@violent-urges and I went together and it was so much fun!
So first off- it was so good!!! The set design was SO COOL! The ensemble was a few sailors, who moved the props around during the show in a way that really worked and didn't distract from the scene. The setting starts in New York and eventually gets to Boston and off the coast of Provincetown. THAT'S LITERALLY LIKE RIGHT WHERE I LIVE and hearing him just say the word Boston for some reason was so hot 😂
Everyone in the show was amazing- the chemistry, the emotional displays- everything was great.... but Tom.
Tom was just... brilliant. For those who haven't seen the show, he talks in this insanely gruff, authentic sexy Irish accent that like. actively had me gaping and honestly blushing from time to time 🤣 his character is totally unhinged and raunchy and he was just absolutely incredible. My jaw was on the floor by the end.
Also watching him kiss someone in real life made my brain short circuit for sure 😳
Waited in the freezing cold for a bit after (worth it). The very first thing I said to him was "is this real life?" and he looked at me like 🤨🤨 LMAOOOOO
He's like..unreal in person idk how to even describe it. I was expecting him to tower over me but he's just about my height, which was more intimidating because eye contact is scary 🤣 he's smol lol. But also he's SO BUFF HIS ARMS ARE HUGE???
He looked absolutely exhausted and I said that to him without thinking lol! He agreed cause it was a two show day, so I really hope he went home and slept so good he deserves it
I asked him how he manages accents so well and he was just like "it takes a little bit of practice" 😂😂
I wanted to mention I live where the show is set and tell him to go to Provincetown during pride week, but forgot that part
I also definitely embarrassed myself gushing at him. I told him something really personal and he was so kind. He's really inspiring to me because I've always wanted to be an actress, but never had the confidence (or time lol). There was a Comic Con panel in Holland he did a couple years ago where he gave acting advice to someone who asked. He basically said to just always be acting when you can- to make videos with friends, practice monologues. I've actually tried to do stuff like that and it helped my confidence a lot! I offhandedly mentioned that I haven't been able to do it recently because I have a two year old now, and his face just LIT UP and he said "congratulations" really excitedly, I think my ovaries exploded 🤣🤣 also, I got my book recommendation! When I asked he obviously had a million thoughts in his head so I narrowed it down to old school stuff, and he immediately had one-
"The Mayor of Casterbridge" if anyone else wants to check it out. With my unmedicated ADHD I'm sure it will take me forever but I'm determined to read it all, then see him in another show and share my thoughts (or so I hope lmaoooo)
Jae gave him a BEAUTIFUL piece of art they made and he definitely loved it. He said "oh wow" and that it was amazing (it was!!!) he's just so fucking sweet 😭😭
Also holy handsome. unbelievably handsome. brain exploding in person.
ALSO ALSO!!! you could definitely tell he doesn't like to sit still because he occasionally would fidget with his hands. it worked with the scenes but it was so endearing
All in all 10/10 experience and I may never recover, send help
Snagged this from @sluttymorpheus also. I have no idea what's going on here, but he looks stupid cute and I still want him, as usual, so we'll just roll with the weird mask thing or whatever that is on his silly head...
You had gone looking for Lucienne late in the morning because two of the books on Mesopotamian transfer rites had contradicted one another so completely that you wanted someone else to confirm ancient priests had apparently been every bit as incapable of consistent documentation as modern bureaucrats.
Her office was empty.
You checked the nearest reading tables.
Nothing.
Eventually, one of the assistant librarians told you Lucienne had gone to one of the smaller council rooms adjoining the throne hall.
So you took the western passage because it was quicker.
You were halfway down the adjoining corridor when voices carried through a set of partially open doors.
Lucienne.
The Corinthian.
Morpheus.
You slowed.
You would have continued walking.
Probably.
Then the Corinthian said:
“Just so we're clear about something, boss. If she leaves tomorrow, which one of us is following her?”
You stopped.
Completely.
There was a short silence from inside.
Then Morpheus answered.
“No one.”
The Corinthian sounded genuinely surprised.
“No one.”
“That is what I said.”
You should have moved.
You did not.
Instead you stepped slightly closer to the curve in the corridor, far enough from the doorway that you remained out of sight.
The Corinthian continued.
“I'm asking because you brought me back for two things. Watching Prince Charming while he was under your roof—”
You rolled your eyes automatically.
Valí would love that.
“—and helping you find out what was happening in the Waking World with all those missing relics.”
“Yes.”
You could practically hear the grin in the Corinthian's voice.
Then his tone became more practical.
“So the point is, if our girl goes back to the Waking World, she's going to be standing directly in the middle of everything we're already investigating, and I –“
Morpheus interrupted.
“You will not follow her.”
The Corinthian was quiet for a moment.
“At all?”
“At all.”
That caught you.
You leaned lightly against the wall.
Then Morpheus continued.
“The investigation into the missing artefacts remains necessary regardless of her decision tomorrow, and as such, it will continue. But that does not mean she needs to be babysat.”
The Corinthian exhaled with audible relief.
“Good. Because, frankly, I have no desire to get blown apart by whatever she's doing with that gold shit now. She scares me.”
You almost laughed.
Almost.
Then Lucienne spoke again.
“On that matter, my lord, does she know the investigation into the artefacts will continue if she leaves?”
Silence.
Only a second.
Then:
“Yes.”
Lucienne asked:
“You told her?”
“It was included in the material I gave her after our disagreement.”
Your throat tightened faintly at the clinical description.
Our disagreement.
As though you had not nearly walked out of his realm on the spot.
Morpheus continued.
“She was informed that the disappearance of the artefacts remains unresolved and that I intend to determine whether Ereshkigal's account of another interested party possesses any truth.”
“And she did not object?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then, more quietly:
“She objected to being investigated. Not to the investigation itself.”
You went still.
He understood the difference.
Of course he did now.
Lucienne said:
“Then the Corinthian may continue following the artefact trail.”
“Yes.”
Morpheus's voice sharpened.
“The investigation concerns the missing objects, the failed rite and those who may have participated in either. It does not grant anyone authority to observe her movements.”
The Corinthian gave a low whistle.
“You really have thought this through.”
No response.
The Corinthian apparently decided that was invitation enough.
“So just to make sure I've got it: if she's living in London and I happen to be in London—”
“You will not ‘happen’ to be wherever she is.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“Fine. If the relics take me to London.”
“Then you will investigate the relics.”
“And if I see her?”
“You may greet her.”
The Corinthian laughed.
“Generous.”
Morpheus ignored that.
“If she wishes to speak with you, you may speak with her. If she does not, you will leave her alone.”
There was a pause.
Then the Corinthian asked:
“What if I notice something she doesn't?”
The room quieted.
That question changed the conversation.
Morpheus's answer came more slowly.
“Define something.”
“Someone following her. A god watching her. One of Ereshkigal's people waiting outside wherever she's staying. Something dangerous.”
Morpheus said nothing for several seconds.
You could almost see him thinking.
Old instinct against new understanding.
Finally:
“If she is unaware of a credible threat, she is to be informed.”
“By me?”
“If you are the one who discovers it.”
“And then?”
A pause.
“Then the decision is hers.”
Silence.
You stared at the wall.
The Corinthian said:
“I'm sorry.”
His tone became suspiciously delighted.
“Could you repeat that?”
“Do not test me.”
Definitely Morpheus.
Lucienne spoke, and you could hear the faint amusement she was trying to hide.
“The instruction was quite clear.”
“I'm making certain I heard him correctly.”
The Corinthian sounded far too entertained.
“Because historically, ‘tell her she's about to do something stupid and then let her do it anyway’ hasn't exactly been palace policy.”
You winced.
No one answered immediately.
Then Morpheus:
“No.”
Quiet.
No defensiveness.
No attempt to explain.
“It has not.”
Your chest tightened.
The Corinthian seemed to realise he had pushed far enough.
When he spoke again, the humour had faded.
“All right.”
A pause.
“Then what exactly are the rules now, my lord?”
Morpheus answered with the measured precision of someone who had thought about those rules far more than he wanted anyone to know.
“If she leaves this realm, no subject of the Dreaming is to follow her without her knowledge.”
A beat.
“No one is to observe her through dreams, mirrors, thresholds, ravens, nightmares or any other means available to this realm.”
You swallowed.
“If she chooses to contact Lucienne, Matthew, Nuala, yourself or any other inhabitant of the Dreaming, she may do so.”
The Corinthian interrupted.
“Touched to make the list.”
“Be silent.”
“There he is.”
Lucienne made a sound suspiciously like a cough.
Morpheus continued.
“No communication from her is to be interpreted as permission to observe her beyond what she explicitly requests.”
You leaned more heavily against the wall.
He had thought about everything.
Of course he had.
Lucienne asked:
“And if she accepts one form of protection but refuses another?”
“Then only what she accepts will be provided.”
“If she later changes her mind?”
“Then her decision changes.”
Another pause.
“She is not to be made to justify it.”
Something in your chest twisted.
The Corinthian was quiet for several seconds.
Then:
“And if she does something you would not ordinarily approve of and I happen to notice? By chance of course.”
Your eyes narrowed.
Promising.
Morpheus answered.
“She is entitled to make decisions with which I disagree and you are not to intervene.”
Silence.
You almost leaned around the corner just to make absolutely certain it was still him.
The Corinthian apparently felt the same.
“I'm sorry, boss. That one really does deserve repeating.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
Morpheus's voice dropped.
“Corinthian.”
“Stopping.”
The Corinthian's voice was quieter when he asked:
“What if she calls for help?”
The answer was immediate.
No hesitation.
No restraint.
“Then you respond.”
Something in Morpheus's tone made your throat tighten.
“Immediately.”
A beat.
“Whatever else she has previously asked of us, a request for aid supersedes it for as long as she wishes that aid given.”
The Corinthian asked:
“And if she asks one of us to bring her back here?”
“You bring her home.”
The answer came so naturally that for several seconds no one spoke.
Home.
Your eyes opened.
The word settled strangely beneath your ribs.
Morpheus had realised what he had said.
You knew he had.
He corrected nothing.
You stepped back then.
You had heard enough.
More than enough.
The Corinthian's original question now seemed almost absurdly simple.
Which one of us is following her?
No one.
Not Matthew.
Not the Corinthian.
Not a dream.
Not Morpheus himself.
He was preparing to let you walk into a world full of things that terrified him—
and then trust you to decide what happened next.
You left before any of them could discover you had heard a word.
**********
You walked without knowing where you were going.
Through the palace.
Out into the courtyard.
Down one of the paths.
Your feet carried you into the gardens.
Not the eastern garden where Morpheus had apologised.
Somewhere quieter.
You sat on the edge of a fountain.
Water moved upwards from the pool, gathered briefly into the shape of birds, and dissolved again before reaching the branches overhead.
You barely saw it.
Then you bring her home.
The words kept repeating in your head.
Home.
Not the Dreaming.
Not the palace.
Home.
You had wanted this.
You had wanted the right to leave.
The right to refuse him.
The right to tell the King of Dreams to stay out of your dreams and know, absolutely, that he would obey.
You had wanted proof that if you walked away, he would let you.
So why had the part where he said he would bring you home if you asked made your chest ache?
You rubbed your palms against your knees.
He was preparing himself to let you disappear from his life if you asked.
Entirely.
Not because he wanted you to.
Surely not.
But because you had demanded the choice.
And Morpheus, once he finally understood what respecting it required, had apparently decided to take the principle to its most brutal conclusion.
You sat there for a long time.
******
You found Lucienne that afternoon.
Or perhaps she found you.
You were back in the library, technically working.
In reality you had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly twenty minutes.
Lucienne appeared beside the table.
“That text is generally considered tedious, but not usually hypnotic.”
You looked up.
“Funny.”
She sat opposite you.
You stared at her.
Lucienne waited.
You lasted approximately eight seconds.
“Does he actually want me to go?”
Lucienne's eyebrows rose.
For one extraordinary second, she looked as though she might laugh.
Not mockingly.
Simply because the answer was apparently so obvious that the question had surprised her.
She recovered.
“No.”
You blinked.
That was more direct than expected.
“Oh.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“My lord is preparing for your departure because he promised you that he would.”
You looked down.
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
She leaned back slightly.
“He does not want you to leave.”
Something warm and painful moved through you.
You hated how immediately relieved you felt.
“Then why hasn't he said that?”
Lucienne's expression became carefully neutral.
“Perhaps that is a question for him.”
You glared.
“No.”
“No?”
“I'm not dragging it out of him.”
Lucienne adjusted her spectacles.
“I see.”
“If he wants me here, he can say it.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“He has words.”
A faint smile.
“Many.”
“Far too many, usually.”
“Indeed.”
You folded your arms.
“He can deliver a six-minute speech about why a chair is improperly placed, but apparently ‘I would prefer you didn't leave’ is beyond him.”
Lucienne's smile deepened.
“You appear frustrated.”
“I'm not frustrated.”
She said nothing.
“Fine. I'm frustrated.”
You looked towards the distant shelves.
“He told me my presence is important to him.”
Lucienne's expression did something strange.
Very small.
Like someone being forced not to react to information they already possessed.
You noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“Lucienne.”
“I am the librarian.”
“That is evasive.”
“Deliberately.”
You leaned across the table.
“Did he talk to you about me?”
Lucienne held your gaze.
“That is a conversation you would need to have with him.”
You groaned and dropped back into your chair.
“Everyone in this realm is infuriating.”
“You've adapted remarkably well.”
You glared.
She smiled.
Then her expression softened.
“I will tell you this.”
You looked up.
Lucienne glanced briefly towards the tall windows.
“I have served Lord Morpheus for longer than most beings can meaningfully comprehend.”
A pause.
“I have seen him prepare for war with less attention than he has devoted to ensuring your departure can occur safely.”
Your chest tightened.
“That's not exactly comforting.”
“It was not intended to be.”
She looked directly at you.
“I have never seen him work so diligently towards an outcome he so clearly dreads.”
You swallowed.
Lucienne reached for one of the books on your table.
“What you choose to do with that knowledge is yours.”
“You're not going to tell me what I should choose either?”
“Certainly not.”
You looked suspiciously at her.
“You've all been discussing this.”
“We have all learned something this week.”
You snorted.
“Apparently.”
*******
Morpheus kept his distance for most of day six.
That became increasingly noticeable.
Not because he avoided you.
He did not.
You crossed paths twice.
Once outside the throne room.
Once near the library.
Both times he stopped.
Acknowledged you.
Asked nothing.
The second time, you were carrying too many books.
His gaze moved to the stack.
For half a second his hand lifted as though he intended to take some.
He stopped himself.
“Would you like assistance?”
You stared at him over the top of the books.
“They're books, Morpheus. Not a siege engine.”
“That was not an answer.”
There it was again.
You sighed.
“Take the top three.”
He did.
Nothing more.
He walked with you to the library.
Not close enough to crowd you.
Not far enough to feel formal.
You talked about nothing important.
Lucienne's categorisation system.
A dispute involving two dreams who both claimed ownership of the same staircase.
Matthew stealing food from one of the kitchens and insisting ravens could not technically commit theft.
For ten minutes, it was easy.
Then you reached your table.
Morpheus placed the books down.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Both remembered the seven days.
The ease vanished.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
He left.
You watched him go.
******
Later that evening, Matthew found Lucienne alone in the library.
He landed on her desk with all the subtlety of falling masonry.
Lucienne did not look up.
“No.”
Matthew blinked.
“I didn't even ask anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Okay, that's creepy.”
Lucienne turned a page.
Matthew shuffled closer.
“Do you think he's going to tell her?”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“Tell her what?”
Matthew stared.
“Seriously?”
“I prefer specificity.”
“That he's in love with her.”
Lucienne sighed.
“That is not mine to discuss.”
“Come on.”
Matthew lowered his voice unnecessarily.
“She could leave tomorrow.”
Lucienne's expression softened slightly.
“I am aware.”
“And he's just going to let her?”
“He gave his word.”
“I know, but—”
Matthew hopped once across the desk.
“What if she goes because she thinks he doesn't care if she stays?”
Lucienne removed her spectacles.
“That possibility has been explained to him.”
“And?”
“He remains himself.”
Matthew groaned.
“Unbelievable.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Quite.”
“So he knows he loves her.”
Lucienne gave him a look.
Matthew corrected himself.
“Okay. Not asking you to confirm. But everyone with functioning eyes knows.”
Lucienne put her spectacles back on.
“Apparently not everyone.”
“She knows something.”
“Perhaps.”
“She keeps looking at him like she wants to either kiss him or throw something.”
Lucienne turned another page.
“Those impulses need not be mutually exclusive.”
Matthew stared.
“Lucienne.”
She finally smiled.
Matthew shook his feathers.
“You think she's staying?”
Lucienne's smile disappeared.
“I don't know.”
That sobered him.
He looked towards the distant doors.
“He really thinks she might go.”
“Yes.”
“And he's still not going to say it.”
Lucienne was quiet.
“He may.”
Matthew stared at her.
“You don't believe that.”
“I have faith in his capacity for change.”
“That's not the same thing.”
Lucienne sighed.
“No.”
Matthew lowered himself slightly on the desk.
“If she leaves, this place is going to be unbearable.”
“Matthew.”
“I'm serious. We've already had one storm.”
Lucienne gave him a warning look.
“Do not encourage the realm.”
Matthew looked towards the ceiling.
“You hear that? No dramatic weather.”
Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled.
Matthew froze.
Lucienne slowly closed her eyes.
“Matthew.”
“Not me.”
*******
That night, you could not sleep.
You tried.
You turned off the lamps.
Lay down.
Closed your eyes.
Opened them again.
Rolled over.
Pulled the blankets up.
Kicked them down.
Eventually you gave up and sat against the headboard.
The room was dark except for moonlight spilling through the curtains.
Tomorrow was Day Seven.
The final day.
The agreement had been simple.
Seven days.
If, at the end of them, you still wished to leave, Morpheus would release the treaty entirely.
No loophole.
No further delay.
You knew he would do it now.
That certainty had become almost painful.
You pulled your knees up.
Leaving.
You tried to imagine it properly.
The threshold opening.
Stepping through.
Returning to the Waking World.
The first morning somewhere Morpheus did not rule.
The knowledge that no one had the right to order you back.
Freedom.
Proof.
You could make decisions without wondering whether the Dreaming itself was shaping them.
You could find out who you were outside his protection.
Outside his influence.
Outside this strange life you had fallen into.
There was something compelling about that.
Necessary, even.
But then—
Staying.
You saw the library.
Nuala laughing while arranging flowers.
Austin pretending not to be terrified of Morpheus.
Valí sitting on the wall in Fiddler's Green.
Matthew stealing food.
Your training hall.
The paths beyond the palace.
The lake with the wrong sky.
Your growing control over your power.
The room that had slowly become yours.
Chess.
Morpheus.
You closed your eyes.
There he was.
Of course.
You missed him while he was twenty corridors away.
You missed a routine you could resume by walking through one door.
You had spent the week furious with him partly because what he had done mattered so much specifically because he had done it.
If Zeus had hidden the treaty provision, you would have expected it.
If Odin had, you would have despised him and moved on.
Morpheus—
You had trusted.
You still wanted to.
That was why it hurt.
And somewhere beneath the anger, somewhere you had been refusing to examine too closely, you suspected your feelings for him had moved well beyond fondness.
Possibly beyond anything sensible.
You stared into the dark.
“Fuck.”
The word disappeared into the room.
You were not ready to call it love.
Not yet.
Perhaps because if you did, tomorrow became much more frightening.
You thought about what Valí had said.
Don't mistake escape for freedom if there's nothing you're actually escaping anymore.
You hated that sentence.
You suspected you would hate it for years.
Then something became clear.
Not whether you would stay.
Something before that.
The treaty had to end.
Completely.
No matter what you chose afterwards.
You could not stay because Zeus had handed you to Dream.
You could not stay because a cosmic agreement called you a pledge.
You could not stay because Morpheus technically held a claim he had chosen not to enforce.
If you remained in the Dreaming, it had to begin after all of that ended.
You had to reach the threshold.
Actually see it.
Know the way was open.
Know Morpheus would let you cross.
Only then could staying mean anything.
You looked towards the window.
Tomorrow, you would leave.
At least as far as the threshold.
What happened there—
You did not know yet.
For the first time all night, the uncertainty did not frighten you.
