again.
"You... have been a good friend to me, Federico. I do not want to take advantage of your good will. If you ever have need of anything.... I'm here. I will listen. I... care for you and your concerns."
no subject
But he senses no alarm, anger, or disgust from the other. Some of their resonance seems to…calm, actually. That is…that is good. He is…glad for that.
“His Holiness the Pope himself told me to continue questioning. That he…had similar questions to mine, in the wake of the last mission he gave me.” The death of Geralt, of Clement…few casualties and yet it still weighs heavily upon his mind. He feels Sunday lean into him, and there’s a warmth in his own chest that has him pulling the halovian in closer. “I am not…good with metaphors. But he told me that it’s like…a cork being pulled from a bottle of wine, and all you can do is pour the drink out. You cannot put it back. One can only..see what the questions will bring.” Federico sets his chin on the other’s shoulder. “I may not know the answers, but I will ponder them as well. Do not stop asking, Sunday. I am…starting to think that the answer is not the only purpose of a question. Perhaps we can discuss our thoughts another day.” When Sunday isn’t so heavy with guilt and sorrow, his tears falling upon the Executor’s cloak.
And then Sunday explains his fears in fullness, how he feels the need to be perfect or he will lose his soror. Federico does not understand this logic, but…he feels…pain, for the other, when he speaks of it. For once it does not feel like something received through their link. His arms tighten around Sunday’s form, as if…wanting to shield him from this. “I do not…understand, but…when so much is out of your hands, perhaps it is natural to try and maintain some level of control. Some form of action. Like training for a disastrous outcome…but you are just one person, Sunday. It is…all you can do. That should suffice.” A pause. “I…cannot ensure your sister’s safety, but I find…purpose in working to ensure your own. You are simply doing what you can with your given parameters.” Much of this is so much out of his depth. Perhaps…he can consult Dr. Ratio on this later, someone who also seems to operate with an eye single to his own perfection.
Federico shakes his head, his cheek brushing against feathers. “It does not seem foolish to me. And…” there’s the barest hint of humor in his voice here, “I am…accustomed to not understanding things. That does not stop me from attempting to do so anyway.” He has, after all, received orders from His Holiness to do so.
He feels Sunday go essentially boneless against him, and Federico…finds himself marveling at the trust displayed in such an action. He himself feels….he’s not sure. Warm, an ache growing in his chest, but not a painful kind…that Sunday would not only accept his fumbling attempts at comfort, but to actually take solace in them…he…moves his hand against Sunday’s back, slowly, in circles. It’s something he’d seen Ezell do to comfort Cecelia time and again. “I trust you can do it. I will offer my aid in finding the better way in any way I can.”
He pauses. “I…accept your apology, but do not see the need for it. Listening to regrets such as this are part of my job. And…on a personal level as well. I find it is good to share heavy troubles. To…lighten the load as it were.” All things very new to him, but not…not as uncomfortable as he’d once thought they’d be. Is this in general? Or simply because it’s Sunday? …more data required.
He gives one final squeeze with his arms before releasing the halovian, both of them sitting up straighter. Executor looks respectfully to the side as Sunday collects himself. He has been told that many do not like to be watched while crying.
…Sunday’s last statements send his thoughts reeling for a long moment. Friend? Taking advantage? He’d never thought that to be the case…has he been taking the role of friend, without realizing? Curious. Not an unpleasant thought, just…highly novel. “I did not realize I was enacting the qualifications of a friend. I am honored, and…admittedly…out of my depth for such a role.” Coworkers seemed to exhibit care for him, at times. Executor Bertoni, Executor Ezell, Executor Richelle- even if the last case was more for ease of the tasks at hand.
“I do not believe you to have taken advantage of my ‘good will’, as I am fulfilling my duty and…perhaps my own wishes.” He blinks slowly, for once looking almost as tired as he feels, mulling over Sunday’s offer. “Thank you…I will…try to take your offers with all due seriousness. I…cannot think of any pressing troubles to share at this time. Lack of proper rest has made it difficult…but….thank you. I…appreciate your words, Sunday. Truly.”
no subject
The answer not being the purpose of a question was... a strange thought to have, Sunday thinks. What was the point then, if not to know, if not to try to understand? What did his own questions say, of the world, of personal responsibility, of gods and justice and truth... what else could they describe?
"It... feels so wrong to ask, like I am calling upon my Aeon to punish me for daring to. But if. If this is like an opened wine bottle, I suppose I must have been holding mine wrong." He'd spilled its contents all over the floor, and it would not stop emptying, following him endlessly, from room to room, his hands and face dripping with the stains. Sunday laughs, softly, afraid more questions will spill out, that he'll prove too much for the other. His voice echoes Federico's, soft: "Another time, then."
The sankta tries to understand Sunday's fears, his reasoning. They anxieties built up in his brain: if it were not him, then she would have been chosen. If he were not the perfect son, the perfect sacrifice, yielding in faith only on command... If he didn't pray and accept confessions, if seven times was not enough then he simply wouldn't be--- "We... lost our mother, many years ago. I couldn't do anything. And when Robin was shot... I wasn't near. Robin is... She's all I have left. I don't know what I would do, if I were to lose her." He pauses, letting the last of his tears fall. His compulsions had, over time, become deeply intertwined with the teachings of Order. "My dream in many ways, hinges around her safety. She would hate it."
