some very simple, very wispy drabbles about the Seven Trustees of the Architect.

how Monday fell into sin.

"Sneezer!"

"Yes, milord?"

"What's with that bloody long queue forming outside the Hall? I thought I had cleared yesterday's matters already? It does not stand to reason that such a queue should be former after just one day. The Lower House is for keeping bloody dead records! Not live ones - no, they're too troublesome... "As His Lord Monday went off onto one of his rants, Sneezer stood there quietly and patiently.

It would blow over.

He picked at the silly boil that had formed on his nose. It was tiny. He had noticed that in recent times, he had become more... dishevelled. He had attempted to straighten himself in a mirror, but after one or two attempts which the boils simply crept back when he wasn't looking, Sneezer decided that he would rather just let matters take their own course.

He didn't really care, not anymore.

"... Sneezer?"

"Milord!" He leapt back to attention.

Monday stretched. He was sprawled out over a pale yellow lounge; red-golden robes fell in disarray around him. Sneezer remembered, distantly in some corner of his mind, that his Lord Monday used to love wearing sharply-cut tailored Victorian suits. They were often a brilliant red, and often accompanied by a top-hat. His Lord Monday used to keep his long hair tied up neatly in a white bow, back then. When? Back then, long ago. Some other time.

Now his Lord's hair was short and unkempt, though definitely, most definitely, his Lord was still as handsome as -

"Sneezer?"

"Milord, I am sorry."

"Ah. No need to be." Monday waved a languid hand. Propping himself up on one arm, he gazed out over the long queues that had somehow, miraculously materialized over the space of one night. Damn. He flopped back down onto the lounge. He didn't feel up to much nowadays, too tired by far and he felt something, something uncomfortable biting at his chest -

It was most definitely not guilt over that silly scrap of paper.

"Call Dusk." His voice, he noticed with a mild surprise, had gotten lower and - more fragile. Raspy. Tired. He sounded like one of those silly lower Denizens who bought sicknesses in an attempt to seem - fashionable. Or maybe, he mused, half-closing his eyes, more sleepy. It would stand to reason. He hadn't felt this lethargic since - since before the Architect went away and he locked up that stupid, cumbersome piece of parchment.

He heard Sneezer murmur a soft "Yes, milord." and back out of the room on soft, hurried footsteps. Hearing Sneezer go, Monday slid lower down onto the lounge. He felt it shudder and twist beneath him, finally settling into the shape of a soft, warm, comfortable bed. He reached out a thin hand, fingers finding and grasping red-yellow-golden covers that weren't there a second before. He has time, for a short nap, before his Dusk shows up.

A short nap.

Monday yawned, a soft polite yawn.

He was tired, Monday was.

end.