********
Day Seven
The seventh morning was clear.
No rain.
No clouds.
No strange celestial events.
The Dreaming looked almost deliberately neutral, as though the realm itself had been warned not to interfere.
You dressed slowly.
Breakfast sat mostly untouched.
You drank tea.
Tried toast.
Abandoned it.
No Morpheus.
You wondered if he knew what day it was.
That was absurd.
Morpheus probably knew the exact number of seconds remaining in the agreement.
You spent the morning in the library.
Not working.
Pretending.
Lucienne did not comment when you turned the same page twice without reading either side.
Nuala appeared around midday.
She hugged you.
Not a goodbye.
Not explicitly.
That almost made it worse.
“Whatever you choose…”
She stopped herself.
You looked at her.
Nuala smiled faintly.
“No. I promised myself I wouldn't say anything dreadful and sentimental.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed.
Then squeezed your hand.
“I shall see you later.”
Not I hope.
Not if.
You loved her for that.
“Later.”
Valí found you near the library doors.
He looked nervous.
You folded your arms.
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you're about to say something meaningful.”
Valí looked offended.
“Maybe I was going to ask what you thought of my shirt.”
You looked at it.
“Terrible.”
“See? Now you've ruined the moment.”
You smiled.
Then his expression softened.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Finally:
“Be selfish.”
You frowned.
Valí lifted a shoulder.
“That's all.”
“That sounds like advice.”
“Barely.”
He looked at you.
“Whatever you do, do it because you want it.”
You swallowed.
“I can accept that.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“And if you leave, don't disappear forever.”
You looked at him.
“Valí.”
“I know. Selfish.”
You surprised both of you by hugging him.
Briefly.
He froze.
Then hugged you back.
Carefully.
When you pulled away, his eyes looked suspiciously bright.
You pointed at him.
“Don't.”
“Wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
You left before either of you could make it worse.
********
Morpheus was in the throne room.
Of course he was.
You found him at the foot of the dais speaking with Lucienne.
He noticed you before you reached the doors.
His voice stopped.
Lucienne turned.
Her eyes moved from you to him.
Something passed across her face.
Then she gathered the documents in her arms.
“My lord.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne gave him a look you could not interpret from this distance.
Possibly encouragement.
Possibly a threat.
Then she walked towards you.
She paused as she passed.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hi.”
Her fingers touched your arm briefly.
Then she left.
The doors closed behind her.
You and Morpheus were alone.
The throne room had never felt larger.
He stood in black at the foot of the stairs.
You walked towards him.
Every step sounded too loud.
He did not come to meet you.
Perhaps because he was giving you the choice of distance even now.
You stopped several feet away.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
Neither spoke.
You had imagined this conversation several times during the night.
In none of those imagined versions had your mouth gone completely dry.
You forced yourself to speak.
“It's been seven days.”
Morpheus went very still.
“Yes.”
No question.
He did not ask what you had decided.
Of course he didn't.
He was going to make you say it yourself.
You looked at the throne behind him.
The windows.
The vast hall.
Anything except his face.
Then you made yourself look back.
“I wish to leave.”
Nothing happened.
That was the first thing you noticed.
No storm.
No darkness.
No crack in the marble.
Morpheus's expression barely changed.
But the room became unnaturally still.
The banners stopped moving.
The distant flames ceased flickering.
Even the dust motes suspended in shafts of light seemed to hang motionless.
The Dreaming had heard you.
So had he.
For one terrible second you wanted him to argue.
You wanted him to say no.
Not because you wanted to be controlled.
Because some irrational, wounded part of you wanted proof that losing you hurt enough for him to fail at restraint.
Instead Morpheus held your gaze.
And said:
“Very well.”
Two words.
Calm.
Measured.
Devastating.
Your chest hurt.
Immediately.
Which was absurd.
This was exactly what you had demanded.
You had spent a week forcing him to understand that your decision had to be yours.
He had understood.
Now he was honouring it.
And apparently you were offended.
You stared at him.
Morpheus said nothing else.
“That's it?”
The question escaped.
His expression shifted.
Barely.
“You told me that if, after seven days, you still wished to depart, I was to honour that choice.”
“I know what I told you.”
Something pained moved through his eyes.
“Then yes.”
Your throat tightened.
“You're not going to argue.”
“No.”
“You're not going to tell me I'm making a mistake.”
A pause.
“No.”
That pause mattered.
You folded your arms.
“Do you think I'm making one?”
His eyes held yours.
For a moment you thought he might finally say it.
Stay.
Not as an order.
Not as a king.
Just—
Stay.
Instead:
“What I think should not determine what you choose.”
You almost screamed.
“That wasn't my question.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
There was a flash of the man beneath the king.
“No.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Answering around everything.”
His expression darkened.
“I have answered every question you have asked of me this week.”
“Technically.”
“Truthfully.”
“Barely.”
A flicker of frustration.
Then it disappeared.
Morpheus breathed in.
Unnecessary, probably.
Something he did when attempting to regulate words that wanted to become something else.
“You have chosen.”
You stared.
“Yes.”
The lie tasted strange.
Not entirely a lie.
You had chosen to go to the threshold.
That was all.
Morpheus looked at you for another long moment.
Then he inclined his head.
Formal.
Too formal.
“Then the treaty shall end, and you shall be free to leave this realm.”
You swallowed.
“Okay.”
The word sounded smaller than you intended.
Morpheus held your gaze.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then he said:
“By seventh bell.”
You frowned slightly.
“By seventh bell?”
“The release must be completed before you cross beyond the boundary of my realm.”
His voice had become formal again.
Measured.
Careful.
“At seventh bell, I shall meet you here.”
A pause.
“And I will take you to the threshold.”
Your throat tightened.
You nodded.
“Okay.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Neither seemed quite capable of ending the conversation.
Eventually you said:
“Good.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Good.”
It was ridiculous.
Awful.
You hated how much that one word hurt.
You turned before your face could betray you.
“Then I'll see you at seven.”
“Yes.”
You took several steps.
Behind you, Morpheus said nothing.
You almost looked back.
Almost.
You didn't.
The throne room doors closed behind you.
*****
Morpheus remained exactly where you had left him.
For several moments, he did not move.
The throne room had returned to stillness, though not the unnatural stillness that had followed your declaration.
This was different.
Empty.
He looked towards the doors through which you had gone.
Seven days ago, he had promised you freedom.
Now you had chosen it.
That should have been the end of the matter.
His word had been given.
Your decision had been made.
And yet every instinct within him recoiled from it.
He could still stop you.
That knowledge came without invitation.
The treaty remained in force until he released it.
The Dreaming belonged to him.
The threshold would not open unless he permitted it.
He could delay.
Argue.
Find some new threat.
Some new reason why another day was necessary.
Ereshkigal remained dangerous.
Odin remained dangerous.
The missing artefacts had not been found.
Your power remained incomplete in its control.
There were a dozen reasons he could offer.
Some of them true.
All of them insufficient.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
He had done this before.
Not this precisely.
But enough.
Nada came first.
As she so often did when memory wished to be cruel.
A mortal queen.
Proud.
Brilliant.
Terrified by what loving him had cost her.
She had chosen.
She had told him no.
And he had refused to accept that her choice could stand simply because it wounded him.
He had called it betrayal.
He had called it pride.
He had told himself she had acted wrongly.
He had punished her for refusing the future he had imagined for them.
Ten thousand years.
Even now the number carried shame.
Not because he had loved her.
Because he had believed love entitled him to reject her answer.
His expression tightened.
Then Calliope.
Different.
No Hell.
No sentence.
But the same old failure buried beneath it.
He had loved her and believed that love ought to determine what came next.
He had struggled to accept the distance she chose.
The life she chose.
The fact that grief had changed them into people who could no longer remain what they had been.
Again and again, Morpheus had mistaken the depth of his feeling for authority.
He had believed that because he loved, because he feared loss, because he endured longer than those he loved—
his preference should carry greater weight.
Lucienne's words returned to him.
You do not have the right to decide her answer.
No.
He did not.
And neither did his fear.
Morpheus opened his eyes.
He thought of you in the training hall.
Furious.
Demanding.
Alive.
He thought of the way you had looked at him when you discovered the release provision.
Not merely angry.
Betrayed.
Because you had trusted him.
That had been the wound.
Not the treaty alone.
Him.
He had told himself he was protecting you.
He had believed that made him different from Zeus.
From Odin.
From every god who had ever looked at you and seen something to be managed.
Something to be positioned.
Something too dangerous to choose badly.
But when the decision had frightened him, he had done what they had done.
He had placed his judgment above yours.
Not again.
The words were silent.
Absolute.
You wished to leave.
Then he would let you leave.
Even if every part of him wanted to stand before the threshold and ask you to remain.
Even if the thought of returning to his chambers afterwards and finding the chessboard untouched made something inside him feel unbearably hollow.
Even if the palace would feel wrong without your voice carrying down its corridors.
Even if the Dreaming itself had already begun to understand you as part of it.
Your choice did not become less valid because it caused him pain.
That was the lesson he had refused too many times.
He would not refuse it again.
Morpheus looked towards the windows.
Beyond them, the Dreaming stretched endlessly beneath a pale sky.
Somewhere within it, you were moving through his realm for what he believed might be the final time as someone who lived there.
The thought nearly undid him.
He allowed himself one moment.
No more.
Then his face settled.
The King of Dreams returned.
By seventh bell, the treaty would be dissolved.
By seventh bell, the threshold would open.
And if you stepped through it, he would not stop you.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Day Five
By the fifth day, your anger had changed shape.
It was still there.
You had not forgiven Morpheus.
You had not forgotten the moment you discovered he had known you could leave and had decided, deliberately, not to tell you.
That betrayal remained hard and ugly beneath everything else.
But the first white-hot fury had faded enough that another problem had begun to emerge beneath it.
You no longer wanted to leave simply because you were angry with Morpheus.
That had been easier.
Anger gave everything a clean edge. He had betrayed your trust, so you would leave. Simple. Punishment and freedom wrapped neatly together.
Now it was not.
Now you could no longer tell whether you genuinely wanted a life outside the Dreaming—
or whether leaving felt like the only way to prove, to yourself as much as anyone else, that Morpheus no longer controlled whether you stayed.
Those were not the same thing.
And unfortunately, you were beginning to realise the difference mattered.
You discovered this somewhere around midday while sitting on a hill in Fiddler's Green.
You had been permitted beyond the palace grounds alone for the first time that morning.
Not permitted, actually.
That word had become complicated.
Morpheus had simply informed you after your last training that the boundaries previously restricting you to the palace had been removed.
Completely.
You had stared at him.
“Removed?”
“Yes.”
“As in I can go into the rest of the Dreaming without you.”
“Yes.”
You had waited for the qualification.
There wasn't one.
“Anywhere?”
“Within the Dreaming, yes.”
“Without supervision?”
A tiny pause.
Perhaps because he understood exactly how absurd the question would have sounded coming from anyone else.
“Yes.”
You had folded your arms.
“The Corinthian isn't going to mysteriously happen to be walking twenty feet behind me?”
“No.”
“Matthew?”
“No.”
“You?”
His expression had changed slightly.
“No.”
You had stared.
“You won't know where I am?”
“I am the Dreaming.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
Morpheus continued before you could accuse him of anything.
“I may become aware of disturbances within my realm, as I would with any other. I will not follow your movements.”
That distinction mattered.
You hated that so many distinctions mattered now.
“And if I decide to walk directly into something dangerous?”
His jaw had tightened.
There.
Old Morpheus.
The one who wanted to say you will not.
You watched him fight with himself for several seconds.
Then:
“I would advise you against it.”
You waited.
“And?”
A longer pause.
“And you would remain free to disregard that advice.”
You had almost asked whether saying the words physically injured him.
You restrained yourself.
Mostly because he looked as though they might.
So you had gone.
Alone.
For the first twenty minutes, you kept expecting someone to appear.
A raven overhead.
A nightmare conveniently travelling in the same direction.
A shadow that moved when yours did not.
Nothing.
The further you walked from the palace, the stranger the sensation became.
No guard.
No invisible boundary tightening around your ribs.
No voice telling you that you had gone far enough.
The Dreaming simply opened.
Paths appeared beneath your feet when you chose a direction.
Fields unfolded beneath impossible skies.
Once, you passed a small village where every house appeared to have been built from folded letters. Words moved across the walls when the wind blew.
A woman with a bird's head sold glass jars containing remembered smells.
Another road brought you past a river flowing uphill.
You stopped there for several minutes simply because you could.
Then you continued.
Eventually, without consciously deciding upon it, you found yourself heading towards Fiddler's Green.
Perhaps because you knew it.
Perhaps because some part of you wanted somewhere familiar while testing what freedom actually felt like.
The Green greeted you with sunlight.
Real sunlight, or something close enough that the distinction did not matter.
Long grass moved in warm waves beneath the breeze. Wildflowers scattered across the hills in impossible colours. Trees bent gently over narrow paths that seemed to choose themselves as you walked.
No palace walls.
No throne room.
No training hall.
No Morpheus.
You climbed one of the hills and sat beneath a large oak.
For a while, you did nothing.
That itself felt strange.
You had spent so much of the last few months being watched, studied, trained, protected, investigated or argued over that sitting entirely alone beneath a tree felt almost radical.
You leaned back on your hands.
A field of small purple flowers stretched below you.
Far away, something resembling a stag crossed between the trees with stars suspended between its antlers.
You watched until it disappeared.
The Dreaming was beautiful.
That was inconvenient.
You had known it was beautiful before.
But there was a difference between being shown something beautiful while technically confined within it and choosing to walk into it alone.
You pulled one knee towards your chest.
This was not the tower.
Not anymore.
It had not been for some time.
The Dreaming had become—
You stopped the thought.
Then forced yourself to finish it.
Home.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
But perhaps the closest thing you currently had to one.
The realisation made you deeply uncomfortable.
You looked across the Green.
You loved the library.
That was undeniable.
You loved Lucienne's endless patience and the particular way she removed her spectacles when preparing to tell someone they were being ridiculous.
You loved Nuala.
You liked Austin, despite the complications.
Even Valí had somehow become part of your life again those last few days, awkwardly rebuilding something you had thought his lies had ruined.
You knew which palace servants brought extra chocolate when you had trained badly.
You knew which corridors changed location when they were bored.
You knew that the gargoyle near the eastern courtyard hated pigeons.
You knew that Mervyn complained about everything and would become suspicious if anyone offered to help.
You knew that the Corinthian was an appalling influence and far funnier than anyone sensible ought to permit.
You knew which stars above the palace were real stars and which were dreams of stars.
Which books Lucienne pretended not to notice you taking.
Which dreams avoided you because they were still frightened of your power.
Which ones had begun waving when they saw you.
And your power—
That was different now too.
It still frightened you.
It probably always would, at least a little.
But it no longer felt like something entirely separate living beneath your skin.
Training had changed that.
Morpheus had changed that.
Another deeply inconvenient thought.
You picked a blade of grass and twisted it around your finger.
Then there was chess.
You missed chess.
That was almost embarrassing in itself.
You did not even particularly care about chess.
Not really.
You cared about chess with him.
The wine.
The pretzels.
The milk chocolate he pretended had not begun appearing specifically because you liked it.
His expression when you made an objectively terrible move simply to annoy him.
The way he sat completely still while thinking even though you knew perfectly well he had already calculated half the game.
The conversations that happened around the board.
The silences.
Morpheus.
Your fingers tightened around the blade of grass.
There it was.
The most inconvenient item on the list.
You missed Morpheus.
Not in the abstract.
Not the King of Dreams.
Not your protector.
Not the being who had accepted responsibility for you under some ancient divine treaty.
Him.
You missed his company while actively sharing a realm with him.
He was perhaps twenty minutes away if distance in the Dreaming was behaving normally.
And you missed him.
You dropped the grass.
“Bloody ridiculous.”
A nearby tree rustled.
You looked at it suspiciously.
“Don't you start.”
The tree did nothing.
Probably.
You lay back against the hill and stared at the sky.
What would leaving actually mean?
Not symbolically.
Not as punishment.
Practically.
You could go to the Waking World.
Find somewhere safe enough to live.
Try to rebuild something resembling an ordinary life.
Sleep beneath a ward designed by the King of Dreams while pretending your father was not Zeus and a Mesopotamian goddess had not apparently placed part of her power inside you before you were old enough to speak.
Ordinary might be beyond you now.
But outside the Dreaming, at least every decision would be visibly yours.
That mattered.
You needed it to matter.
You needed to know you could leave.
But did you actually want to?
That question had become much harder.
*********
Training that afternoon went better than it had in weeks.
Possibly because Morpheus did not quite know what to do with you when you arrived smiling slightly from having spent half the day wandering through his realm alone.
He stood near the centre of the hall as you entered.
His eyes moved over you automatically.
Checking.
You recognised it now.
No injury.
No obvious magical contamination.
No indication that you had accidentally offended an ancient nightmare, wandered into someone else's dream or started an international incident during your first unsupervised excursion.
Then his gaze settled on your face.
“You enjoyed yourself.”
It was not quite a question.
You dropped your bag onto the bench.
“I did.”
A pause.
“Fiddler's Green is lovely.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not offence.
Perhaps relief.
“The Green was pleased by your visit.”
You looked at him.
“It told you?”
“Somewhat.”
You considered asking what somewhat meant when one was speaking about a sentient geographical location.
Then decided you did not particularly care.
“Good. I insulted one of his trees.”
Morpheus's brow lowered.
“Why?”
“It was judging me.”
A beat.
“I see.”
“You don't.”
“No.”
You almost smiled.
Then training began.
For months, most of your lessons had centred upon one essential principle.
Containment.
Feel the power rise.
Recognise it before it spread.
Pull it inward.
Do not let attraction become adoration.
Do not let irritation become aggression.
Do not allow every living thing within sight of you to become an unwilling extension of whatever you happened to be feeling.
You had become considerably better at it.
Not perfect.
But better.
Today, apparently, Morpheus had decided that merely preventing catastrophe was no longer ambitious enough.
When you entered the practice circle, there were no dream constructs waiting inside it.
Instead, six tall black pillars stood around the perimeter.
Each was perhaps chest-height.
And suspended above every pillar was a sphere of clear glass.
You frowned.
“What are those?”
“Receptacles.”
“For what?”
Morpheus looked at you.
You looked at him.
Then realised.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Your eyebrows rose.
That sounded almost like something you would say.
Morpheus apparently realised it too and looked faintly displeased with himself.
You pointed towards the spheres.
“You want me to put my power in those.”
“Into one of them.”
“Why?”
“Because restraint and control are not synonymous.”
You folded your arms.
“We've done this lecture.”
“Then you should remember it.”
“I remember most of your lectures. They're difficult to forget because they usually last several centuries.”
Morpheus ignored that.
He moved towards the nearest pillar.
“Until now, you have learned primarily to prevent your power from acting upon impulse.”
He touched the glass sphere.
It immediately darkened.
“But suppression leaves you dependent upon never needing to use it.”
Your amusement faded slightly.
That made sense.
Morpheus continued.
“You require the ability not only to contain what you are, but to decide where it goes.”
You glanced around the circle.
“So what exactly am I doing?”
Morpheus stepped outside the boundary.
The six spheres brightened.
Numbers appeared inside them.
One through six.
“When I give you a number, you will direct your power into the corresponding vessel.”
You stared.
“That's it?”
His gaze sharpened faintly.
“You may reserve judgement until you have attempted it.”
That was never a good sign.
You planted your feet.
“Fine.”
Morpheus raised one hand.
“Three.”
You looked towards the third sphere.
Easy.
Or it should have been.
You drew a breath and allowed the power beneath your ribs to rise.
Gold warmth unfurled through your chest.
Your fingers tingled.
You focused on the third sphere.
Nothing.
The gold expanded around you instead.
All six spheres flashed.
Morpheus said:
“Stop.”
You crushed the power back down.
The lights vanished.
You stared at the pillars.
“That was rude.”
“The vessels did nothing.”
“They all lit up.”
“Because you did precisely what you have always done.”
You glanced at him.
“Failed?”
“Expanded.”
“Much kinder.”
Morpheus stepped closer to the circle.
“Again.”
You exhaled.
“Three.”
Power rose.
You stared at the third sphere.
Gold gathered around your hands.
You tried to push it towards the target.
All six spheres flickered again.