Even so, he smiles at Federico's joke. Leaning into him.
"I feel there's much here that none of us understand. I'm glad that at least one of is brave enough to try to. Thank you, for your insight."
It had been so long, since he had felt attempts at comfort from another. With Robin so far away, with his father's state being so... not quite corporeal. His mother, long lost in the memoria. He was alone, very often. Left to his own devices within the dream. He had attendants, sure, but comfort from someone he provided a paycheck to was not quite.... the same.
So, while he is here. And there are people that he doesn't, really, truly need to uphold an image around. And if they may be willing. Sunday wasn't going to say no, if arms found their way around him, if Federico wished to try to ease Sunday's troubles. He supposed he could. Allow this. For now. Federico's hand moves in circles on his back, and it helps.
He offered to help him find that better way, if he could. A safer, more humane means, perhaps, to keep his loved ones safe. But yet... the Dream was still difficult to let go of. Sunday closes his eyes, breathing deeply, slowly.
"Thank you."
Left unsaid, For trying to understand. For not turning me away.
Federico... wanted to help him, and he was making that clearer every time they spoke. It was something Sunday couldn't have anticipated, couldn't fully understand. Why would someone want... this? With him? Why would someone go out of their way to choose to care for him like this? The last time he had revealed his thoughts and intentions in this way... The memory is distant, but there. It had not gone well for him. It seemed that Federico didn't quite know either. And neither of them had much experience in friendship. But... They could try. And he could accept the help offered to him.
"Of course. I care about you." Sunday pauses, thinking quietly for a moment, before continuing, going out on a limb. The other man seemed exhausted, and he himself... Despite sleep being difficult, he found himself tired, as well. "If... Resting within our rooms is difficult, perhaps we could, here. For a little while. You look tired, Federico. You make a lovely friend, and I want to see you well."
They both looked tired, but it was stark, on the other's face. And it was getting late, he knew.
no subject
The sankta pauses, considering Sunday's fears..."I do not understand why asking for clarification is grounds for punishment. How can you complete a task correctly if you do not understand it? Would it not prove you wish to do well? I do not...understand many of the answers I receive, but I have learned ways to operate more efficiently by asking for clarification...for the reasons people do things." His grip tightens a little on Sunday's arms. "I am not the most adept at metaphors, but in the end, the wine is still wine. Drink what you can, not too much." ....he thinks that was the intended message. Maybe.
He listens...fears of not being there, not being enough, being absent while a loved one dies, or gets hurt. He thinks of his amita, how he did nothing when he saw her leave after listening to Arturia's music. How her final will was for peace for the people suffering in the war. The memory still hurts. But there is nothing he could have done...and it does no good to wish to anyway. Still...
"I am...sorry that happened. And it seems your will clashes with your sister's. My work prioritizes the wills of the dead." He pauses again, choosing his words carefully. "Your...sister is not here. But you are. I am...glad to speak of it with you, even if I do not have answers for you. I can only wish for her safety with you." He holds Sunday a little tighter for a moment. A silent affirmation for someone he can reach, even while he himself is separated from people he'd been assigned to help.
Federico huffs, the ghost of a smile on his face. "I do not know about bravery, since questions do not cause me to fear as you do. You are the one exhibiting bravery here, Sunday, for having such fears...and moving forward still." He tilts his head. "You're...welcome." He wishes he could offer more.
An endless dream is...very difficult for one like Executor Federico to fathom, who takes everything day to day, and quite literally. Still...agency is key to having a will upon death. Removal of that seems...wrong. And yet his expression softens at Sunday's thanks. Perhaps the Halovian truly did not know another way to achieve his own wishes. And was it not his occupation, to execute the will of others?
....but Sunday is not a job. He is...a friend, as he's said. Is that why it felt different, interacting with him? Wanting to help, without explicit orders to do so? He's unsure. Still, he nods, taking the end of his cloak and, with a small hesitance before proceeding, should Sunday wish to withdraw, Federico swipes at his face with the cloth to clean the tears away. "I will support what you decide...so long as you will not be harmed in the outcome." Managing the wills of the populace for eternity seemed...isolating. Draining. Wrong for more reasons than just lawfulness.
He blinks at the care being verbally returned, letting his cape out of his grasp (it can be cleaned easily). Was the restlessness and lack of sleep beginning to show? ...unfortunate. And this was even more unknown territory for him..."Thank you. I...that is something I am willing to try, resting here." The almost-harmony humming through their halos currently was already...helping.
He fidgets where he sits, his wings seeming to close in towards his body. "I have never struggled to rest before arriving here. There is a restlessness about this landship that keeps my thoughts going even when I retire." He looks to Sunday briefly, awkward (well, more than normal) and at a loss. "Arturia would compose music in different ways when she felt restless, and it was...nice, to hear her different ideas. I have no talent for composing music, however, and I do not know...other distraction tactics." He's assuming that's what worked for her. It's...he finds himself wishing he asked her more questions then, before their relationship became...what it is now. "....My amita would read storybooks to us when Arturia could not sleep. There are no books on this ship, however..."