 | The End of the Day
At the end of the day there's another day dawning
And the sun in the morning is waiting to rise
Like the waves crash on the sand
Like a storm that'll break any second
T h e r e ' s a h u n g e r i n t h e l a n d
There's a reckoning still to be reckoned
And there's gonna be hell to pay
At the end of the day.
I. Faithful Servant, Master’s Bane
A cool breath of wind swirled into the room and sighed softly as it played about his face and diffused into the sweet, empty air. For a moment Falco allowed himself a brief respite from his insurmountable exhaustion. Then the dark blue avian urged himself to sit up in the bed and turned his head to the window. Sunlight was penetrating the clear glass and pooling on the soft grey carpet in front of the bed. He should have been feeling happy, rested, satisfied, but there was a weariness in his bones-- in his heart, in his very being.
Falco sighed heavily and closed his eyes to shut out the light, then violently flung himself back down into the mattress, hauling the down comforter up over his head. His right wing was throbbing with a listless, icy pain. The whole limb felt ancient and shrivelled, not to mention useless. If it hadn’t been shattered, he would be able to fly. To fly, soaring up into the sky, above the clouds, above everything, and the world below would be like a fading dream until he humbled himself to return to it. But he’d always be above it, even when he walked on it. Yes, always above it, in it but not part of it.... Falco shocked himself out of this peaceful reverie. Why did he torture himself like this? He knew he’d never be able to fly unless it was in his Arwing. What was done was done, and it was no use wishing his wing were whole again. After all, he COULD fly in an Arwing. That was closer to the real, delicious experience of uninhibited flight than most people ever got.
Although he was exhausted, sleep would not return and Falco knew he would have to get up eventually. He was reluctant to do so. The events of the past months had been as close to hell as he ever cared to get. First the stone dog, and he, Falco, had disappeared-- somewhere-- and nobody knew where he had gone. But he didn’t remember where he had gone, either. Not even a trace. Having a few missing hours is frightening enough; having a few missing weeks was terrifying. But try as he might, he had no recollection of anything that had happened to him during that empty window of time. And as for the months after that-- well, he didn’t care to think about that all. Dredging up his past and reliving the most humiliating part of his life wasn’t his idea of a good time. Of course, that was all reconciled now. His teammates had forgiven him and probably didn’t even remember it now. And he had forgiven himself. He could forget about that chunk of his past and go on with his life. Couldn’t he?
With a great effort of will power, Falco forced himself to sit up again. This time he stayed up. Staring forlornly at the sunbeams, he was finally able to work up the energy to get out of bed. He walked slowly around the room, unwilling to venture out into the hallway just yet. Wandering about the relatively large bedroom, his unshod talons making indentations in the plush carpet, he wondered exactly what he was worth.
The answer to that question would be a mediocre housekeeper, Falco thought bitterly. After all, why was he even in this house? It had been Fox’s idea, of course. Everything was Fox’s idea. He’d thought it would be just great for everyone if they house-sat for his Aunt Ruth while she was on vacation. After all, the vulpine had reasoned, wouldn’t it be relaxing for all of them if they got to just kick back in a nice house like his aunt’s and have nothing to do for two weeks? Falco could remember the night they’d arrived at the house. Ruth had pinched all of their rear ends except Fox’s. Old coot.
Well, whether he didn’t like it or didn’t like it, he was stuck here. All the stuff he hadn’t packed was on Great Fox, along with his Arwing, and they wouldn’t be heading back up to the flagship until Ruth returned. At least it was a big house, and nice; they all got their own fully furnished bedroom, and the whole joint had an airy, old-fashioned feel to it. If Falco had been anyone else, the stay might have been downright pleasant. But he wasn’t anyone else, he was himself, only himself, and he’d always be himself. Ever since all of these things had happened to him, it was hard not to bitter. He succeeded at being cheerful and content only every once in a while-- although this was not for lack of trying, assuredly. He worked so hard at it. He always had. Of course, everybody had always taken it for arrogance or rudeness when he was actively not being sullen, and he’d accumalated many critics and enemies over the years. Well, maybe he was arrogant and rude. Maybe he had a right to be. Let them go through what he had been through and see how pleasant and sugary they turned out.
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