“Stop.”
You dropped your head backwards.
“This is impossible.”
“No.”
“Very persuasive.”
“Your power presently behaves according to proximity and attention.”
Morpheus walked slowly around the circle.
“You are accustomed to experiencing it as something which moves outward of its own accord.”
“Because it does.”
“Only because you permit instinct to choose its direction.”
You frowned.
That annoyed you enough to listen.
He stopped opposite you.
“Do not think of containing it and then releasing it.”
“What do I think of?”
“Holding it.”
You stared.
“That's the same thing.”
“It is not.”
Of course.
Morpheus and his microscopic distinctions.
He held out his hand.
Sand gathered above his palm.
Not much.
Only a small golden swirl.
“Observe.”
The sand rose.
For a moment it simply hovered.
Then it moved towards the nearest sphere.
Stopped.
Changed direction.
Passed to another.
Curved around a pillar.
Returned to his hand.
You looked at him.
“Showing off.”
“Demonstrating.”
“Showing off elegantly.”
The sand vanished.
“Your power is not the same.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“But the principle is the same.”
He looked towards your hands.
“Do not throw it.”
A pause.
“Guide it.”
You breathed in.
Again.
The warmth rose.
This time you did not immediately push it anywhere.
That was surprisingly difficult.
Your instinct was always binary.
Suppress it.
Or lose it.
Instead you let it gather.
Gold shimmered beneath your skin.
Around your fingers.
Along your forearms.
You felt the moment it wanted to burst outward.
You stopped it.
Not shoved it down.
Stopped it.
Held it.
Your eyes widened slightly.
Morpheus saw.
“There.”
The power trembled.
“I can feel it.”
“Good.”
His voice lowered.
“Now choose.”
You looked towards sphere three.
Not push.
Choose.
You imagined the gold moving there.
Nothing happened.
Then—
one narrow strand pulled free.
You nearly lost your concentration from surprise.
“Don't—”
Morpheus began.
Too late.
The strand snapped outward.
Sphere three flashed.
So did four and five.
You groaned.
“It nearly worked.”
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
There had been no hesitation.
No better.
No careful, reserved assessment.
Just yes.
You reset your stance.
“Again.”
Something warm flickered in his expression.
“Three.”
This time you knew what you were looking for.
The power gathered.
You held it.
Waited through the instinctive pressure to let it expand.
Then chose.
The strand emerged more slowly.
It stretched towards the third sphere.
Wavered.
Veered towards two.
You clenched your jaw.
“No.”
The gold bent.
Actually bent.
Your eyes widened.
It corrected.
Touched sphere three.
The glass filled with gold.
Only three.
Nothing else.
You stared.
“Holy shit.”
Morpheus's eyes were fixed upon the sphere.
“Again.”
You looked at him.
“You could say well done.”
“Do it again and I shall consider it.”
“Bastard.”
A tiny movement at the corner of his mouth.
“Five.”
You gathered the power.
Held.
Directed.
Five lit.
A little spill caught six at the very end.
You cursed.
“Again.”
“Two.”
Two.
“Six.”
Six.
“One.”
The power went halfway towards one before suddenly branching towards three.
You pulled it back without suppressing the whole thing.
That was new too.
You stared at your hands.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“I pulled back only that part.”
“Yes.”
Your grin came before you could stop it.
“That's new.”
“It is.”
Morpheus's expression had changed again.
Pride.
Not exuberant.
He was still Morpheus.
But unmistakable.
You looked away before it could do anything inconvenient to you.
Then Morpheus changed the exercise.
Because naturally he could never leave success alone.
With a movement of his fingers, the pillars began to move.
You stared.
“Oh, fuck off.”
They drifted slowly around the circle.
The numbered spheres crossed paths.
Changed position.
One disappeared behind another.
Morpheus's face remained perfectly solemn.
“Four.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“Four.”
You muttered something rude.
Power rose.
You found four.
Directed.
It moved.
You followed.
The strand curved after it.
Almost.
At the last moment, sphere one crossed between you.
Your gold struck one instead.
“Fuck.”
“Again.”
Faster this time.
The pillars moved.
Morpheus called numbers without warning.
“Two.”
Gold snapped towards two.
“Five.”
You pulled the strand back, redirected before it fully returned to you.
Five lit.
Your eyes widened.
Morpheus's did too.
Barely.
“Three.”
You turned the power.
Three.
“Six.”
Six.
“One.”
The strand hesitated.
One passed behind four.
You curved it around.
The gold moved in an arc.
Touched one.
Only one.
You laughed.
“Oh, that was good.”
Morpheus's mouth softened.
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
“That sounded almost enthusiastic.”
“Do not become distracted.”
“Too late.”
The spheres stopped.
You expected the exercise to end.
Instead Morpheus conjured three dream constructs.
You stared at them.
“Why are there people now?”
“Because power directed through an empty room is of limited practical value.”
Your smile vanished.
The constructs positioned themselves between you and the pillars.
Not targets.
Obstacles.
Your brow furrowed.
“You want me to go around them.”
“Yes.”
“Without touching them.”
“Yes.”
You looked at the nearest dream.
“What happens if I do?”
Morpheus answered calmly.
“We will observe precisely how much control you possess.”
The dream looked less enthusiastic about participating than Morpheus did.
You pointed towards it.
“He looks worried.”
“He was made five minutes ago.”
“Still counts.”
The construct nodded.
Morpheus's eyes narrowed faintly at his own creation.
“Do not encourage her.”
You laughed.
Then reset.
“Fine.”
Morpheus moved behind the constructs.
“Two.”
You gathered the power.
The direct route to sphere two passed straight through the chest of the nearest dream.
You instinctively stopped.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“If I get it wrong—”
“You will stop.”
His certainty steadied you.
You looked at the dream.
Then past it.
Sphere two.
Power gathered.
You sent it forward.
At the last second, you turned your wrist almost unconsciously.
The gold curved.
Passed around the construct's shoulder.
The dream flinched.
But its expression did not change.
Sphere two lit.
Your mouth fell open.
“Did I touch him?”
Morpheus looked at the construct.
“No.”
You looked at the dream.
“You still you?”
It nodded.
“I believe so.”
“Excellent.”
Morpheus called:
“Five.”
This route was worse.
Two constructs.
You frowned.
Directed the gold between them.
The strand split slightly.
You caught it.
Pulled the stray thread back.
Sent the rest through.
Five glowed.
No one worshipped you.
“Again.”
You did.
Again.
Again.
By the eighth attempt, sweat had gathered along your hairline.
Your arms felt strangely heavy despite the fact you were barely moving them.
The power itself seemed tired.
Or perhaps you were finally learning that using it deliberately required more than simply surviving it.
Then Morpheus changed the configuration one final time.
The constructs moved.
The pillars moved.
Nothing remained still.
You stared at him.
“You have a problem.”
“Four.”
“Sadist.”
“Four.”
You laughed under your breath.
Then focused.
Gold gathered.
You found four.
Sent the power.
A construct crossed.
You bent around him.
Sphere four moved behind six.
You pulled the strand upward.
Curved over six.
Down.
Four lit.
Only four.
Everything stopped.
The constructs froze.
The pillars halted.
The gold remained suspended for half a heartbeat between you and the sphere.
Then you let it go.
It dissolved into warm sparks.
You stood completely still.
Morpheus said nothing.
You turned slowly towards him.
“Well?”
His expression was almost unbearably soft.
“Excellent.”
You blinked.
Not good.
Not improved.
Excellent.
You smiled before you remembered not to.
A real smile.
Bright and immediate.
“I knew it.”
“Did you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your confidence was considerably less apparent twenty minutes ago.”
“That was old me.”
You gestured vaguely.
“She's gone.”
A hint of amusement appeared.
“A remarkable transformation.”
“Thank you.”
Morpheus dismissed the constructs.
The pillars dissolved into sand.
You dropped heavily onto the bench.
“I feel like my bones are tired.”
“Directing power requires greater concentration than releasing it.”
“Useful information you might have shared beforehand.”
He handed you water.
You took it.
Your fingers brushed his.
Neither of you pulled away immediately.
You drank half the glass at once.
Morpheus remained standing in front of you.
“You did well.”
You lowered the glass.
“I know.”
His eyebrow rose.
You smiled.
“But you can say it again.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Then, quietly:
“You did exceptionally well.”
Something warm unfurled inside your chest that had nothing whatsoever to do with power.
Your smile softened.
“Thank you, Morpheus.”
His name came easily now.
His gaze changed at the sound of it.
You saw.
He wisely said nothing.
And this time, neither did you.
********
You spent the rest of the afternoon away from the palace.
Again.
The novelty had not worn off.
You walked without destination.
At one point the path brought you through a market in which dreams traded memories they no longer wanted.
You did not buy anything.
A nightmare with six hands tried to sell you someone's first kiss.
You declined.
Politely.
Then less politely when it persisted.
Later you sat beside a lake whose surface reflected a different sky from the one above it.
You removed your shoes and put your feet in the water.
It was warm.
Nothing attacked you.
You counted that as a successful outing.
When you finally returned towards Fiddler's Green, you found Valí sitting on a low stone wall eating what looked suspiciously like an apple stolen from somewhere.
You stopped.
“How are you allowed out here?”
Valí looked at you.
“Good to see you too.”
“I am serious. How are you here?”
“I was granted leave.”
He gestured vaguely behind him.
You looked around.
No guards.
“Morpheus loosened your restrictions?”
“Some.”
Valí took another bite.
“Apparently behaving myself has benefits.”
“New experience?”
“Deeply unpleasant.”
You smiled faintly.
Valí patted the stone beside him.
You hesitated only briefly before sitting.
The relationship between you was not repaired.
Not entirely.
You still remembered the truth.
That he had been placed near you deliberately.
That Odin had wanted him close.
That the first meeting you had spent years thinking was chance had not been chance at all.
But Valí had told you the rest eventually.
And he had apologised without demanding immediate forgiveness.
More importantly, lately he had stopped trying to explain to you what was best for you.
That helped.
For a while, you both watched the Green.
Valí spoke first.
“You look better.”
You glanced at him.
“Than what?”
“Than three days ago.”
“I was considering whether to burn down the palace three days ago.”
“Exactly.”
You snorted.
He threw the apple core into the grass.
The ground swallowed it.
You watched.
“Show-off.”
“Wasn't me.”
Silence settled again.
Then Valí said:
“You're thinking about staying.”
You turned.
“Excuse me?”
He lifted both hands.
“Observation. Not instruction.”
“Very important distinction.”
“I've learned.”
You looked away.
Valí studied the landscape.
“You like it here.”
“It's fine.”
He laughed.
“That is such bullshit.”
You glared.
“I do not need commentary from someone currently living here under political asylum.”
“Sanctuary.”
“Whatever.”
Valí smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“You do like it.”
You said nothing.
“I can tell.”
“How?”
He shrugged.
“I've known you a long time.”
That was complicated now.
He seemed to realise it.
His gaze lowered.
“Even if some of how it began was a lie.”
Your anger flickered.
Not enough to ignite.
He continued.
“You never settle anywhere.”
You frowned.
“I settle.”
“You exist places.”
“That's dramatic.”
“It's true.”
He looked at you.
“Even in the Waking World. You liked people more there than you did in Olympus, but you still always seemed like you were waiting for your actual life to begin somewhere else.”
That landed harder than expected.
You looked across the fields.
Valí's voice became quieter.
“This is the first place I've ever seen you actually become part of.”
You swallowed.
“I was imprisoned here.”
“At first.”
You gave him a warning look.
“I'm not defending that.”
He shook his head quickly.
“I'm saying what it is now.”
A pause.
“You have friends here. Work. Training. Places you go because you like them. People know you.”
He smiled slightly.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“That doesn't mean I should stay.”
“Didn't say it did.”
You looked at him.
He was quiet.
You waited.
Normally Valí would have an opinion.
A loud one.
Often several.
“You're not going to tell me what you think?”
“No.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Why?”
Valí gave you a sideways look.
“Apparently everyone deciding your future for you is how we got into this mess.”
You stared.
Then laughed softly.
“Look at you learning.”
“Painfully.”
You nudged his shoulder.
Very lightly.
The first easy physical contact between you since the truth came out.
Valí noticed.
He did not make a thing of it.
That mattered too.
A few minutes passed.
Then he sighed.
“Although, since you asked whether I have an opinion—”
You groaned.
“There he is.”
“I'm not telling you what to choose.”
“Dangerous opening.”
“I'm just saying you'd be a fool to leave because you think somewhere else is automatically better.”
You turned towards him.
“That's very close to telling me what to choose.”
“No. I'm saying assess the options properly.”
He gestured broadly around him.
“The Dreaming is safe.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Valí reconsidered.
“Safer.”
“Better.”
“Much safer than most divine realms.”
That, unfortunately, was true.
“Olympus is a nightmare.”
“Technically the nightmares are here.”
“You know what I mean.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Asgard currently involves my father plotting something catastrophic.”
Another finger.
“Olympus is just as bad.”
Another.
“And then there is the Underworld which has Ereshkigal.”
He paused.
“Actually, this comparison is making Dream look extremely good.”
You rolled your eyes.
Valí leaned back.
“And the Dreaming is nicer.”
“Nicer than Asgard?”
“Much.”
“You're saying that because Odin is trying to control you.”
“Partly.”
Valí looked around at the rolling green hills, the distant palace and the impossible blue of the Dreaming's sky.
“But also because it's actually nicer here.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Nicer.”
“Yes. The food is better. The palace is warm. No one expects you to spend half your life freezing for the sake of proving you're descended from warriors.”
You laughed.
Valí gestured towards the sky.
“The weather is usually pleasant.”
He paused.
Considered that.
“Provided Lord Shaper is in a reasonable mood.”
Your mouth twitched.
Valí glanced sideways at you.
“Which, lately, appears to have quite a lot to do with you.”
You immediately frowned.
“It does not.”
“Three days ago the entire realm looked like it was preparing for the end of the world because you were angry with him.”
“Coincidence.”
Valí stared.
“It hailed.”
“Weather happens.”
“Inside a realm whose weather is controlled by the emotional state of the person you weren't speaking to.”
You folded your arms.
“I don't like where this conversation is going.”
“Neither did the weather.”
You laughed again.
Then Valí's expression sobered.
“What I am saying is that you'd be foolish to leave a place you genuinely like just because leaving proves you can.”
Your smile faded.
He immediately added:
“That is not me saying stay.”
You looked at him.
“Sounds like it.”
“No.”
He held your gaze.
“I'm saying don't mistake escape for freedom if there's nothing you're actually escaping anymore.”
That shut you up.
Valí looked away first.
“And don't mistake staying for surrender either.”
You stared at the grass.
Damn him.
Apparently everyone around you had become insightful at the worst possible time.
“I hate when you're useful.”
“I know.”
You sat together until the light began changing.
When you eventually stood to leave, Valí did not ask what you had decided.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Day Three
By the third morning, the weather had become offensively pleasant. You noticed that as well.
Sunlight poured through the windows in broad golden strips. The gardens below your chambers were bright with colour. Somewhere beyond the western wall, birds were singing with enough enthusiasm to suggest they had been personally instructed to improve morale.
You stood at the window with your tea.
“Suspicious.”
The birds continued.
You narrowed your eyes at them.
No rain.
No thunder.
No visible manifestation of ancient cosmic misery.
Apparently Morpheus had either achieved emotional regulation or learned to stop broadcasting it over the entire realm.
You were not sure which was more concerning.
Breakfast passed without him.
You noticed less today.
Or at least you told yourself you did.
Training had been formally cancelled again, though this time the notification had come through Lucienne rather than leaving you to discover it yourself.
Not cancelled, precisely.
Postponed while His Lordship attends to matters concerning your prospective departure.
Which was a very Lucienne way of saying that Morpheus was still preparing to lose you.
You had just reached the library when Lucienne appeared from between the shelves.
She had several documents tucked beneath one arm.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
You looked past her.
Nothing.
You hated yourself slightly.
Lucienne, mercifully, did not comment.
Instead she handed you a folded piece of cream paper.
You looked down at it.
Then up.
“What is this?”
“A request.”
You immediately became suspicious.
“From him?”
“Yes.”
That made you more suspicious.
You unfolded it.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
If you are willing, I would ask that you review the protections prepared for your use should you elect to leave the Dreaming. Lucienne may attend if you prefer.
You read it twice.
There was no time written.
No instruction.
No assumption that you would come.
You turned the paper over as though there might be some hidden clause on the back.
Nothing.
Lucienne waited.
“He wants me to inspect them.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they are intended for you.”
You gave her a look.
“That has not historically guaranteed my involvement.”
Lucienne's mouth tightened.
Not because she disagreed.
“No.”
You looked at the note again.
“Where?”
“One of the smaller workrooms beside the throne hall.”
You folded the paper.
“Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
“Waiting?”
“Working.”
That somehow made it easier.
You slipped the note into your pocket.
“Fine.”
Lucienne raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like me to accompany you?”
You considered it.
Then shook your head.
“No.”
A beat.
“I can handle him.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Of that I have never had any doubt.”
*********
The workroom was one you had never entered before.
It was smaller than most rooms Morpheus seemed to favour, which meant it was only approximately the size of an expensive London flat.
The walls were lined with shelves containing objects you could not identify. Bottles. Stones. Small boxes. Scrolls bound with black cord. A collection of keys, none of which appeared to have ordinary teeth.
A long table occupied the centre.
Morpheus stood behind it.
He looked up when you entered.
No smile.
Morpheus rarely smiled.
But something in his expression eased.
Only slightly.
“You came.”
You stopped.
His face immediately shifted, as though he had realised the words revealed more than intended.
You folded your arms.
“You asked me to.”
“I did.”
Silence.
Neither of you seemed to know what came next.
You solved that by looking at the table.
Several objects had been arranged across it.
A small black stone.
A thin silver chain.
A piece of folded dark cloth.
And, somewhat ominously, a knife.
You pointed.
“Why is there a knife?”
“There are circumstances in which you may wish to sever a magical connection.”
You stared at him.
“Good morning to you too.”
His mouth moved.
Barely.
The almost-smile vanished before it formed.
Old instinct.
Old rhythm.
You felt it too.
Then remembered you were angry.
You looked back at the objects.
“Explain.”
Morpheus did not object to the command.
He picked up the black stone first.
It was small enough to fit comfortably in your palm.
Smooth.
Dark.
Not glossy like obsidian.
Its surface seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
“Dreamstone.”
You looked at him.
“Like your ruby?”
His gaze flickered.
“Not precisely.”
He placed it in front of you.
“This has no power over the Dreaming. It cannot command dreams, alter them, or compel passage.”
You did not touch it.
“Then what does it do?”
“If you choose, it will open a single road from wherever you are into my realm.”
Your eyes moved to his.
“Anywhere?”
“Almost.”
“That's reassuringly vague.”
“There are places beyond even my reach.”
“Hell?”
“You would be unwise to test it there.”
“Noted.”
You looked at the stone again.
“And that's it?”
A pause.
“No.”
Of course not.
Morpheus touched two fingers to the stone.
A faint silver symbol appeared across its surface.
Not his helm.
Not the gates of the Dreaming.
Something simpler.
A crescent crossed by a narrow line.
“If you do not wish to enter the Dreaming, you may use it to call me to you.”
You looked up.
“Call you.”
“Yes.”
“Like summoning you?”
His expression became faintly offended.
“No.”
You almost smiled.
“You sounded offended.”
“I am not an errand spirit.”
There he was.
You looked down quickly to hide the movement of your mouth.
“So what happens?”
“You speak my name while holding it and choose whether you wish to open the road or send word.”
“And you'll know?”
“Yes.”
Your suspicion returned.
You picked up the stone.
It was warm.
Not because he had touched it.
Warm like something alive.
You turned it over in your fingers.
“Does this track me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
You looked at him.
“Can you tell where I am while I'm holding it?”
“No.”
“Can you see through it?”
“No.”
“Hear through it?”
“No.”
“Can you use it to summon me back here?”
His expression changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“No.”
You watched him.
“Did you consider making something that could?”
Silence.
A long one.
Morpheus could have lied.
You knew that.
He knew you knew it.
Finally:
“Yes.”
You stared.
He did not look away.
“And?”
His voice was quiet.
“I determined that would merely recreate the problem in another form.”
Something inside your anger shifted.
