Her fingers brush against his face, cold and alien. He lets her touch him, can feel her trying to reach out, to understand him. Her resonance brushes against him, but he doesn't flinch.
"I'm still Sunday. I don't believe that I am yours, however. Our memories seem to differ greatly."
She seems to sense something in him, and he freezes, if only a moment. His wing aches as though old wounds had been reopened, as though it were still bleeding. Sunday watches his sister beg, even plead for him to choose their dream, to revive the Order together, her voice so similar to his memories... Telling that they had another chance, they had each other this time---
The halovian closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he listens to her. It pains him. There's an ache in his chest and it has only grown the longer he's been away from her. He digs at it with his hands now, knowing that this would be an impasse as it had been between Robin and he before.
For the last few weeks, Sunday was beginning to have to confront a quiet truth within himself. He was happier here. There were lessons to be learned in his struggles and in his own suffering. There were so many people and perspectives to hear, to understand. And for the first time in a long time, he could allow himself curiosity again. If she had come perhaps, when he was still stumbling and struggling to find his foothold as the Ship swayed, perhaps.... Perhaps he would have. Sunday thinks of the people he's spoken to about his choices, his fears, his worries. Their words. How it had all come down to them looking at him in some degree of understanding, knowing where he stood. And still, they chose to ask him to pursue otherwise. Still, they asked: is this truly what he wanted?
"Robin..."
He thinks of that ghost woman, who was firm about her ability to choose between sitting and waiting, or attempting change with her own two hands. Fridtjof's words: To build a garden one may never see. To become Light. Hope.
Aurelia telling him that his actions are his own. No one will see his god nor will they understand the big picture he has in mind. All they'll know is that they were hurt by someone who has a name and a face, who thinks himself so much above their human wants and freedoms.
Federico. Neuvillette. Two men he felt to be similar to himself, both of which left him with their own set of questions. Both of whom had been gentle, kind to him, as he floundered desperately for meaning.
Fou-Lu begging him to live, to live for himself, to not deny himself anything any longer. Malos, telling him he thought it best to live and love and grasp the things he wanted with two hands--- Before it was too late.
He steadies himself, looking at Robin. As much as his heart ached for normalcy... She wasn't his Robin. And the Order... It wasn't his dream, not anymore. He thinks he can say that a little more firmly, now. His face is gentle, kind, as he shakes his head.
"No."
Sunday reaches for her hand, hoping to take it within his own. He knows she might not understand. All he can do is try.
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"I'm still Sunday. I don't believe that I am yours, however. Our memories seem to differ greatly."
She seems to sense something in him, and he freezes, if only a moment. His wing aches as though old wounds had been reopened, as though it were still bleeding. Sunday watches his sister beg, even plead for him to choose their dream, to revive the Order together, her voice so similar to his memories... Telling that they had another chance, they had each other this time---
The halovian closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he listens to her. It pains him. There's an ache in his chest and it has only grown the longer he's been away from her. He digs at it with his hands now, knowing that this would be an impasse as it had been between Robin and he before.
For the last few weeks, Sunday was beginning to have to confront a quiet truth within himself. He was happier here. There were lessons to be learned in his struggles and in his own suffering. There were so many people and perspectives to hear, to understand. And for the first time in a long time, he could allow himself curiosity again. If she had come perhaps, when he was still stumbling and struggling to find his foothold as the Ship swayed, perhaps.... Perhaps he would have. Sunday thinks of the people he's spoken to about his choices, his fears, his worries. Their words. How it had all come down to them looking at him in some degree of understanding, knowing where he stood. And still, they chose to ask him to pursue otherwise. Still, they asked: is this truly what he wanted?
"Robin..."
He thinks of that ghost woman, who was firm about her ability to choose between sitting and waiting, or attempting change with her own two hands. Fridtjof's words: To build a garden one may never see. To become Light. Hope.
Aurelia telling him that his actions are his own. No one will see his god nor will they understand the big picture he has in mind. All they'll know is that they were hurt by someone who has a name and a face, who thinks himself so much above their human wants and freedoms.
Federico. Neuvillette. Two men he felt to be similar to himself, both of which left him with their own set of questions. Both of whom had been gentle, kind to him, as he floundered desperately for meaning.
Fou-Lu begging him to live, to live for himself, to not deny himself anything any longer. Malos, telling him he thought it best to live and love and grasp the things he wanted with two hands--- Before it was too late.
He steadies himself, looking at Robin. As much as his heart ached for normalcy... She wasn't his Robin. And the Order... It wasn't his dream, not anymore. He thinks he can say that a little more firmly, now. His face is gentle, kind, as he shakes his head.
"No."
Sunday reaches for her hand, hoping to take it within his own. He knows she might not understand. All he can do is try.
"There's another way."