sanktawithashotgun

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....do you require assistance?

((If no current tags work, this will! Knocking on his door could suffice, but Federico can also be found patrolling several areas, especially around the clinic. He is the Doctor's aide and takes that VERY seriously!))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

harmoniousconsecration

At Federico's door, Sunday leaves a note, a promise to play a song for Federico.

A much neater note lies folded within:

I, Sunday ~~Oak~~, declare Federico Giallo the Executor of my Will.

I also leave to him my instruments-- The violin and cello. They originally belonged to his sister, after all. It's only right that I leave them in his care.

If anything of mine can be recovered, I ask that it ends up in Fou-Lu's hands. I can't bear the thought of leaving him with nothing to remember me with, nothing to hold dear. Namely: my clothing, jewelry, or my phone. My halo is also acceptable.

I ask that Neuvillette recieves a glass of water from the next rainfall. May it be filled with feelings of hope.

The greatest thing I may offer to Aventurine is freedom from his curse, and therefore, from me. I have asked for his forgiveness as well as my own, though I am unsure if it has helped. I suppose he may find out.

Finally, I ask that my prayer book be given to Aurelia for destruction. I do not wish for it to be opened or read by anyone, though I do not blame her for her curiosity. In lieu of it, please return her healing vial to her.

Federico, you have been a wonderful friend to me. I trust you more than anyone with this task. Thank you.

From:

sanktawithashotgun

Federico returns from his patrol to find something affixed to his door. He halts, head tilting slightly. A shipwide event invitation? It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, he approaches with care—long years in the Notarial Hall have made handling documents a near-instinctual practice.
His care only deepens when he recognizes the handwriting.

Sunday.

Federico blinks, momentarily mystified. A promise of a song…

He does not know what prompted this. But he would like to hear Sunday play. He may not understand music as Arturia did, but he has come to accept that understanding is not a prerequisite for appreciation. Music does not demand comprehension to be enjoyed. And from a friend, even… Yes. He will hold onto this.

Then he unfolds the second paper.
The first few words make him freeze.

A will. From Sunday.

He is already stepping inside before he fully realizes it, the door sealing shut behind him as he holds the papers close to his chest. His heartbeat does not change, but something feels tight, pressing at the edges of his awareness. A will implies an expectation of death. Is Sunday in danger?

He focuses. The quiet, distant, discordant hum of Sunday’s presence through their halos is unchanged—fast-paced, restless, steady in its own frantic way. Alive. Unharmed.

Federico exhales. The tension does not fully leave him, but he redirects it to something actionable. Executor stares down at the document. No. Federico does.

It is a will, yes, but from a friend. And it is addressed not to an Executor, but to him. By name.

Federico laments not having the proper archival tools to preserve this document. It should be stored properly, safeguarded against wear or damage—

He should read it first.

He sits at the small table in his quarters, carefully smoothing the paper. Sky-blue eyes trace every word, committing them to memory, his mind already mapping out the necessary steps to fulfill each request should the worst come to pass. This is familiar. It is a function, a duty. If nothing else, it gives him something to do.

Arturia's instruments...Arturia. Sunday told him she had been here. He knows this, and yet… The thought of Arturia having interacted with Sunday in his absence unsettles him in a way he cannot quite articulate. Not because he fears for Arturia—she is as capable as ever—but because he cannot trust her. Not after what she has done, what she has encouraged. Sunday is emotionally vulnerable. Federico knows this, even if he does not always know what to do with that knowledge. He should have been present, overseeing, ensuring that Sunday was not left in unsafe company, or influenced negatively by her Arts. That he was not left at risk. But it is done. There is no correcting it now. Only ensuring that whatever comes next is handled properly.

As for her instruments...they would be better in the hands of someone musically inclined like Sunday. That's what Arturia would want. In fact, she'd regularly expressed how bad Federico's playing was. That's why she gave them to Sunday. But now they are Sunday's. And his wish is to have them passed on back to Federico...

His chest aches. He's not sure why. It's a reasonable request.

Sunday’s belongings, his halo—Halovian halos remain physical? That is different. Most Sankta halos return to The Law upon death unless one is Fallen. But Halovians do not have The Law. This… makes sense.

Fou-Lu. Federico knows him in passing. He will ensure Sunday’s request is honored.

A glass of rainwater for the one who made it rain indoors. Emotion through water…? He does not understand, but that is irrelevant. It will be delivered. The landship has glass cups, which will simplify this wish.

Aventurine. The request for him is less clear-cut. A curse. Forgiveness. Had Sunday wronged this man in some way? And yet, Aventurine once tasked Federico with delivering sweets to Sunday… A contradiction. Or perhaps not.
...Federico will offer counsel. That seems appropriate. ((Good luck me in handling THAT))

The book. A book of prayer, meant for destruction. It is an unusual request—akin to asking for one’s patron firearm to be destroyed. His fingers hover over the words, as if to verify them.

Aurelia… the woman who is but is not a Sarkaz. Perhaps she is familiar with certain rites. Or perhaps this is simply a matter of preserving privacy. Yes. That makes sense.

Sunday deserves that dignity. Federico plans to keep watch over her until it is done, unopened. And the healing vial—simple. That can be done.

And yet.

The last line gives him pause.

"You have been a wonderful friend to me."

Does Sunday know he has been the same?

Federico is not accustomed to such relationships. He has executed many wills before, but never one that addressed him, not merely as Executor, but as Federico.

A wonderful friend.

"I trust you more than anyone with this task."

Something aches. It is not unpleasant, only unfamiliar.

Federico bows his head in place of a signature. It does not feel appropriate to mark this with ink, but the gesture—one of quiet respect, of acknowledgement—feels right. The warmth in his chest lingers, strange and unquantifiable.

He folds the will precisely as it was, retrieving a medium-sized case from his robes. Without a proper lockbox, this will serve for now. Secure, waterproof, and portable—until he finds a better safeguard.

And then, with no one to witness, far from The Law, he speaks—not as a duty, but as a vow:

"I hereby recognize the will of Sunday…" A brief pause, for lack of a surname. If Sunday did not sign it that way, then he will not impose it. "As an Executor of the Laterano Notarial Hall, and a saint of Laterano, and… a friend of Sunday. I swear I will carry out all that is entailed in this will in its fullness. It will be done."

His voice is quiet, but the certainty within it is absolute.