Again.
You hated that.
You looked down at the stone.
“You mean you'd still have a leash.”
His jaw tightened.
The word struck exactly where you intended.
“Yes.”
No defence.
You turned the dreamstone over.
“Can I destroy it?”
“Yes.”
You looked up sharply.
“Really?”
“If you no longer wish to possess it.”
“What happens if I break it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The path closes permanently. Whatever portion of my power resides within it returns to the Dreaming.”
“And you can't stop me?”
Something very Morpheus entered his expression.
“I could.”
You raised your eyebrows.
He continued before you could speak.
“I will not.”
You stared at him for several seconds.
Then put the stone down.
You respected the answer.
You deeply resented respecting the answer.
“Fine.”
Morpheus moved to the folded cloth.
It looked unremarkable.
Dark grey.
Perhaps the size of a handkerchief.
You frowned.
“That looks disappointingly normal.”
“Would you prefer flames?”
You looked at him.
He looked back.
You almost laughed.
Almost.
“What is it?”
He unfolded it.
A pattern had been sewn into the fabric in silver thread.
You recognised none of the symbols.
“A portable ward.”
“Portable.”
“It may be placed beneath a bed, beneath the floor, behind a door, within a wall or simply beneath whatever object upon which you choose to sleep.”
You picked it up.
“And?”
“It will conceal you from most forms of divine observation while you sleep.”
Your fingers stopped.
“Most?”
“There are beings against whom certainty would be dishonest.”
That answer was irritatingly sensible.
“Ereshkigal?”
“She should not see through it.”
“Odin?”
“Nor he.”
“Zeus?”
Morpheus paused.
You looked up.
“That's a very reassuring pause.”
“Your father is unusually difficult to exclude from places in which his blood resides.”
Your expression soured.
“Wonderful.”
“The ward will obscure you from him. I cannot promise absolute concealment indefinitely.”
You examined the silver stitching.
“Does it tell you where I put it?”
“No.”
“Does it connect wherever I'm staying to the Dreaming?”
“No.”
“Can you enter through it?”
“No.”
“Can you alter my dreams through it?”
This time he paused.
Not because the answer was uncertain.
Because the question hurt.
You saw that.
His face became very still.
“No.”
You swallowed.
“Even if I'm having a nightmare?”
“Unless you call me.”
The words were quiet.
You looked down again.
The ward suddenly felt heavier in your hands.
“So if I leave, you're not just going to... turn up in my dreams.”
“No.”
“Even to check on me.”
A beat.
“No.”
“Even if you think I'm in danger.”
His eyes darkened.
There.
That one was difficult.
“If I possessed certain knowledge that you were in immediate danger, I would act.”
You raised your brows.
“There it is.”
“I will not pretend otherwise.”
His voice hardened slightly.
“But concern alone will not constitute such knowledge.”
You stared at him.
That distinction mattered.
You knew it did.
He knew you knew it.
Then you pointed at the knife.
“Now explain the murder weapon.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“It is not a murder weapon.”
“It's a knife.”
“Many knives are used for purposes other than murder.”
“Very inspiring.”
He picked it up by the hilt.
The blade was narrow and dark.
“The protections I have made contain traces of power belonging to this realm.”
You looked at the objects.
Then back at him.
“Your power.”
“Yes.”
“So there is still a connection.”
“A connection to the Dreaming, yes.”
You waited.
He continued.
“If, for any reason, you believe one of these objects has been altered, compromised or used against you, the blade will sever that connection.”
Your expression changed.
“Even if you're the one who altered it?”
Morpheus met your eyes.
“Even then.”
You stared at him.
“You made me a weapon against your own magic.”
“A means of ending its effect.”
“Same difference.”
“It is not.”
You picked up the knife.
The hilt fit your hand immediately.
You looked suspiciously at it.
“Did you make this for me?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
You put it down again.
The room became quiet.
You looked over all of it.
The dreamstone.
The ward.
The threshold marker.
The knife.
Not one object could summon you.
Not one could locate you.
Not one forced you to call him.
Every connection could be severed.
Every protection could be refused.
You had entered expecting another elegant method of surveillance dressed up as concern.
Instead he had built you exits.
Your chest tightened.
You resented him for that too.
“I hate this.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“The protections?”
“No.”
You folded your arms.
“The fact they're good.”
Something almost warm entered his eyes.
“I see.”
“Don't look pleased.”
“I am not.”
“You're very slightly pleased.”
“You have frequently accused me of possessing no recognisable facial expressions.”
“I have learned your tiny ones.”
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Silence.
Not hostile.
Worse.
Intimate.
You looked away first.
“Are we done?”
Morpheus's voice softened.
“Yes.”
You gathered the dreamstone, then stopped.
“Do I take these now?”
“If you wish.”
“And if I stay?”
There it was.
The word.
Stay.
Morpheus did not react.
Not outwardly.
“Then they may remain yours regardless.”
You frowned.
“Why would I need them here?”
“You may someday wish to travel without me knowing where you are.”
You looked at him.
His gaze remained steady.
“That right does not depend upon whether you leave.”
Something painful pulled inside your chest.
You looked down.
“Right.”
You gathered the objects.
At the door, you stopped.
Almost turned back.
Did not.
“Thank you.”
You hesitated.
Then:
“Morpheus.”
Behind you, silence.
You did not look back.
But you knew he had noticed.
*********
That evening, you ate alone. Again.
At least, you began alone.
You were halfway through dinner when the doors opened.
You looked up.
Morpheus stood there.
He had changed from the heavier robes he wore while attending formal duties into simpler black clothing.
For one disloyal second, your mind supplied the fact that you preferred him like that.
You immediately focused on your potatoes.
Morpheus did not approach.
“May I join you?”
You looked up again.
“It's your palace.”
His expression did not change.
“That was not my question.”
You stared.
He waited.
Of course he waited.
You looked at the empty chair opposite you.
Then back at him.
“…Fine.”
Morpheus entered.
The doors closed behind him.
He sat opposite you.
Nothing appeared before him.
You looked at the empty table setting.
“You're not eating?”
“No.”
“Then this is going to be weird.”
“Would you prefer I leave?”
You immediately regretted saying anything.
“No.”
A pause.
“Stay.”
The word slipped out before you could examine it.
Morpheus's gaze lifted.
You looked down at your plate.
“For dinner.”
“I understood.”
Did he?
You were no longer sure either of you understood anything.
Dinner continued.
Or rather, you ate while Morpheus sat opposite you in near silence.
It was unbearable.
Not because silence with Morpheus was unusual.
You had spent entire chess games barely speaking.
But those silences had been comfortable.
This one was full of things neither of you was saying.
You waited for him to ask.
He didn't.
You ate another bite.
Nothing.
You drank water.
Still nothing.
He asked once whether the Ereshkigal texts had contained anything useful.
You answered.
He listened.
You asked whether Matthew had recovered from whatever diplomatic errands they had undertaken.
Morpheus said Matthew had complained for several hours and therefore appeared fully recovered.
You snorted.
That was the closest either of you came to laughing.
Then silence again.
Finally you put down your fork.
“You're not going to ask?”
Morpheus looked at you.
“Ask what?”
You stared.
“You know what.”
He did.
You saw it immediately.
“No.”
Your irritation rose.
“Why?”
His expression remained calm.
“Because I gave you seven days.”
You waited.
“Not seven days during which I would demand an answer repeatedly.”
You leaned back.
“You could ask what I'm thinking.”
“Would you answer?”
That stopped you.
“Maybe.”
One eyebrow lifted.
You glared.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like that.”
“I am sitting.”
“Smugly.”
“I was unaware sitting could be smug.”
“You manage.”
For one fraction of a second, the old Morpheus returned.
A glint in his eyes.
Something poised on his tongue.
Then he restrained it.
You hated that too.
“You can argue with me, you know.”
His expression changed.
“Can I?”
The question was quieter than you expected.
Your irritation faltered.
You looked down.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I'm angry. I'm not made of glass.”
“I have never believed you were.”
“Then stop acting like one wrong sentence will make me explode.”
Morpheus considered that.
“Your power has, on occasion, made that possibility less metaphorical than you intend.”
You stared.
Then laughed.
One startled sound.
It escaped before you could stop it.
Morpheus froze.
So did you.
The room changed.
Not magically.
Emotionally.
For one second you were back at the chessboard.
Back before the treaty.
Back before you had learned he had hidden the release provision.
You looked at him.
He was watching you.
Something softened in his face.
You remembered you were angry.
The laugh died.
You looked back at your plate.
Morpheus's expression closed again.
Not completely.
You had seen the disappointment first.
That was worse.
“Sorry.”
You immediately frowned.
Why were you apologising?
Morpheus's voice was soft.
“You need not be.”
Silence.
You resumed eating.
Neither of you mentioned staying.
Neither of you mentioned leaving.
When Morpheus eventually rose, he paused beside the table.
“Good night.”
You almost said my lord.
Habit born entirely out of spite.
Instead:
“Good night, Morpheus.”
His gaze lingered.
He inclined his head. Then he left.
You stared at the closed doors.
“Oh, this is getting ridiculous.”
Day Four
Training resumed.
Technically.
It lasted less than an hour because your concentration was terrible and Morpheus appeared equally distracted, though he would rather have been thrown into the Sunless Lands than admit it.
He still asked before touching you.
Every time.
“May I adjust your shoulder?”
“Yes.”
Later:
“Your wrist.”
You held it out.
“Yes, Morpheus.”
Another accidental name.
Another tiny pause.
No comment.
You almost wished he would comment.
Then you could snap at him for making it significant.
Instead he had apparently become possessed by the spirit of restraint.
Infuriating.
Training ended without incident.
You managed to contain your power through three proximity exercises.
One dream brushed your hand deliberately.
Nothing happened.
Morpheus said:
“Good.”
You looked at him.
“Only good?”
“Would you prefer dishonest praise?”
“A little enthusiasm wouldn't kill you.”
“I am pleased with your progress.”
You blinked.
That was almost too sincere.
“That's worse.”
His brow furrowed.
“You are becoming increasingly difficult to satisfy.”
“Be careful. That sounded almost normal.”
His expression stilled.
There it was again.
That painful gap between what you had been and what you currently were.
You looked away first.
********
The rest of the day passed almost in a blur.
You returned to the library and buried yourself in work with more determination than actual concentration, moving between reports on divine succession, old treaties and several increasingly obscure accounts of power inheritance that Lucienne seemed convinced might eventually prove useful.
Morpheus, meanwhile, returned to the matters a king was apparently required to attend to when he was not constructing magical escape routes or making every conversation between you unbearably complicated.
There were petitions.
Councils.
Disputes between dreams.
Messengers moving constantly through the palace.
And, apparently, Queen Titania.
Again.
You learned that entirely by accident.
You were leaving the library late in the afternoon with two books beneath one arm when voices from the adjoining gallery made you slow.
Morpheus stood near one of the tall windows speaking with a faerie messenger dressed in pale green and silver.
You would have kept walking.
Probably.
Then you heard Titania's name.
So naturally, you stopped behind an enormous column like a perfectly mature adult.
The messenger bowed.
“Her Majesty wished me to convey that she is disappointed you have declined her company once again.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
The messenger continued.
“She believes Your Majesty has become unusually difficult to reach.”
A pause.
“Does she.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
The poor messenger continued.
“Her Majesty also expressed concern that certain… disturbances within the Dreaming continue to occupy an excessive amount of your attention.”
You froze.
Oh.
Certain disturbances.
That would be you, then.
Morpheus became very still.
The messenger, either brave or doomed, continued.
“She wonders whether the young woman remains troublesome.”
Your eyebrows rose.
Troublesome?
You leaned slightly around the column.
Morpheus's face had gone completely unreadable.
Which, by now, you understood meant someone had wandered dangerously close to his temper.
“You may inform Queen Titania that the affairs of my realm require neither her concern nor her commentary.”
The messenger bowed quickly.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Morpheus continued.
“And should she again wish to request my company, she may do so without reference to matters which are not hers.”
You almost smiled.
The messenger bowed again.
Much lower this time.
“I shall tell her.”
He departed with impressive speed.
You remained behind the column.
For approximately two seconds.
Then Morpheus said:
“You may come out.”
You closed your eyes.
Of course.
You stepped into view.
“I wasn't hiding.”
His gaze moved deliberately towards the enormous marble column.
Then back to you.
“No?”
“I happened to stop.”
“Behind a pillar.”
“It's a very nice pillar.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Almost amusement.
You adjusted the books under your arm.
“So.”
Morpheus waited.
“Titania's displeased with you.”
“Titania is frequently displeased.”
“Because you won't see her.”
His expression cooled slightly.
“That is between Titania and me.”
You frowned.
Not because he was wrong.
Because the answer irritated you for reasons you had absolutely no interest in examining.
“Fine.”
You started walking.
Morpheus's voice followed.
“She was not speaking of you with my permission.”
You stopped.
Looked back.
He remained where he was.
“I know.”
Then you turned away before he could possibly see anything in your face.
Behind you, Morpheus did not call you back.
Which was probably fortunate.
You spent the next hour wondering why the answer had made something warm and embarrassing settle beneath your ribs.
You decided it was none of your business.
Then thought about it several more times.
By the time you finally retired for the day, you had managed to convince yourself that you were merely irritated by Titania's continued commentary about you.
Mostly.
Possibly.
********
You were still considering this when Morpheus found you in the garden an hour later.
Not found, perhaps. That suggested chance. Morpheus rarely did anything by chance.
You were sitting beneath one of the enormous silver-leafed trees near the eastern wall, reading a text about divine succession that had become so aggressively boring you were beginning to suspect Lucienne had given it to you as punishment.
A shadow fell across the page.
You looked up.
Morpheus stood several feet away.
You waited.
He did not sit.
“May I speak with you?”
You closed the book around one finger.
“You're speaking now.”
His expression remained solemn.
That told you this was not casual.
You sighed and set the book aside.
“Fine.”
Morpheus still did not move.
You looked at the grass beside you.
Then back at him.
“You can sit.”
“May I?”
You gave him a flat look.
“If you ask permission every time you occupy the same patch of land as me, I may actually lose my mind.”
Something faint shifted at the corner of his mouth.
He sat. Not close. Not far. The precise distance of someone desperately attempting not to presume.
For several seconds he said nothing.
You waited.
The garden moved around you.
Silver leaves whispered overhead.
Far beyond the wall, something enormous flew across the Dreaming's pale sky.
Finally:
“I owe you an apology.”
You went still.
Not an explanation.
An apology.
You said nothing.
Morpheus looked straight ahead.
“I was wrong.”
That got your attention.
You turned slightly towards him.
He did not look away.
“My reasons do not change that.”
You remained silent.
He continued.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As though every word had been examined before being allowed to exist.
“When I accepted the treaty, I believed my actions distinct from those of Zeus because I did not consider you property.”
Your jaw tightened.
“You weren't exactly generous with freedom either.”
“No.”
No defence.
“I told myself the restrictions were necessary because your power was unstable. Because others sought to use you. Because you did not yet understand the danger you represented to yourself or others.”
His hands rested motionless upon his knees.
“Some of those things were true.”
You waited for the therefore.
It never came.
“They do not make what followed right.”
Something in your chest shifted.
Morpheus's gaze lowered.
“When I learned that the treaty permitted me to relinquish the claim, I should have told you.”
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
His voice remained steady.
“I did not.”
A pause.
“Because I feared what you would choose if you knew.”
There it was.
You looked at him.
He finally turned towards you.
“I believed that if you remained here, you would be safer.”
“I probably would be.”
He seemed slightly surprised by the admission.
You folded your arms.
“That wasn't the point.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“It was not.”
Silence.
You looked towards the gardens.
“You thought you were different from them.”
“Yes.”
“Zeus.”
“Yes.”
“Odin.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Ereshkigal.”
A pause.
“I did.”
You looked back at him.
“Are you?”
That hurt.
You saw it.
Morpheus did not recoil from the question.
“I hope so.”
Not yes.
That mattered.
“But in this, I acted upon the same belief that has governed far too many decisions concerning you.”
His eyes held yours.
“That my greater knowledge granted me greater authority over your life.”
Your throat tightened.
“It doesn't.”
“No.”
A pause.
“It does not.”
You stared at him.
You had wanted this.
Not humiliation.
Not grovelling.
Morpheus would never grovel.
You had wanted him to understand precisely what had been wrong.
Apparently he did.
That did not erase it.
But it mattered.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“Why did you fear it so much?”
Morpheus became still.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
“You keep saying you were afraid I'd leave.”
You turned fully towards him.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
You watched him.
“You knew I would be in danger.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Ereshkigal might come after me.”
“Yes.”
“Odin.”
“Yes.”
“Olympus.”
“Yes.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“That isn't all of it.”
Morpheus looked away.
There.
You had him.
“Is it?”
“No.”
Your heart beat slightly faster.
You did not know why.
You did.
You refused to know why.
“Then what?”
Silence.
Morpheus of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares, ruler of an entire realm, looked for perhaps the first time since you had known him as though words had become genuinely difficult.
His gaze fixed upon some distant point beyond the garden wall.
“Your presence has become important to me.”
You stared.
Waited.
Nothing else came.
“Important.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
You continued staring.
He remained perfectly still.
You blinked.
“That's what you're going with?”
His eyes shifted towards you.
“I do not understand.”
“Oh, you understand perfectly.”
“I have answered your question.”
“Barely.”
His expression became defensive in that maddeningly dignified way only he could manage.
“My answer was truthful.”
“I'm sure it was.”
You looked at him for another moment.
There were at least six things you could have said.
None of them felt safe.
So you stood and picked up the book from beside you.
“I should go.”
Something in his face closed.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
“Very well.”
You tucked the book beneath your arm.
For one second neither of you moved.
Then you said:
“Goodnight, Morpheus.”
His gaze held yours.
“Goodnight.”
You turned and walked back towards the palace before you could reconsider any of it.
********
That evening, shortly before seventh bell, you found yourself in the wrong corridor.
Again.
You told yourself it was genuinely accidental.
There were several ways to reach your chambers from the library.
This happened to be one of them.
It also happened to pass Morpheus's chambers.
That was irrelevant.
Mostly.
You walked slowly.
The corridor was quiet.
No servants.
No dreams.
No ravens.
The doors ahead were closed.
You approached.
The seventh bell began to ring.
One.
Your steps slowed.
Two.
You were nearly level with the doors.
Three.
You looked at them.
No note had come tonight.
Of course it hadn't.
Four.
You stopped.
Entirely.
The doors remained closed.
Five.
You could knock.
The thought arrived so easily that you almost did it before examining it.
One game.
That was all.
Chess did not mean forgiveness.
It did not mean staying.
It did not mean anything except that you wanted to play chess with him.
Six.
Your hand lifted.
Not much.
A few inches.
Enough.
You stared at the dark wood.
Beyond it, Morpheus might be there.
Perhaps the board was put away.
Perhaps he was working.
Perhaps he was sitting in front of the fire alone, still refusing to invite you because you had already said no once.
Seven.
The bell faded.
Your hand hovered.
You could knock.
You wanted to.
That was the problem.
You missed him.
Not Lord Morpheus.
Not Dream of the Endless.
Not the being responsible for half the impossible complications currently governing your life.
Morpheus.
The impossible, pompous, infuriating man who hated Monopoly and kept pretzels in his chambers because you liked them.
The one who had built you a way to call him while making certain he could never use it to call you back.
The one who had finally said he was wrong.
The one who apparently considered important an acceptable substitute for whatever he was too frightened to say.
Your fingers curled.
Almost a knock.
You lowered your hand.
Not tonight.
You were not ready.
You walked away.
Slowly.
Behind the closed doors, the chessboard remained inside its cabinet.
Morpheus had not prepared it.
He had learned that much.
But he stood beside the fire when you passed.
And because this was his realm, because the palace belonged to dreams and dreams were made of things left unsaid, he knew the exact moment you stopped outside his door.
He knew how long you remained there.
He knew when your hand lifted.
He did not open the door.
Did not call your name.
Did not make the choice easier for either of you.
He merely stood in silence until your footsteps receded.
Then looked towards the closed doors.
For the first time in three nights, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning…
You opened your eyes sometime after dawn and lay there for several seconds, staring at the canopy above your bed while your mind caught up with consciousness.
Grey light filtered through the curtains. No thunder. No rain. No dramatic gale throwing itself against the windows.
The Dreaming had apparently recovered from yesterday's emotional breakdown.
You got up, dressed, and made your way to breakfast.
It had already been served by the time you arrived: tea, fruit, toast, eggs, and several things you suspected had been included purely because someone in the kitchens had decided you needed feeding properly.
There was, however, no Morpheus. You noticed that too.
Not that he regularly joined you for breakfast. But sometimes he appeared. Then sometimes he did not. Sometimes you ate in your chambers, sometimes in one of the smaller dining rooms, and occasionally you encountered him in passing and ended up spending twenty minutes arguing about something neither of you had intended to discuss.
Today, nothing.
You ate. You drank tea. You read half a page of the material Lucienne had sent to your chambers. You found yourself listening every time footsteps passed the dining room. None of them belonged to him.
By the fourth occasion, you became annoyed with yourself and moved to the library. The library was quieter than usual too.
Lucienne was somewhere deep within the western stacks. Austin had not arrived yet. Matthew was absent. Even Mervyn, who could normally be relied upon to appear whenever there was an opportunity to complain loudly about palace administration, was nowhere to be seen.
You settled at your table. Three hours of documents waited for you. Possibly four. You opened the first. You had made it through almost two pages when you felt him. You did not need to look. That was another annoying development.
Somewhere during the last few weeks, you had become capable of recognising Morpheus's presence before you saw him. Not because he announced himself. Because the air changed.
The library seemed somehow deeper when he entered it. Shadows settled differently. The enormous space became aware of its king.
Your eyes remained on the page. Footsteps crossed the distant marble floor. Slow. Measured.
You kept reading. Or pretending to.
They came nearer.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the paper. You were absolutely not going to look up first.
The footsteps stopped.
Not beside you. Twenty feet away.
You lasted approximately three seconds. Then glanced up.
Morpheus stood at the end of one of the central aisles.
He had changed clothes. Today’s were simpler, less ceremonial. His coat was absent. His face was unreadable.
He was looking at you.
Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful.
Neither of you spoke.
Then Morpheus inclined his head. Nothing more. No approach. No question about whether you had slept. No mention of the unused chessboard. No carefully neutral invitation for later. Simply an acknowledgement.
You stared at him.
Then, because apparently the two of you were now minor diplomats from hostile neighbouring countries, you inclined your head in return.
“My lord.”
Something flickered across his face. Gone too quickly to name.
Then he continued walking. Past the table. Past the shelves. Away from you.
You watched him go. You had thought you wanted this. That was the deeply inconvenient part. You had thought you wanted Morpheus to leave you alone. Apparently you disliked that too.
You dropped your eyes to the page. Read the same sentence three times. Nothing entered your brain.
You looked towards the aisle where he had disappeared. Nothing.
“Brilliant.”
A voice from behind a stack answered.
“Is something wrong?”
You startled.
Nuala emerged carrying several books against her chest.
You immediately looked back at your document.
“No.”
Nuala glanced towards the aisle. Then towards you.
There was a slight pause.
“Of course.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Don't.”
She sat down opposite you.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I truly wasn't.”
You stared at her.
Nuala smiled faintly.
You returned to the report.
For perhaps thirty seconds, you successfully pretended to read. Then something occurred to you.
You looked up.
“Is there training later today?”
Nuala blinked.
“I don't believe so.”
Your brow furrowed.
Morpheus had said nothing. Usually the training schedule simply existed. He had built the hall for you. Unless some cosmic emergency intervened, you trained every morning. Even yesterday, when the two of you were barely speaking.
“Why?”
Nuala carefully arranged the books beside her.
“Lord Morpheus is occupied.”
You stared at her.
“Doing what?”
“I don't know precisely.”
You looked towards the aisle again.
“He was just here.”
“Briefly.”
“And now?”
“He has left the palace.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“To where?”
Nuala hesitated.
That hesitation immediately made you suspicious.
“Nuala.”
“I truly don't know.”
“But you know why.”
A second hesitation.
You put down your pen.
“What is he doing?”
Nuala looked mildly uncomfortable.
“Preparing.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Preparing what?”
She did not answer quickly enough.
You understood anyway. Your expression changed.
“For me.”
Nuala's silence confirmed it.
You leaned back.
“He's sorting things out for when I leave.”
Nuala's eyes softened.
“For the possibility that you leave.”
You ignored the distinction.
“Matthew's gone too.”
You had noticed it earlier without connecting the two.
Nuala nodded.
“Yes.”
You looked down at the documents.
Suddenly the room felt oddly cold.
“Right.”
Nuala studied you.
You picked up your pen.
“Fine.”
She continued studying you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Everyone keeps saying nothing while very obviously thinking something.”
“I was only wondering whether you knew.”
“That he's planning my departure?”
Nuala winced slightly.
“I don't think he would describe it that way.”
You gave a humourless laugh.
“No. He'd describe it as ensuring the safe relocation of a person no longer under his protection or some similarly cheerful thing.”
Nuala's mouth twitched despite herself.
“That does sound like him.”
You looked at the empty aisle again and realised that Morpheus had gone personally. Not sent Lucienne. Not sent Matthew. Not instructed one of his subjects to make arrangements. He had gone himself.
You pushed the thought away.
“Whatever.”
Nuala was quiet.
You resumed reading.
She did not leave.
After several minutes, you looked up.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you still sitting there?”
Nuala folded her hands over the book in front of her.
“Because I thought perhaps you might want company.”
That disarmed you slightly.
You looked away.
“I'm fine.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“One may be fine and still want company.”
You looked at her again.
You sighed.
“Stay if you want.”
“Thank you.”
She opened her book.
For a while, neither of you spoke. It might have remained that way if you had not reached another document bearing Morpheus's handwriting. There were notes in the margin. Locations. Potential routes of approach. Known allegiances. Methods by which Ereshkigal might be prevented from locating you should you cross beyond the boundaries of the Dreaming.
You stopped reading. Your eyes moved over one particular annotation.
Wards insufficient without external anchor. Determine alternative.
The handwriting looked recent. You knew it was.
Yesterday he had given you everything. Including his unfinished plans. You put down the paper.
Nuala looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Then, because you were tired of hearing yourself say it:
“He's really doing it.”
Nuala closed her book.
“Doing what?”
“Preparing for me to go.”
“Preparing to keep you alive if you do.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
You had expected her to argue. The immediate agreement made you look at her.
Nuala's expression was gentle.
“It isn't.”
You looked down again.
“He thinks I'm leaving.”
“I think he believes he must behave as though you might.”
“He's very committed to the idea.”
“Because he gave you his word.”
There it was.
Your irritation surfaced.
“Please don't.”
Nuala frowned.
“Don't what?”
“Defend him.”
She went still.
You continued before she could answer.
“I like you, Nuala. A lot. But please don't sit there and tell me how honourable he's being now because he's finally doing the thing he should have done in the first place.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to say that once Lord Morpheus gives his word, he will honour it even when doing so causes him pain.”
You stared at her.
“That sounds suspiciously like defending him.”
Nuala considered that.
“Perhaps it is.”
You pushed your chair back slightly.
“He lied to me.”
“Yes.”
That stopped you.
Nuala did not flinch from it.
“He knew there was a way for me to leave, and he decided I wasn't allowed to know.”
“Yes.”
“Because he thought he knew better.”
“Yes.”
“Because apparently deciding what's best for others is one of his favourite hobbies.”
Nuala's expression changed slightly at that. Not disagreement. Recognition.
You caught it.
“Exactly.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment.
“I know something of being given away without being asked.”
Your anger faltered.
Nuala's fingers tightened faintly against the book.
“And I know that Lord Morpheus did not ask for me. Nor did he treat me as though the manner of my arrival gave him any right to me.”
You said nothing.
“But I also know what it is to have choices made around you by people who insist those choices are necessary.”
Her eyes returned to yours.
“So no. I don't believe what he did to you was right.”
You leaned back slightly.
Nuala continued.
“I think he was afraid.”
You scoffed.
“Everyone keeps telling me that as though fear makes it better.”
“It doesn't.”
Again, immediate.
Calm.
“Fear explains many terrible things. It excuses very few.”
That quieted you.
Nuala shifted slightly in her chair.
“But you asked what he is doing today.”
“Yes.”
“He is doing precisely what he promised you he would do. He is preparing for the outcome he does not want.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked away.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
A beat.
“But I have eyes.”
You nearly laughed.
It came out more like an exhale.
Nuala's mouth curved.
Then she became serious again.
“You asked me once why he permitted me to remain here after I was given to him.”
You remembered.
“Yes.”
“The truth is that Lord Morpheus can be proud. And stubborn. And infuriatingly certain that his understanding of duty must also be everyone else's.”
“Finally. Someone talking sense.”
Nuala smiled.
“He can be cruel when wounded.”
The smile disappeared.
“He can mistake punishment for justice. He can mistake silence for dignity. And he can hold onto an old injury until everyone involved has forgotten how it began.”
You thought of Nada.
You did not say her name.
Nuala continued.
“But he is not careless with what he considers his responsibility.”
Your expression hardened.
“That's part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“He decided I was his responsibility, and somehow that became more important than what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
Nuala paused.
“And now you have made him understand that protecting you without respecting you is not protection you will accept.”
You stared at the table.
That was uncomfortably close to the truth.
“He shouldn't have needed me to teach him that.”
“No.”
You looked up sharply.
Nuala held your gaze. No defence that time. No qualification. Just agreement.
Something in you eased despite your best efforts.
“You are annoyingly reasonable.”
“I spend a great deal of time around unreasonable people.”
You snorted.
“Fair.”
Nuala reopened her book. You looked at your report. Neither of you read.
Then Nuala asked, gently:
“Do you want to leave?”
The humour vanished.
You looked down.
That was the question, wasn't it? Not whether you were angry enough to leave. Not whether Morpheus deserved consequences. Not whether the treaty was unjust. Whether you actually wanted to go.
Yesterday, the answer had felt obvious. You had wanted the door open. Needed it open. The knowledge that he could keep you here when a way out existed had been unbearable. But wanting the right to leave and wanting to leave were not necessarily the same thing.
You hated that too.
“I don't know.”
Nuala nodded.
No judgement.
“So you might wish to stay?”
You didn’t answer.
Nuala's face became very still.
You immediately knew she understood.
“Ah.”
“Don't ah me.”
“I didn't mean—”
“You absolutely did.”
Nuala tried very hard to hide a smile.
“Fine.”
You looked towards the shelves where Morpheus had disappeared hours earlier.
He was not there. He was somewhere beyond the palace preparing a life for you that did not include him.
The thought hurt. That was inconveniently clarifying.
You looked down. Nuala waited.
Eventually she asked:
“Do you love him?”
Your head snapped up.
“Jesus Christ, Nuala.”
Her eyes widened.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“A little.”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
There was no mockery in her expression.
No gossip. Only curiosity. And perhaps concern.
You rubbed your forehead.
“I don't know.”
Nuala said nothing, so you exhaled and continued.
“But I have feelings for him.”
Nuala's eyebrows rose faintly.
“Feelings.”
“Yes.”
“What sort?”
You picked up the pen again.
Put it down.
“I care about him.”
Nuala's expression softened.
You continued before you lost your nerve.
“More than I should.”
“Why shouldn't you?”
You laughed.
“Have you met him?”
Nuala's mouth twitched.
“Yes.”
“Then there's your answer.”
You leaned back.
“He's impossible. He's arrogant. He thinks admitting he's wrong is a ritual that should only occur once every thousand years. He talks like every conversation is already carved into stone. He sulks so badly the weather changes.”
Nuala was trying not to smile.
She was waiting for more.
You sighed heavily.
“But, he is also kind when he forgets to be difficult.”
Nuala's smile faded into something warmer.
You looked at the table.
“He listens to me. Not always when it matters, apparently, but… he listens.”
Your fingers traced the edge of one of the papers.
“He lets me annoy him.”
“Very generous.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“He argues with me like he actually expects me to argue back.”
You swallowed.
“He doesn't treat me like I'm fragile.”
A pause.
“Except when he does.”
“Except when he does.”
You rubbed your thumb over the paper.
“And I like being with him.”
There.
That one was simple.
Worse because it was simple.
“I like chess with him. I like walking with him. I like when he says something unbelievably pompous and then looks offended because I laugh.”
Nuala's smile returned.
“I like when he forgets he's supposed to be terrifying.”
Your voice softened.
“And when something happens, he's the person I want to tell.”
That hurt more than you expected.
Because yesterday you had already discovered it repeatedly. A stupid spoon. A ritual in a book. A thought you wanted to argue about. Tiny things.
You missed giving them to him.
You stared at the documents until the words blurred slightly.
“I missed him yesterday.”
Nuala did not interrupt.
“Which is ridiculous because he was right there.”
You swallowed.
“And I miss him today and he's been gone for about three hours.”
Nuala remained silent.
You looked at her.
“If you tell anyone this conversation happened, I will deny everything.”
“Naturally.”
“Especially him.”
Nuala actually laughed.
“I would never.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then she said quietly:
“For what it is worth, I don't think your anger means you love him less.”
You looked at her.
“I didn't say I love him.”
Nuala's face remained perfectly innocent.
“No.”
“I said feelings.”
“Yes.”
“Very different.”
“Entirely.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
********
Morpheus returned to the palace shortly before dusk.
Lucienne knew before he entered the library. The lamps dimmed almost imperceptibly. The shadows stretched.
Matthew arrived first, flying through one of the high arches before landing heavily on the back of a chair.
“I hate diplomatic errands.”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“I had gathered.”
Matthew shook rain from his feathers despite the fact there had been no rain in the Dreaming for hours.
“Some of those places are creepy even by our standards.”
Lucienne closed the book in front of her.
“Did you accomplish what you intended?”
Matthew looked towards the entrance.
“Ask him.”
Morpheus entered.
There was dust on the hem of his coat. Not Dreaming dust. Something pale and grey. His expression revealed nothing.
Lucienne knew him far too well to be fooled by that.
He stopped beside the central table.
“Lucienne.”
“My lord.”
Matthew hopped down.
“I'm getting food.”
Morpheus looked at him.
Matthew paused.
“What? I worked.”
“You complained.”
“I can do two things.”
Lucienne lowered her eyes quickly.
Matthew flew off. Silence returned.
Morpheus removed his coat. It vanished before touching the back of the chair.
Lucienne waited.
She knew better than to ask immediately.
Morpheus knew she was waiting. Eventually he spoke.
“The arrangements are sufficient.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“For what?”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Should she choose to depart the Dreaming at the end of the agreed period, she will not do so undefended.”
Lucienne studied him.
“What have you arranged?”
Morpheus moved towards the table. A map appeared beneath his hand. Not of the Dreaming. Of several places in the Waking World. Some Lucienne recognised. Others had been deliberately left unnamed.
“There are three locations in which she might safely reside for a time.”
Lucienne looked down.
“Might?”
“Nothing in the Waking World can be made entirely inaccessible to those who seek her.”
His voice was clipped. Precise.
She heard the frustration beneath it.
“But each location has been warded against divine observation. No single pantheon possesses jurisdiction over all three. Passage between them may be concealed.”
Lucienne touched one marked point.
“And Ereshkigal?”
“She will not cross the first ward unnoticed.”
“Odin?”
“Nor he.”
“Olympus?”
A pause.
“Zeus presents a more complex difficulty.”
Lucienne looked up.
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“But not an insurmountable one.”
“What else?”
Another set of markings appeared.
“Several routes by which she may move without crossing thresholds traditionally observed by divine realms. A means by which she may contact the Dreaming without entering it. Protection while she sleeps.”
Lucienne's gaze lifted sharply.
“You would continue protecting her dreams?”
Morpheus looked at her as though the answer were self-evident.
“Of course.”
“Even if she leaves you?”
The library seemed to quiet around them.
Morpheus's expression became cold. Not angry. Warning. Lucienne did not retreat.
He answered.
“Her decision to leave this realm would not make her welfare immaterial to me.”
“No.”
Lucienne's voice was very gentle.
“I don't imagine it would.”
Morpheus looked away.
She returned her attention to the map.
“And if the protections fail?”
“There are contingencies.”
“How many?”
He did not answer.
Lucienne looked at him.
“My lord.”
“Enough.”
Which meant many. Probably too many.
Lucienne knew him.
Morpheus did not prepare moderately for loss. He built monuments to the possibility.
She studied the map again. Then noticed something.
“There are no permanent wards.”
Morpheus's eyes moved to hers.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because permanent wards require a binding.”
Lucienne understood.
A binding to him. A binding to the Dreaming. Something which could, however benevolently, become another claim.
He had refused to do it.
Her expression softened.
“You asked her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she has not yet chosen to leave.”
Lucienne regarded him.
“And you will not ask her to accept another protection that may influence that decision.”
Morpheus was silent.
That was answer enough.
The map vanished.
“There is no need for further action tonight.”
He turned.
“My lord.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“Are you so certain she is leaving?”
His face revealed nothing.
“I am certain of nothing.”
“Then why are you behaving as though she is?”
The shadows along the shelves shifted.
“Because I gave her my word that her decision would be honoured.”
“That was not my question.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
Lucienne continued.
“You have spent the day preparing places for her to live. Routes by which she may travel safely. Wards against gods. Ways for her to call for help. You have apparently considered how to continue protecting her dreams without requiring her to return here.”
She paused.
“You have made very thorough preparations for losing her.”
Morpheus became unnaturally still.
“Would you prefer I did not?”
“No.”
Lucienne rose.
“I would prefer to understand why you seem more willing to prepare for her departure than to give her a reason to stay.”
His expression hardened.
“She asked for space.”
“Yes.”
“She is angry.”
“Yes.”
“She has been denied meaningful choice for much of her life. On more than one occasion, by my own hand.”
“Also yes.”
His voice dropped.
“Then I will not manipulate her into remaining here simply because her departure is undesirable to me.”
Lucienne watched him.
“I did not suggest manipulation.”
“You suggested that I convince her.”
“I suggested you try.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“There is little distinction.”
“There is an enormous distinction.”
A faint ripple moved through the nearest shelves.
Lucienne ignored it.
“You have spent weeks deciding for her because you believed your intentions justified it. Now you appear determined to make the opposite mistake and pretend your wishes have no place in her decision at all.”
Morpheus stared at her.
“My wishes are irrelevant.”
Lucienne actually sighed.
“No, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed.
“They are not.”
Silence.
Lucienne removed her spectacles and set them carefully on the table.
A sign Morpheus recognised. She was tired of speaking to him as librarian to king.
“If you ordered her to stay, your wishes would be improper.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“If you concealed the means by which she could leave because you wanted her here, your wishes would be improper.”
Still nothing.
“If you threatened her, bound her, frightened her, or attempted to make her feel responsible for your happiness, your wishes would be improper.”
Lucienne held his gaze.
“But telling someone that you want them to stay is not the same thing as taking away their right to leave.”
Something shifted in his expression. Small. Painful.
“She knows she is welcome here.”
Lucienne stared.
“Does she?”
He looked almost offended.
“I have made it abundantly clear.”
“You imprisoned her in the North Tower.”
A pause.
“For reasons which—”
“You restricted her movement.”
His expression chilled.
“Her power was unstable.”
“You accepted custody of her under a treaty she did not consent to.”
“To prevent Olympus—”
“You concealed the means by which you could release that claim.”
That silenced him.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“You have made it abundantly clear that you believe she should be here.”
A beat.
“I am not certain you have ever made it clear that you want her here.”
Morpheus looked away.
That, more than anything, told Lucienne she had reached the centre of it.
“Those are not the same thing.”
His voice was quieter now.
“No.”
“Does she know?”
Morpheus's eyes returned to hers.
“Know what?”
Lucienne almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was Morpheus.
“How you feel about her.”
The library became very still. There. Finally. No treaties. No wards. No gods. No duty.
Morpheus's face closed completely.
“That is not relevant to the present matter.”
Lucienne stared at him.
“It may be the most relevant matter.”
“Lucienne.”
Warning.
She did not care.
“Do you love her?”
The lamps flickered.
Morpheus's expression became almost offended by the directness of the question.
“You presume much.”
“I have served you for a very long time.”
“That does not entitle you to interrogate me regarding private matters.”
“No.”
Lucienne picked up her spectacles.
“But someone should.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
She put them on.
“And everyone else appears too frightened.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Matthew is not.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Matthew lacks subtlety.”
“So, apparently, do you.”
“I learned from watching you avoid conversations.”
The silence stretched.
Morpheus could simply have left. Normally, he might have.
Lucienne knew that too.
He did not. Instead he turned away from her and walked several paces towards the nearest window.
The sky beyond had darkened into evening. The Dreaming lay quiet beneath it.
His hands folded behind his back.
“I do not know what word should be given to it.”
Lucienne said nothing.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
“Affection is insufficient.”
A pause.
“Desire is insufficient.”
Lucienne remained perfectly still.
Morpheus's voice lowered.
“Attachment suggests something smaller than what has occurred.”
That was perhaps the most Morpheus admission Lucienne had ever heard.
She allowed him the language.
He continued.
“When she is absent, I am aware of it.”
The words came slowly now.
Reluctantly.
“When she enters a room, I am aware of that also.”
His mouth tightened.
“I have altered the ordering of my days without intending to. I have postponed matters which once I would have considered immovable because she wished to play a game.”
Lucienne carefully concealed a smile.
Morpheus ignored it. He looked back at the window.
“She is impertinent.”
“Yes.”
“Reckless.”
“Frequently.”
“She insults me with alarming regularity.”
“I have observed.”
His gaze returned to the window. The silence after that was different. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet for anyone human to hear.
“I thought I would lose her yesterday.”
Lucienne's expression changed.
Morpheus did not look at her.
“Not to death.”
A beat.
“That would have been simpler to understand.”
The sentence was terrible in its sincerity.
“She stood before me alive and furious and told me that she wished to leave this realm.”
His fingers tightened behind his back.
“And I knew that I had caused it.”
Lucienne's face softened.
“My lord.”
“Do not mistake me. I do not regret protecting her.”
There he was again.
Pride even in confession.
“I regret that I believed protection permitted me to deny her knowledge that was hers by right.”
He lowered his gaze.
“I have known kings who justified conquest with the same reasoning.”
“I believed myself different because I feared what might happen to her.”
His mouth twisted faintly.
“As though fear has ever made possession less possessive.”
Lucienne approached, though not too close.
“You recognised the mistake.”
“After making it.”
“That is generally when mistakes are recognised.”
He gave her a look.
Lucienne remained unmoved.
“And now?”
Morpheus looked away again.
“Now I will honour my word.”
“Even if she leaves.”
His face became very still.
“Especially then.”
Lucienne watched him for a long moment.
Then:
“That still does not answer my question.”
Morpheus closed his eyes briefly.
“You are persistent.”
“Yes.”
He opened them.
Lucienne waited.
“Do you love her?”
This time he did not evade. Not immediately. Outside, the first stars began appearing over the Dreaming.
Morpheus watched them.
Then said:
“Yes.”
His voice was lower when he continued.
“I believe I do.”
Lucienne's expression softened.
Then Morpheus turned fully from the window.
“But love has brought little good before.”
Lucienne's smile disappeared.
She knew immediately where his thoughts had gone.
“This is not Nada.”
The name altered him.
Not visibly to anyone who did not know him.
Lucienne knew him.
The faint withdrawal. The ancient wound.
“No.”
“And she is not Calliope.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Nor is she any of the others.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
Morpheus looked sharply at her.
Lucienne continued.
“Because you have a remarkable talent for treating the possibility of repeating an old mistake as though it makes the present one inevitable.”
A shadow moved across his face.
“Nada once suggested that perhaps my kind is simply incapable of love.”
Lucienne remained silent.
His gaze drifted towards the darkened windows.
When he spoke again, his voice had grown distant.
Ancient.
“At the time, I believed her wrong.”
A pause.
“But perhaps she was not.”
He looked at his own hand.
“Perhaps my kind was not made to love as mortals do. As gods do. Perhaps what we call love becomes something else when measured against eternity.”
Lucienne's brow furrowed.
Morpheus continued before she could interrupt.
“We endure.”
His eyes lifted.
“That is the nature of the Endless. We remain when kingdoms become dust. We remember when those we loved have become stories, and when even those stories are forgotten.”
The shadows around him deepened.
Not threatening.
Melancholy.
“We mistake permanence for virtue because permanence is what we are.”
Lucienne listened.
“And one such as she may love while understanding that love is permitted to change. That another may choose to leave. That time may alter what was once promised without rendering it false.”
His expression tightened.
When he spoke again, there was bitterness beneath the quiet dignity of it.
“I have never possessed such grace.”
A pause.
“I have never excelled at release.”
Lucienne thought of Nada. Of Calliope. Of Orpheus. Of a thousand lesser griefs Morpheus had stored like relics.
He went on.
“So, perhaps Nada understood me more clearly than I permitted myself to understand then.”
A pause.
Lucienne's eyes narrowed.
“And so your solution is what?”
Morpheus looked at her.
“I did not say there was one.”
Lucienne stepped closer.
“My lord, you speak as though loving her the way you do is itself some act of harm.”
“It may become one.”
“Anything may become harm if done badly.”
He said nothing.
“Friendship may become possession. Duty may become control. Protection certainly can.”
That struck.
Lucienne did not soften it.
“You have demonstrated that yourself.”
Morpheus's gaze lowered.
“But love does not become noble merely because you refuse to speak of it. Nor is heartbreak inevitable simply because of what you are.”
He said nothing.
“You are not the same man who condemned Nada.”
His expression tightened.
“You have changed since then.”
A pause.
“And, difficult though you may find the admission, you are changing still.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Change may not be enough.”
“Perhaps not.”
Lucienne did not look away.
“But neither is failure inevitable merely because you have failed before.”
Something restless moved through the shadows around him.
At last, frustration broke through the careful stillness of his face.
“And what would you have me say?”
His voice sharpened.
“That I love her?”
The lamps flickered.
“That the thought of her leaving this realm has occupied me from the moment she discovered the truth?”
The shadows spread further across the floor.
“That I sat before a chessboard last night knowing she would not come and remained there like a fool because some part of me imagined I might hear her footsteps?”
Lucienne went very still.
He had not intended to reveal that.
Morpheus knew it too.
His expression closed.
But the words were already there.
Lucienne spoke gently.
“Yes.”
He looked at her as though she had suggested madness.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps not precisely like that.”
A tiny, dangerous narrowing of his eyes.
“But yes.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“Tell her something true.”
Morpheus gave a humourless laugh.
Rare enough that it sounded almost wrong.
“And place what burden upon her?”
“Truth is not always a burden.”
“It is when given for the purpose of altering a decision.”
“Then do not give it for that purpose.”
Silence.
“Tell her because she deserves to know what she is deciding between.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“Leaving the Dreaming is not merely leaving a palace.”
A pause.
“And staying is not merely remaining under your protection.”
He said nothing.
“If she is deciding whether she wants a life here, then perhaps she should know whether you imagine yourself part of that life.”
Something raw flickered in his eyes.
Immediately hidden.
“I have no right to ask that of her.”
“You have every right to ask.”
Lucienne's tone sharpened.
“You do not have the right to decide her answer.”
That stopped him.
She let the distinction sit between them.
At last, Morpheus looked towards the darkening windows again.
“She is still angry.”
“Yes.”
“She addressed me formally on several occasions now.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched despite the seriousness of the conversation.
Morpheus noticed.
“You find this amusing as well.”
“I find it effective.”
His expression became deeply displeased.
Lucienne cleared her throat.
“She has always possessed a certain instinct for finding precisely the weapon most likely to inconvenience you.”
“It is petty.”
“Extremely.”
“Childish.”
“Certainly.”
A pause.
“You dislike it.”
Morpheus stared at her.
Lucienne smiled faintly.
“Very much, apparently.”
He looked away.
Lucienne continued more gently.
“You know, there is a difference between giving someone space and disappearing from them entirely.”
His expression shifted.
Very slightly.
“I invited her yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She declined.”
“I know.”
“Then I will not ask again.”
Lucienne sighed.
“My lord.”
“She made her preference clear.”
“For one evening.”
He gave her a flat look.
“I am not going to pursue her through my realm with repeated invitations after she has refused one.”
Lucienne considered him.
“No.”
A pause.
“That would be excessive.”
“Precisely.”
“But you might speak to her tomorrow.”
His expression became suspicious.
“I speak to her when necessary.”
Lucienne stared.
“You are both exhausting.”
Morpheus looked genuinely affronted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
She returned to the table.
Morpheus remained by the window.
After several seconds, Lucienne opened the book she had abandoned earlier.
She read exactly one line.
Then Morpheus spoke.
“Did she ask where I was?”
Lucienne looked up.
His back was still to her.
A smile threatened.
She suppressed it.
“Yes.”
He did not move.
“What did she ask?”
Lucienne considered how much she was entitled to reveal.
“Whether training had been cancelled.”
Silence.
“And?”
“When Nuala told her you were occupied, she asked what you were doing.”
Morpheus turned slightly.
“Nuala told her?”
“That you were preparing for the possibility of her departure.”
His expression tightened.
“I did not instruct her to do so.”
“I know.”
“I did not wish the preparations to appear an attempt at emotional coercion.”
Lucienne's brows rose.
“You have thought about this a great deal.”
He ignored that.
“How did she respond?”
Lucienne looked at him.
There was no king in the question.
Just a man attempting to sound indifferent and failing spectacularly to someone who had known him for centuries.
“You could ask her.”
Morpheus's face immediately returned to its usual severity.
This one is fresh from my @sluttymorpheus DMs. And omfg, his EYES. Beanie Tom with a blue beanie AND the blue eyes... Not looking at his mouth again. Not doing it.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning, you woke to rain. Not ordinary rain. The sort of rain that struck the windows in great, relentless sheets, driven sideways by a wind strong enough to make the ancient glass tremble in its frame.
You opened one eye. Another gust battered the palace.
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the towers.
You closed your eye again.
For approximately five seconds. Then lightning flashed bright enough to turn the inside of your eyelids white.
“Oh, for fuck's sake.”
You pushed yourself upright.
The curtains were moving despite the windows being shut. Beyond them, the Dreaming had disappeared beneath a wall of grey.
Yesterday there had been stars. Before that, a pale morning sky. Today apparently the entire realm had decided it was starring in a gothic tragedy.
You climbed out of bed and crossed to the window.
Rain streamed down the glass so heavily you could barely make out the courtyard below. Trees bent beneath the wind. Dark clouds hung impossibly low over the palace towers. One of the gargoyles on the opposite roof looked profoundly offended by the entire situation.
You stared.
Another rumble of thunder.
Your eyes narrowed.
The rain intensified.
You folded your arms.
“Oh, very subtle.”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered you. You looked towards the ceiling.
“Really, Morpheus?”
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
He was probably standing somewhere pretending this had absolutely nothing to do with him.
You pulled the curtains shut. Then immediately opened them again because that felt too much like conceding defeat to the weather.
“You are billions of years old.”
Lightning cracked across the sky.
“Apparently that has not helped.”
You turned away. You had no intention of letting his emotional weather ruin your morning.
Unfortunately, the weather appeared to have other ideas.
By the time you had dressed, the rain was worse. By the time you had finished breakfast, there was hail. By the time you stepped into the corridor, one of the palace servants was quietly moving several potted plants away from a window because the glass looked as though it might implode.
You stopped.
The servant stopped.
You looked at the window.
Then at her.
She very carefully said nothing.
“Does this happen often?”
Her eyes moved towards the ceiling.
“The weather in the Dreaming is responsive, my lady.”
“Responsive.”
“Yes.”
A particularly violent gust shrieked around the tower.
You looked back through the window.
“Right.”
The servant lowered her head and hurried away before you could involve her further.
You continued towards the training hall.
You were still angry. Very angry. That had not changed overnight.
If anything, waking to find the entire realm apparently experiencing Morpheus's feelings on your behalf had sharpened it.
He had known there was a way to relinquish his claim under the treaty. Known you could leave. And he had kept that from you.
It did not matter that he had eventually agreed to give you the choice. It did not matter that he had promised that if, after one week, you still wished to leave, he would release you. It did not even matter that you understood why he had done it.
Perhaps that was the worst part.
You understood him perfectly.
He had been afraid. Afraid of what would happen to you outside the Dreaming. Afraid of Ereshkigal. Afraid of Olympus. Afraid of Odin. Afraid of your power. Afraid that you would make a decision while angry and regret it. Afraid that you would leave him.
And so Morpheus had done what Morpheus always did when fear became intolerable.
He had turned it into control.
You hated that you understood it.
You hated even more that part of you still wanted to go find him.
So you made a decision before you reached the training hall.
For the next week, you would give him nothing unnecessary. Nothing he could mistake for forgiveness. Nothing you could mistake for reconciliation.
You would train. You would work. You would continue your investigation. You would behave exactly as you would if he were merely the ruler of the realm in which you were temporarily residing.
No chess. No walks. No wandering into his chambers because you were bored. No asking whether he wanted to see something ridiculous you had found in a book. No arguments that existed purely because arguing with him had somehow become entertaining. No teasing. No casual conversation. No lingering.
No Morpheus. Only Lord Morpheus.
You reached the doors to the training hall.
They opened before you touched them.
Naturally.
Morpheus stood inside.
He was already waiting.
Black robes fell around him in severe lines. His hair looked somehow even more disordered than usual. Behind him, the tall windows revealed a sky nearly black with rain.
You stopped.
For one ridiculous instant, the familiar sight of him struck something soft inside you.
You crushed it immediately.
Morpheus looked at you.
His gaze passed over your face as though searching for some indication of what kind of morning this was going to be.
You gave him none.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Silence.
Not long.
Barely a second.
But you knew him well enough now to notice it.
His expression did not change.
“Good morning.”
You walked past him towards the centre of the hall.
Behind you, the doors closed.
Thunder rolled.
You dropped your bag onto the bench.
Then turned towards the windows.
“The weather is terrible.”
Morpheus's gaze shifted briefly towards the storm.
“So it would appear.”
You stared at him.
He looked back at you with perfect solemnity.
You waited.
Nothing.
“Right.”
You began stretching.
The rain slammed against the windows.
You looked at him again.
“You know everyone can tell, don't you?”
His brow lowered slightly.
“Tell what?”
“Nothing.”
You bent to touch your toes.
“Absolutely nothing.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Good.
At least you could still irritate him accidentally.
Morpheus approached the practice circle.
He did not immediately begin.
Instead, he stood several feet from you.
“Before we proceed, there is something I would ask.”
You straightened.
“What?”
“Do you wish to continue your training this week?”
You frowned.
That had not been what you expected.
“Why wouldn't I?”
“Because you are angry with me.”
Direct.
No attempt to soften it.
You folded your arms.
“I am.”
“And because the agreement we reached yesterday was intended to give you space in which to determine what you wish without further pressure from me.”
You watched him carefully.
“So?”
His gaze remained steady.
“Training requires my presence.”
“Unfortunately.”
A tiny pause.
Normally he would have reacted.
A look.
A cutting response.
Perhaps a dry observation about your gratitude.
Today he merely continued.
“If you would prefer to suspend it until you have made your decision, you may.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, anger rose again.
Not because he was doing anything wrong.
That almost made it worse.
Everything he was doing this morning was reasonable.
Careful.
Respectful.
Exactly what you had wanted from him yesterday.
And some immature part of you deeply resented that he had apparently decided to become excellent at boundaries overnight.
“No.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Very well.”
You did not move.
“That's it?”
“Would you prefer that I argue?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
You exhaled through your nose.
Infuriating man.
You stepped into the circle.
“I want to continue.”
“Then we shall.”
You picked up one of the practice blades.
Then added, because you needed him to understand:
“I'm not losing my routine because you made a mistake.”
His face became very still.
The rain seemed to soften for half a heartbeat.
“No.”
His voice was low.
“You should not.”
You looked away.
The training began.
For the first twenty minutes, nothing was unusual.
Or rather, everything was unusual because nothing was wrong.
You controlled your power.
Two dreams entered the circle.
You allowed them close.
Neither began worshipping you.
A third brushed deliberately past your shoulder and your influence flared, but you pulled it inward before the dream's expression could change.
Morpheus dismissed it.
“Again.”
You reset your stance.
Another construct approached.
It stepped too close.
You felt that familiar pressure beneath your ribs—the instinctive expansion of something ancient and golden that seemed to interpret proximity as attention and attention as something to claim.
You contained it.
Barely.
The construct passed.
Morpheus watched you.
“Better.”
You looked at him.
Praise from Morpheus was rare enough that your instinct was to smile.
You stopped yourself.
“Thank you, my lord.”
There.
Again.
His eyes sharpened slightly.
You turned away before he could respond.
The next exercise required him.
That had become common recently.
Dreams responded differently to you than he did. Mortals differently again. Lesser gods differently still.
Morpheus was useful because your power could not simply overwhelm him.
Which meant he could stand close enough for you to practise without anyone ending up on their knees.
Usually he entered the circle without ceremony.
Today he stopped at its edge.
“I will approach from behind.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
“I know the exercise.”
“Yes.”
You waited.
He still did not move.
“What?”
“Do you wish me to proceed?”
You frowned.
“Yes.”
Only then did he cross the line.
You felt him before you heard him.
Morpheus always had a presence.
Not power exactly.
Something larger.
Like the sudden awareness of a night sky overhead.
He stopped behind you.
Normally, he would place one hand around your wrist and reposition it.
Instead:
“May I touch your wrist?”
You turned your head.
Actually turned your entire body.
“What?”
Morpheus remained exactly where he was.
Hands at his sides.
“Your wrist.”
You stared.
“I heard you.”
He waited.
You looked down at your hand.
Then back up at him.
Something uncomfortable shifted inside your chest.
Yesterday, he would not have asked.
Last week, he would simply have taken your wrist.
Not roughly.
Never that.
But naturally.
Thoughtlessly.
As though the physical familiarity between you had developed so gradually that neither of you had ever stopped to determine when touching one another had become ordinary.
A hand at your elbow.
His fingers against your shoulder.
Your hand catching his sleeve.
You leaning across him to reach a chess piece.
His palm at your back.
Normal.
Until suddenly it wasn't.
And now he was standing there waiting for permission to touch your wrist.
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
Only then did he move.
His fingers closed lightly around your wrist.
Far more lightly than necessary.
“Your power is gathering here.”
His thumb hovered near the pulse point.
“You are still treating containment as resistance.”
“Because it feels like resistance.”
“It is not.”
He adjusted your hand.
“Do not force it backwards.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Allow it to exist without permitting it to expand.”
You glanced at him.
“That's extremely helpful.”
Under other circumstances, the sarcasm would have started something.
Today he simply said:
“Again.”
Annoyingly, that irritated you more.
You tried.
Failed.
The air around you flashed gold.
Morpheus released you immediately.
Not because the power had hurt him.
Because you had not given permission for him to continue holding you beyond the demonstration.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
You tried again.
This time the power folded.
Not disappeared.
Not suppressed.
It remained inside you, warm and restless, but yours.
Morpheus watched.
“There.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“I felt it.”
“Again.”
You reset.
Ten minutes later, your shoulder was wrong.
He stopped beside you.
“May I?”
You looked at his hand.
“Yes.”
He repositioned your shoulder.
Later:
“Your centre is too far forward. May I touch your back?”
You stared at him for half a second longer this time.
“Yes.”
His palm settled between your shoulder blades.
The contact was brief.
Functional.
Nothing more.
And yet you felt every finger.
Not because of attraction.
Not entirely.
Because each request reminded you of yesterday.
Of the argument.
Of everything he was trying desperately not to repeat.
It became impossible not to understand what he was doing.
He was forcing himself to distinguish between what he was permitted to do and what he had merely grown accustomed to doing.
He was asking.
Every time.
Even when the answer seemed obvious.
Especially when the answer seemed obvious.
You said nothing.
You were not ready to reward him for behaving as he should have behaved all along.
But something in your anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Just... shifted.
At the end of the lesson, Morpheus stepped back.
“Enough.”
You lowered your hands.
You were sweating.
Your hair had escaped whatever attempt you had made to contain it.
Outside, the storm had diminished to heavy rain.
You looked at the windows.
Then at him.
Interesting.
You walked to the bench and retrieved your things.
Usually, you would have stayed.
Asked how badly you had done.
Demanded a numerical assessment despite his repeated insistence that magical control could not reasonably be quantified.
Made some comment about how you deserved chocolate for not accidentally founding a religion during training.
Today you slung your bag over your shoulder.
“Thank you, Lord Shaper.”
Morpheus looked at you.
There was that pause again.
“You need not address me so.”
You met his gaze.
“I think formality is appropriate.”
You watched the words land.
There was no dramatic reaction.
No darkness spilling across the walls.
No thunder.
Only the faintest tightening around his eyes.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Very well.”
You moved towards the doors.
“If that is all, my lord.”
This one hurt more.
You knew it the instant you said it.
Something changed in his face.
Not anger.
That would have been easier.
He simply looked at you as though you had taken several steps further away while standing directly in front of him.
“That is all.”
You nodded.
“Then I'll see you tomorrow.”
You left before he could answer.
Outside, the rain had become heavier again.
You looked towards the nearest window.
“Oh, don't start.”
A palace servant passing with a stack of linens gave you a startled look.
“Not you.”
She hurried away.
******
Lucienne was already in the library when you arrived.
So were enough documents to suggest she had personally raided every archive in the Dreaming.
You slowed.
Your usual table had disappeared beneath stacks of paper.
There were folders.
Scrolls.
Three tablets.
Several books.
One disturbingly large black volume held shut by metal clasps.
Another pile sat on the chair.
You looked at Lucienne.
“Am I being punished?”
Lucienne glanced over her spectacles.
“Not by me.”
You approached.
“What is all this?”
“Information.”
“That's usually what libraries contain.”
“Information concerning Ereshkigal.”
That stopped you.
You looked down.
The first folder was labelled in Lucienne's neat hand.
Apparently he had entered through another doorway rather than following directly behind you, which you appreciated more than you wanted to.
You looked back at the table.
“All of it?”
“All that we possess.”
You picked up the first folder.
It was heavy.
“This is just Ereshkigal?”
“No.”
You gave him a flat look.
“Wonderful.”
Lucienne shifted a second stack towards you.
“That concerns Ishtar.”
A third.
“That concerns known divine transfer rites.”
A fourth.
“And that concerns treaties involving custodial authority.”
You looked at the expanding fortress of paper.
“I preferred it when everyone was lying to me.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
Morpheus's did not.
You opened the Ereshkigal folder.
The first section was familiar.
Her decline.
Her worship.
The death of Ishtar.
The attempted transfer.
Then you reached material you had not seen before.
Possible motivations.
Possible methods by which Ereshkigal might attempt another transfer.
Possible consequences if the fragment inside you was truly Ishtar's.
You stopped on one page.
A heading had been written across the top.
POTENTIAL HOST RECLAMATION THROUGH BLOOD-BEARER.
Your eyes moved down the page.
You read three lines.
Then five.
Then looked up.
“You think she might try to use me to restore herself?”
“It is a possibility.”
“You didn't tell me that.”
Morpheus did not defend himself.
“No.”
You read further.
There were notes in his handwriting beneath Lucienne's.
Some crossed out.
Some uncertain.
Some followed by phrases like insufficient evidence and unlikely but cannot be excluded.
You turned another page.
“You don't even believe half of this.”
“Belief is not the issue.”
“This says you've got no evidence she can even do it.”
“Correct.”
“Then why am I reading it?”
Morpheus met your eyes.
“Because yesterday I would have decided that the possibility was too speculative to trouble you with.”
You went still.
There it was.
Not dramatic.
Not apologetic.
Just precise.
A statement of exactly what he was trying to change.
You flipped several more pages.
More theories.
More uncertainty.
Some were ridiculous.
Some were horrifying.
Some contradicted one another entirely.
After ten minutes, you dropped the folder onto the table.
“I don't need every thought you've had in the last twelve hours.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
“I am attempting not to determine for you which information is relevant.”
Silence.
You looked at him.
That landed.
Horribly.
Because that was exactly what you had accused him of doing.
Not merely keeping information from you.
Deciding what you were permitted to know based on what he believed you could handle.
You looked away.
“Right.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You pulled the folder back towards yourself.
“Fine.”
You opened it again.
“I'll decide what's useless.”
“Yes.”
You glanced at him.
Something about the immediate agreement annoyed you.
“Stop being reasonable.”
Lucienne abruptly lowered her eyes to her paperwork.
Morpheus stared at you.
“I was unaware that reasonableness had become objectionable.”
There he was.
Only slightly.
But there.
You almost smiled.
Almost.
You looked down before he could see it.
“It's suspicious.”
The silence that followed was different.
For the first time that morning, not entirely hostile.
Morpheus ruined it by becoming serious again.
“There is something further.”
You sighed.
“Of course there is.”
He approached the black book.
You had seen books like it before.
Restricted archives.
Material Lucienne would only retrieve under direct instruction.
Morpheus placed two fingers against the clasp.
The seal dissolved.
“Any record held within this library which concerns you directly is now accessible to you.”
You looked at him.
“What?”
“The restrictions have been altered.”
Your eyes moved to Lucienne.
She nodded.
“Anything concerning your birth, your parentage, the treaties, Ishtar, Ereshkigal, Olympus, Odin, Valí, previous incidents involving your power, or any other matter in which you are the subject rather than merely incidental to the record.”
You stared.
“I don't need permission?”
“No.”
“From you?”
“No.”
“From Lucienne?”
“No.”
You looked between them.
“What if something is dangerous?”
Morpheus answered immediately.
“Then I shall tell you that I believe it dangerous.”
“And if I still want to read it?”
A fractional pause.
Old instinct.
You could almost see it.
The answer he would once have given struggling briefly against the one he had decided he must give now.
“Then you may.”
You watched him carefully.
“Even if you think I'm making a mistake?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you strongly advise against it?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I'm being reckless?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are frequently reckless.”
There.
You almost smiled again.
“That wasn't the question.”
“And yet it remains true.”
Lucienne made a small sound that might have been a cough.
Morpheus continued.
“If the information concerns you, I will not conceal it from you.”
The humour vanished.
His voice lowered.
“Not again.”
You looked at him.
For several seconds neither of you said anything.
You could have thanked him normally.
You almost did.
Instead you reached for the report.
“Thank you, Lord Morpheus.”
The distance returned instantly.
His gaze dropped briefly.
“You are welcome.”
He turned to leave.
You watched him go.
Only after he disappeared between the shelves did Lucienne speak.
“You know, of course, that you are under no obligation to forgive him merely because he has begun correcting his behaviour.”
You looked at her.
“I know.”
Lucienne adjusted the stack in front of her.
“Good.”
You waited.
She added:
“Though I suspect calling him Lord Morpheus may prove considerably more effective than any punishment you might devise.”
You stared at the doorway through which he had disappeared.
“Good.”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“You are enjoying that.”
“A little.”
“I thought so.”
**********
Austin returned just before midday.
You did not notice him enter.
You noticed the book that appeared beside your elbow.
You looked at it.
Then up.
Austin stood beside the table.
“You.”
He smiled.
“Me.”
You glanced automatically around the library.
No Morpheus.
No raven.
No suspiciously positioned nightmare.
You looked back at Austin.
“You're allowed here without supervision again?”
Austin pulled out the chair opposite you.
“Apparently.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He sat.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What did he say?”
Austin immediately understood who you meant.
“Very little.”
“Austin.”
“Fine.”
He leaned closer.
“He informed me that I was free to resume my usual work in the library and that your friendships are not his to regulate.”
You blinked.
“He said that?”
“Not in those words.”
“What words?”
Austin straightened, lowered his voice into a terrible approximation of Morpheus and said:
“Your association with her is not mine to prohibit.”
You stared.
Austin added:
“Then he looked at me for several seconds in a manner that suggested he wished very much that it were.”
A laugh nearly escaped you.
You smothered it.
“That's not funny.”
“It was extremely funny.”
“He could turn you into something horrible.”
“Yes, which considerably improved the experience.”
You shook your head and returned to your book.
Austin watched you.
“Are you all right?”
Your eyes remained on the page.
“No.”
His expression softened.
You immediately added:
“But I'm not discussing it.”
“All right.”
That was one of the reasons you liked Austin.
He actually understood the concept.
He opened his own book.
For the next hour, you worked side by side.
Nothing happened.
No doors opened ominously.
No storm cloud appeared inside the library.
No one informed Austin he needed to relocate to another wing of the palace.
It was so aggressively normal that you noticed that too.
Morpheus was removing the unnecessary restrictions.
One by one.
You wished it did not matter.
It did.
*********
Valí was another matter.
You found him that afternoon near one of the smaller council chambers.
Two guards stood at the end of the corridor.
Not beside him.
Not surrounding him.
But close enough to intervene.
You stopped walking.
“Oh, come on.”
Valí looked at you.
Then followed your gaze.
“They're not for you.”
You folded your arms.
“That's reassuring.”
“They're not exactly for me either.”
“There are two guards following you.”
“Technically they're watching the corridor.”
You looked at the completely empty corridor.
“Valí.”
He sighed.
“Odin.”
Your irritation shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“What about him?”
“Dream still thinks my father might try to use me to reach you.”
You glanced at the guards again.
That was, unfortunately, reasonable.
Valí leaned closer.
“He also told me very clearly that I'm not forbidden from speaking to you.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he grit his teeth while saying it?”
“Possibly.”
You almost smiled.
Then the council doors opened.
Morpheus emerged.
Of course he did.
His eyes found you immediately.
Then Valí.
Then the guards.
You folded your arms more tightly.
“I was just admiring my freedom.”
Valí muttered:
“Here we go.”
Morpheus approached.
“Valí is not under guard because of his association with you.”
“So I've been told.”
“Odin remains a credible threat.”
You looked at the guards.
“And if I want to talk to Valí?”
“Then you may.”
You blinked.
“Alone?”
This time there was a pause.
Not refusal.
Consideration.
“If you wish.”
Valí's eyebrows climbed.
You continued.
“Without anyone listening?”
“Yes.”
“Without you appearing halfway through?”
A faint coldness entered his expression.
“I do not habitually appear halfway through your private conversations.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Valí wisely took one step away.
You decided not to litigate that particular claim today.
“Fine.”
Morpheus continued.
“I ask only that you remain within the palace wards while Odin's intentions remain uncertain.”
You noticed the word immediately.
Ask.
Not command.
Not forbid.
You hated that you noticed every single one.
“That's reasonable.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Thank you.”
You looked at him.
Then deliberately:
“Of course, Lord Morpheus.”
Valí's expression became fascinating.
He looked between you.
Morpheus went so still he might have been carved from stone.
“If you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
He walked away.
Valí waited until Morpheus disappeared around the corner.
Then looked at you.
“You're terrifying.”
“Good.”
“I think he preferred it when you were shouting.”
“Good.”
Valí stared after him.
“You're going to keep doing that, aren't you?”
“Absolutely.”
*********
By evening, your anger had become exhausting.
Not weaker.
Just exhausting.
Maintaining distance from Morpheus required far more effort than you had anticipated.
You had developed habits around him.
Small ones.
Stupid ones.
At dinner, you saw something ridiculous carved into the handle of a serving spoon and instinctively turned to point it out.
He was not there.
In the library, you found an obscure reference to a Mesopotamian dream ritual and your first thought was that you wanted to ask him whether it actually worked.
You did not.
While walking back to your chambers, you passed one of the windows overlooking the courtyard.
The rain had finally stopped.
The clouds had begun to break apart.
You wondered whether he was feeling better.
Then became irritated with yourself for wondering.
By the time you reached your room, you wanted nothing more than to stop thinking about him.
So naturally, you found a note from him.
It appeared shortly after seventh bell.
One knock.
Only one.
You looked up from the report spread across your bed.
No second knock came.
You waited several seconds.
Then climbed down and opened the door.
No one.
A small folded sheet of black paper rested on the table outside.
You stared at it.
“Of course.”
You picked it up.
His handwriting was unmistakable.
If you wish to play, the board will be prepared. No answer is required.
You read it twice.
Then again.
That was all.
No I hope you will come.
No I would like to see you.
No attempt to make chess part of some grand reconciliation.
No pressure.
No request for an answer.
He had left the door open.
Nothing more.
You carried the note inside.
Placed it on the table.
Walked away.
Opened the Ereshkigal report.
Read three lines.
Looked at the note.
“No.”
You returned to the report.
Five minutes later, you were staring at the same paragraph.
You shut the folder.
The seventh bell had always meant chess recently.
Not officially.
Neither of you had ever declared it a routine.
It had simply become one.
You would finish whatever you were doing and appear in his chambers.
Sometimes he already had the board ready.
Sometimes wine.
Pretzels.
Chocolate.
You would play.
You would argue.
You would accuse him of cheating despite knowing perfectly well he did not.
He would tell you that accusing an anthropomorphic personification of manipulating a chessboard was beneath you.
You would tell him nothing was beneath you when you were losing.
Sometimes you talked.
Sometimes neither of you did.
Sometimes you stayed for hours.
You looked towards the door.
Going did not mean forgiving him.
You knew that.
You could play one game.
You could sit opposite him without resolving anything.
You could even leave immediately afterwards.
Your feet touched the floor.
You stood.
Walked towards the door.
Stopped.
Your hand reached for the handle.
You could almost picture him on the other side of the palace.
Waiting.
That was the problem.
You wanted to go.
Not because of chess.
Because you missed him.
It had been one day.
One ridiculous day.
And you missed him.
You hated that.
You lowered your hand.
“No.”
This time you said it firmly.
You walked back to the bed.
Picked up the report.
You did not absorb a single sentence for nearly half an hour.
********
Morpheus had prepared the chessboard before seventh bell.
He had almost not done so.
He had considered that leaving the invitation at all might constitute pressure.
Then he had considered that failing to leave it might suggest that your anger had resulted in the removal of something you enjoyed.
He had spent an absurd amount of time determining the wording.
Nothing that requested your presence.
Nothing that implied disappointment should you decline.
Nothing requiring an answer.
The board was prepared.
He had almost placed your glass on the table.
He stopped himself.
That presumed you would come.
So there was one glass.
His.
Untouched.
There were no pretzels.
He had considered those too.
There was, however, chocolate nearby.
That had already been there.
He told himself this mattered.
The seventh bell sounded.
Morpheus sat.
The fire burned quietly.
Rain tapped now rather than hammered against the windows.
Five minutes passed.
He did not look towards the door.
At seven minutes, he looked.
Only briefly.
He returned his attention to the board.
Ten minutes.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
The Dreaming knew you were not coming.
Of course it did.
The realm had known the instant you placed his note on the table and walked away from it.
Morpheus could have known too.
He chose not to.
At eighteen minutes, his hand moved towards one of the white pawns.
Your pieces.
He stopped before touching it.
You usually opened with that pawn.
Unless you were attempting something you had read in one of the chess books Lucienne had found you.
Or unless you were deliberately doing something absurd to see whether he would react.
Once you had opened by moving your knight and announced:
“Chaos.”
He had informed you this was not a recognised strategy.
You had replied:
“It is now.”
The memory came without permission.
Morpheus's hand lowered.
Twenty-three minutes.
Your spot remained empty.
At twenty-seven minutes, Morpheus finally accepted what he had known from the beginning.
You were not coming.
He remained seated.
Not because he expected you.
Because putting the board away felt too much like admitting how much he had expected you.
The fire burned lower.
Outside, the clouds gathered again.
Morpheus noticed.
His expression tightened.
The rain stopped before it could begin.
At last, he rose.
The pieces returned slowly to their places.
Black first.
Then white.
The board folded itself.
His glass vanished.
The table remained.
Morpheus looked at where you would usually sit.
The seat was empty.
He thought of your voice that morning.
“Good morning, Lord Morpheus.”
Then later.
“Thank you, Lord Morpheus.”
And finally:
“If that is all, my lord.”
He had been called Lord Morpheus by gods.
Kings.
Nightmares.
Entire civilisations.
Never had the title sounded quite so much like a door closing.
With a small movement of his hand, the cushions you liked disappeared.
The chamber became larger without them.
He stood alone beside the extinguishing fire.
For the first time since yesterday, there was no anger in the Dreaming.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The palace knew before Morpheus did.
Gold threaded through the walls as you walked.
Not enough to damage them.
Not yet.
But enough that the marble beneath your feet warmed.
Enough that flowers in distant courtyards opened and closed out of season.
Enough that dreams passing through the corridors stopped talking as you went by.
You barely noticed.
You were not thinking about the power.
You were counting.
Eleven days.
Training.
Eleven days.
Chess.
Eleven days.
Walks.
Chocolate.
His hand around your wrist.
His hands at your waist.
His mouth almost touching yours.
Do not.
You stopped walking.
For one horrible second, a new thought arrived.
Was that why?
Your anger shifted shape.
You started walking again.
Faster.
By the time you reached his chambers, the doors opened before you touched them.
Morpheus was standing near the windows.
The chessboard had already been prepared.
Two glasses.
The plate of pretzels.
Dark chocolate.
Something in you nearly broke at the sight of it.
He turned.
His expression changed immediately.
His eyes went to the folder in your hand.
He knew.
There was no confusion.
No need for explanation.
He simply looked at it.
Then at you.
The Dreaming darkened around him.
You closed the doors.
Morpheus said your name.
You held up the report.
“How long?”
Silence.
“How long have you known?”
Morpheus did not insult you by pretending not to understand.
“Eleven days.”
The answer hit harder hearing it from him.
You nodded.
“Eleven.”
“Yes.”
You walked further into the room.
The chessboard stood between you.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
“Eleven days ago you discovered I could leave.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“Yes.”
You laughed.
There was no humour in it.
“We trained.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“We walked through the gardens.”
Nothing.
“We played chess.”
His face tightened.
“Almost every night.”
“Yes.”
A flicker.
You kept going.
“Valí arrived.”
Morpheus became very still.
“You dragged the truth out of him.”
“I required him to tell you what Odin had done.”
Your eyes flashed.
“Oh, I remember.”
Gold crawled over your fingers.
“You stood there and told him I deserved the truth.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You asked me whether I had ever loved him.”
He looked at you.
“Yes.”
“Whether I had ever returned his feelings.”
“Yes.”
“You were very concerned about what I chose where Valí was concerned.”
He said nothing.
You stepped closer.
“Then Ereshkigal –“
The windows trembled.
“You told me everything.”
“Yes.”
“Ishtar marking me.”
“Yes.”
“Ereshkigal wanting what was inside me.”
“Yes.”
“You agreed when I said Zeus didn't own me.”
Morpheus's expression tightened.
“He does not.”
“You agreed Odin didn't get to decide who stood beside me.”
“He does not.”
“You agreed Ereshkigal didn't get to decide what happened to my body.”
“She does not.”
Your voice finally rose.
“You told me I belonged to no one while withholding the fact that I could leave.”
Silence.
The words struck the room.
Morpheus did not move.
You looked at him.
“Say something.”
His voice was low.
“You are right.”
That enraged you more.
“Stop doing that.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“Doing what?”
“Agreeing with me after you've already done the thing.”
The gold flared.
A vase on a distant table cracked.
Neither of you looked at it.
“You don't get to stand there now and tell me how correct I am.”
“No.”
“Morpheus.”
He fell silent.
You opened the report and threw it onto the chessboard.
Pieces scattered.
The black king fell sideways.
“Why?”
Morpheus looked at the document.
Then at you.
“At first, because the finding required confirmation.”
You folded your arms.
“Fine.”
“The relevant law predates Zeus's present authority over several Olympian domains. I would not tell you that you were free to leave until I knew he could not use an older provision to compel your return to Olympus.”
“Fine.”
Your voice remained sharp.
“Then it was confirmed.”
“Yes.”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Morpheus held your gaze.
“Odin.”
You laughed.
“Of course.”
“And Ishtar.”
“Yes.”
“Then Ereshkigal.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
It was almost absurd laid out that plainly.
“And every time you decided you would tell me after the next problem.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“When things were safer.”
“Yes.”
“When you knew more.”
“Yes.”
Your eyes burned.
“There will always be something, Morpheus.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You stepped closer.
“There will always be another god.”
Silence.
“Another prophecy.”
Nothing.
“Another person who wants something.”
Morpheus's face was grim.
“Another reason.”
You shook your head.
“Lucienne understood that.”
A tiny shift.
You saw it.
“She told you.”
“Yes.”
“And you still said nothing.”
“Yes.”
Your voice dropped.
“Why?”
This time the rehearsed reasons seemed to leave him.
For several seconds he simply looked at you.
Then:
“Because another realm may not be safe for you.”
Wrong.
Entirely wrong.
The room reacted before you did.
Gold exploded across the floor.
Not fire.
Light.
It raced through the cracks in the marble and climbed the pillars in brilliant veins.
Morpheus's expression changed.
You laughed in disbelief.
“There it is.”
“That is not an attempt to—”
“Neither did Zeus apparently.”
Morpheus stopped.
You took another step.
Your hands were shaking now.
“He couldn't control me, so he gave me to you.”
“I have never accepted his right to—”
You interrupted again.
“Odin had strategy.”
Your voice cracked through the room.
“He put Valí beside me because he had plans and contingencies and whatever other clever fucking word he uses for deciding what my life should look like.”
Morpheus did not interrupt.
“Ereshkigal has inheritance.”
The gold climbed your throat.
“She doesn't want to steal from me. No. She thinks she's entitled to something that belonged to her sister.”
You pointed at him.
“And you pretend that all of this is for safety.”
Morpheus went completely still.
You felt tears threaten.
That made you angrier.
“Every one of you has a different word for why the choice belongs to you instead of me.”
Silence.
The light in the room pulsed.
“Control.”
A pulse.
“Strategy.”
Another.
“Inheritance.”
The windows shook.
“Safety.”
You looked at him.
“Different word. Same fucking thing.”
Morpheus could have argued.
You could see arguments in him.
That Zeus had intended ownership.
That Odin had manipulated.
That Ereshkigal wanted power.
That he had wanted you alive.
That his intentions were different.
He did not say any of them.
Because none answered the question that mattered.
Who had chosen?
Not you.
You laughed shakily.
“You can't even argue with me.”
Morpheus's voice was quiet.
“No.”
“Because I'm right.”
“Yes.”
“Stop saying yes.”
His mouth closed.
You turned away.
The chessboard caught your eye again.
The sight of it was unbearable.
Eleven evenings.
Eleven days in which you had sat across from him believing you had nowhere else to go.
Your thoughts returned to the corridor.
His refusal.
You went still.
Slowly, you looked back at him.
“Is that why?”
Morpheus's expression changed.
He knew immediately.
That made your stomach twist.
“Why you kept pulling away from me.”
Silence.
Your face burned.
“Was that why?”
Morpheus answered.
“Yes.”
You stared.
For some reason, that hurt differently.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And suddenly you couldn't kiss me.”
His voice became lower.
“I could not allow myself to take something from you while you still believed you had no choice but to remain in my realm.”
You flinched.
Morpheus saw it.
“Do not make that sound noble.”
His face tightened.
“I do not.”
“You withheld the choice.”
“Yes.”
“Then congratulated yourself for not kissing the prisoner.”
Something almost wounded moved across his face.
“No.”
“What else was I supposed to think?”
“That I was a coward.”
You stopped.
Morpheus looked directly at you.
There was no king in his voice now.
No sovereign.
No carefully constructed legal defence.
“I knew that if I kissed you while withholding this, whatever passed between us would be built upon a truth you did not possess.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the report.
“I could not do that.”
You stared.
“But you could keep me here, against my will, while I had a choice to leave.”
A brutal pause.
“Yes.”
The answer visibly cost him.
Good.
You hated yourself for thinking it.
You wanted it to cost him.
“Do you know what the worst part is?”
Morpheus waited.
“I thought I'd done something wrong.”
His expression broke.
Barely.
But you saw it.
“No.”
“I thought you changed your mind.”
“I did not.”
“I thought I had imagined all of it.”
“You did not.”
Your throat tightened.
“I nearly kissed you three times.”
“I know.”
“Yes. You were there.”
His eyes closed briefly.
You turned away again.
“God.”
The gold was becoming unstable now.
Morpheus took one instinctive step towards you.
You spun.
“Don't.”
He stopped immediately.
That mattered.
You hated that it mattered.
You looked at the report.
Then at him.
There was only one thing left to say.
“Release me.”
Morpheus answered without hesitation.
“I will.”
You stopped.
You had expected resistance.
Arguments.
Warnings.
A command.
Anything except that.
“What?”
“I will relinquish the claim.”
You stared.
Morpheus's face was pale even by his standards.
“If you wish to leave the Dreaming, I will release you.”
For the first time since entering the room, the gold stopped spreading.
You looked at him suspiciously.
“Now.”
Morpheus paused.
“No.”
The entire room erupted.
The chess pieces shot from the board.
One embedded itself in a curtain.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
Gold burst around you in a wave.
“You unbelievable—”
“I am not refusing you.”
“You just did.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
Not command.
Urgency.
“I am asking for time.”
You laughed furiously.
“You have had eleven days.”
“I know.”
“I do not owe you another hour.”
“No.”
“Then release me.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“You are furious.”
“Excellent observation.”
“With me.”
“Another triumph.”
“And you should be.”
You stared.
“Do not tell me what I should feel.”
His expression tightened.
“Very well.”
He tried again.
“You are furious with me.”
“Yes.”
“And I fear that my betrayal has made leaving indistinguishable from punishing me for it.”
You went still.
The words landed.
You hated that they landed.
Morpheus continued carefully.
“I am not saying your anger is invalid.”
“Don't.”
“I am saying that if you leave tonight, I do not believe you will know whether you left because you wished to leave this realm or because you wished to hurt me.”
Your jaw clenched.
“Maybe I do want to hurt you.”
Something in his face changed.
“I know.”
His voice was quieter when he continued.
“And that is precisely why it would be dangerous to make such a choice tonight.”
You looked away.
Part of you wanted to walk through the nearest door into the waking world and never look back simply so Morpheus would know what it felt like to have no control over whether you returned.
That knowledge disgusted you.
Not because he did not deserve consequences.
Because that still wasn't choice.
It was reaction.
Morpheus took no advantage of your silence.
He stood exactly where you had told him to stand.
“What are you asking?”
His eyes lifted.
“Seven days.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“Seven days in which no obligation changes.”
“Morpheus—”
“Hear me.”
You glared.
He corrected himself immediately.
“Please.”
That stopped you.
Morpheus almost never said please.
You folded your arms.
“Talk.”
“Seven days.”
His voice was measured.
“You remain because you have agreed to consider the choice, not because I claim the right to keep you.”
You said nothing.
“During those seven days, I will make preparations for your safety beyond this realm.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“I didn't ask you to.”
“No.”
A pause.
“I am asking permission to do what I can.”
That word again.
Permission.
You hated how badly he was learning.
Too late.
But learning.
“And at the end?”
Morpheus looked at you.
“At the end of seven days, if you still wish to leave, I will dissolve the claim.”
You watched him carefully.
“Regardless of what happens.”
“Yes.”
“No new reason.”
“No.”
“No suddenly discovering another ancient god wants my kidneys.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“Your kidneys?”
“Stay focused.”
“No new threat will alter my promise.”
You stepped closer.
“Even if Ereshkigal appears in your realm tomorrow?”
Not a flicker.
“Yes.”
“Even if Odin comes for Valí?”
“Yes.”
“Even if Zeus decides he wants me back?”
Morpheus's eyes hardened.
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I'm being reckless?”
Morpheus went silent.
You stared.
There he was.
The King of Dreams.
Ancient.
Proud.
Certain that he saw consequences others could not.
Certain that duty sometimes gave him the right to act.
His jaw tightened.
You waited.
“Morpheus.”
A long pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
You searched his face.
“No argument?”
“I cannot promise not to tell you when I believe you are in danger.”
You opened your mouth.
He continued.
“But I will not use that danger to prevent you from leaving.”
You stared.
“No appeal to safety.”
“No.”
“No treaty.”
“No.”
“No locking gates.”
Pain crossed his face.
“No.”
“No deciding I need another week because you're frightened.”
A pause.
“No.”
You exhaled.
The gold dimmed.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
You looked around the room.
At the scattered chess pieces.
At the pretzels.
At the untouched chocolate.
At the life that had somehow begun forming around you here while you were busy resenting the fact that you could not leave it.
That was the worst part.
If you hated the Dreaming, the decision would have been easy.
You didn't.
You loved the library.
You loved Nuala.
Lucienne.
Mervyn, although you would deny it.
The ridiculous markets.
The palace gardens.
The view from your rooms.
Training, sometimes.
Chess.
Him.
You shut that thought down immediately.
You were too angry for it.
But that was precisely the problem.
Morpheus was right about one thing.
If you left tonight, part of you would be leaving for the pleasure of making him watch you go.
And you refused to let even your anger decide for you.
Your choice had already belonged to too many other things.
You would not hand it to rage as well.
You looked at him.
“Seven days.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“I am not doing this for you.”
“I know.”
You hated this.
You hated all of it.
“Seven days.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Seven days.”
You stepped around him.
He did not try to stop you.
At the doors, you paused.
There was one more thing.
You turned.
Morpheus was standing beside the ruined chessboard.
For eleven days, he had been Morpheus.
Sometimes Dream.
Occasionally an insult.
Never this.
You looked directly at him.
Your voice was perfectly cold.
“Seven days, my lord.”
You bowed.
Morpheus went motionless.
The title hit exactly where you intended it to.
You had called him that when you first arrived. When you were arguing. When he was your custodian.
Your jailer.
Your king.
Before chess.
Before gardens.
Before almost-kisses.
Before Morpheus.
You watched recognition move through him.
You opened the doors.
He said your name.
You did not turn.
Instead, you simply walked away.
The doors closed behind you.
Morpheus remained where he was.
The Dreaming was silent.
Slowly, his eyes moved towards the chessboard.
The pieces lay scattered across the floor.
Your white queen had landed beneath the table.
His black king remained on its side.
The two glasses of wine were untouched.
So was the chocolate.
Morpheus stared at it for a very long time.
Seven days.
He had asked for seven because it seemed simultaneously very little and impossibly much.
Seven days to prepare protections that would function without him.
Seven days to determine what Ereshkigal could reach beyond his borders.
Seven days to provide Lucienne with every relevant record.
Seven days to make certain that, if you walked through the Threshold, you would not simply exchange one captivity for another.
Seven days in which he could not command you to remain.
Could not appeal to treaty.
Could not use fear.
Could not even rely upon your affection, because he no longer knew whether you would permit him near enough to invoke it.
He looked towards the empty place where you usually sat.
Only that morning, he had believed there would be another game tomorrow.
Another argument.
Another evening in which you accused him of cheating despite possessing no evidence whatsoever.
Now he understood something much simpler.
The next seven days might be the last seven days you ever spent in his realm.
And for the first time since discovering the means to release you, Morpheus understood that the choice was no longer something he could postpone.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Even despite everything else happening around you—the increasingly detailed enquiries into Odin, Ishtar, Ereshkigal, the transfer rite, the old divine laws, and exactly how many gods might now have reason to take an interest in you—one much smaller problem had begun occupying an irritating amount of your attention.
Several days after you had found out about the rite, you had reached the conclusion that Morpheus was either courting you very badly or had abruptly decided not to court you at all.
You were leaning toward the second possibility.
Which was irritating.
Mostly because, until very recently, you had been reasonably certain you had not imagined the change between you.
The chess had continued.
Every evening, unless something genuinely required the King of Dreams elsewhere, you found yourself in his chambers opposite the same board.
Sometimes there was wine.
There were always pretzels, although Morpheus continued to behave as though their presence were a regrettable concession to mortal vulgarity rather than something he had begun providing without being asked.
And there was chocolate.
Your favourite. Also always. So, there was nothing unusual about the chocolate. Morpheus had been putting it beside your chair for long enough now that its absence would probably have been more noticeable than its presence.
Still, on the first evening after the truth about Ishtar had been revealed, you looked at the little plate beside you and then across the board at him.
“At least one thing remains predictable.”
Morpheus was arranging the black pieces.
“I was unaware chocolate had become a source of stability.”
“You would be surprised.”
His fingers paused on a bishop.
“Your standards for stability are concerning.”
You smiled.
“And yet you continue supplying it.”
His eyes lifted briefly to yours.
“Your move.”
You smiled wider.
He did not.
But something faint had shifted around his mouth.
That was the problem.
There were still moments like that.
There were still long conversations after the game had ceased to matter.
Still walks through the palace that somehow became walks through the gardens.
Still occasions when you would find Morpheus waiting outside the library despite having absolutely no reason to be there.
Still the strange sense that the two of you had begun circling something neither of you had properly named.
And then, every time you moved too close recently—
he withdrew.
Not dramatically.
Not cruelly.
That might almost have been easier.
He simply stopped.
The first time happened during training.
The training itself had changed considerably.
Containment was no longer enough.
Morpheus had begun teaching you direction.
Not merely how to hold the power inside yourself, but how to choose where it went.
The first exercise involved three dreams standing apart from one another in the training hall.
One was instructed to approach.
You had to influence only him.
That was considerably harder than influencing everyone.
Apparently your power had spent its entire existence believing subtlety was beneath it.
The first attempt ended with all three dreams staring at you as though you had personally arranged the stars.
You groaned.
“Fantastic.”
Morpheus stood behind the boundary line, arms folded.
“Again.”
“They are all looking at me.”
“I had noticed.”
“Fix them.”
“You will.”
You looked at him.
“That sounds suspiciously like effort.”
“It is training.”
“Your training remains deeply committed to ruining my mornings.”
One of the dreams took a reverent step towards you.
You pointed.
“See? He is doing it again.”
Morpheus's expression did not alter.
“Release him.”
You looked back.
That was new too.
Previously Morpheus had repaired whatever you did.
Now he made you do it yourself.
You concentrated.
Nothing happened.
The dream continued looking at you with unsettling devotion.
“I don't know how.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. Very useful.”
Morpheus stepped into the circle.
Your attention shifted immediately.
It always did when he came close now.
He stopped behind you.
Not touching.
Close enough that you could feel him there.
“You are attempting to suppress the influence.”
“Isn't that the point?”
“No.”
His voice came low beside you.
“You sent it outward. Call it back.”
You frowned.
“Like what?”
“A command.”
“To myself?”
“To the power.”
Your mouth twisted.
“You make it sound like a badly behaved dog.”
“Considering your previous comparison regarding your own training, I assumed the metaphor might appeal to you.”
You turned your head.
He was much closer than you had realised.
You almost laughed.
Then you didn't.
Morpheus looked down at you.
You looked at him.
There was a moment.
Not imagined.
Not this time.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Your breath caught.
Neither of you moved.
The gold beneath your skin warmed.
Not dangerously.
Just enough that Morpheus noticed.
His gaze returned to your eyes.
You thought—
finally.
You turned slightly towards him.
Morpheus stepped back.
The moment broke so abruptly that you almost wondered whether it had existed at all.
His expression closed.
“Again.”
You stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“Your concentration has broken.”
“I wonder why.”
Silence.
You waited.
Nothing.
Morpheus returned to the edge of the circle.
You stared after him for several seconds before turning back to the thoroughly besotted dreams.
“Fine.”
You lifted both hands.
“Apparently we're pretending nothing happened.”
One of the dreams smiled adoringly.
You glared at him.
“Not you.”
From behind you came Morpheus's voice.
“Focus.”
You nearly sent the entire hall through a wall.
Instead, after another twenty minutes and one accidental wave of collective affection directed towards a marble pillar, you finally managed it.
You chose one dream.
Only one.
The gold moved from you in a narrow thread rather than a flood.
His face changed.
Not worship.
Attention.
Intense, complete attention.
You felt it.
The connection.
For the first time, you did not panic.
You held it.
Then you pulled.
The gold came back.
The dream blinked.
His expression cleared.
You stared.
“I did it.”
Morpheus approached.
There was unmistakable approval in his face.
“Yes.”
You turned towards him, grinning before you could stop yourself.
“I actually did it.”
“You did.”
You threw your arms around him.
It was instinctive.
Pure triumph.
You did not think until your arms were already around his neck.
Morpheus went rigid.
You froze too.
Then his hands came to your waist.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
You leaned back enough to look at him.
His hands were still there.
His face was inches from yours.
Again.
That unbearable almost.
You felt his fingers tighten.
You thought he might kiss you.
Instead he released you.
Immediately.
He stepped away.
“Again.”
Your smile disappeared.
“Right.”
Morpheus looked at you.
Something almost pained crossed his expression.
It vanished too quickly to understand.
You turned away.
“Again.”
You were much less pleased with yourself after that.
********
Chess was worse.
Because chess provided considerably more opportunities for awkward silence.
Three nights later, you were sitting on the floor opposite him, one leg tucked beneath you, glaring at the board.
Morpheus had taken your rook.
You considered this a personal insult.
“You did that deliberately.”
His eyes lifted.
“The majority of successful chess moves are deliberate.”
“You knew I wanted that rook.”
“I knew you had positioned it poorly.”
“I was using it.”
“Badly.”
You reached for one of his pieces.
Morpheus caught your wrist.
“No.”
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“I wasn't cheating.”
“You were about to move my knight.”
“I was inspecting it.”
“You have inspected it six times.”
“Maybe I'm very interested in horses.”
His thumb was resting against the inside of your wrist.
Neither of you seemed to notice at first.
Then you did.
Your eyes lifted.
Morpheus was already looking at you.
The room went very quiet.
His fingers loosened but did not release you.
You did not move your hand.
Neither did he.
You leaned forward.
Slowly this time.
Deliberately.
Giving him every opportunity to stop you.
He did not.
Not immediately.
You were close enough now to see the impossible depth of his eyes.
Close enough that your knees had nearly touched beneath the chessboard.
His gaze dropped.
Your lips parted.
Then Morpheus let go.
He sat back.
“Your move.”
You stared.
A beat passed.
“What?”
“It is your move.”
“I know whose move it is.”
Morpheus said nothing.
Your embarrassment arrived as anger because anger was much easier to carry.
“Did I do something?”
A tiny change in his expression.
“No.”
“Then what was that?”
“What was what?”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“Oh, don't do that.”
“I do not know to what you refer.”
“Yes, you do.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“You are mistaken.”
That hurt more than it should have.
You sat back.
“Fine.”
You moved a pawn without looking.
Morpheus stared at the board.
“That is an exceptionally poor move.”
“I don't care.”
“You generally care considerably when losing.”
“Maybe I'm developing as a person.”
“I see no evidence of that.”
Normally you would have laughed.
You didn't.
Morpheus noticed.
The game continued.
You lost spectacularly.
Neither of you mentioned why.
*********
The final time happened in the corridor outside your chambers.
It was late.
You had spent nearly three hours arguing over divine succession law with Lucienne and then another two losing at chess more slowly than usual.
Morpheus walked you back.
He did that sometimes now.
Despite the fact that his realm knew where you belonged.
Despite the fact that there was nothing between his chambers and yours remotely capable of harming you.
He walked you anyway.
You stopped outside your door.
“Well.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Good night.”
He turned.
You caught his hand.
Morpheus stopped.
You had not planned it.
But you were tired of wondering.
“Morpheus.”
He looked down at your joined hands.
Then at you.
“Yes?”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“I am standing directly before you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Silence.
You stepped closer.
He did not move.
“Did I misunderstand something?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“What do you believe you misunderstood?”
You almost laughed from sheer frustration.
“You.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You looked at him.
“I thought…”
That was more difficult to say than expected.
You tried again.
“I thought something was happening.”
Still nothing.
Your face grew hot.
“Between us.”
His eyes held yours.
That at least was answer enough to prove you had not imagined everything.
You took another small step.
“Was I wrong?”
Morpheus's voice was quieter when he answered.
“No.”
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
“Then why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
You made an exasperated sound.
“Coming close and then acting like I set you on fire.”
A pause.
“You have, on previous occasions, nearly set parts of my realm on fire.”
“That is not remotely funny.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“Morpheus.”
He looked at you.
You were still holding his hand.
He had not taken it away.
That gave you courage.
Or stupidity.
You rose onto your toes.
Morpheus went perfectly still.
You stopped a breath from his mouth.
This time you were not waiting for him to initiate it.
You were going to kiss him.
You knew he wanted you to.
His face told you.
His stillness told you.
The way his fingers suddenly closed around yours told you.
And then—
“Do not.”
You stopped.
The words were soft.
That somehow made them worse.
You lowered yourself.
Slowly.
Your hand slipped from his.
“Right.”
Morpheus's expression shifted.
“That is not—”
“No. It's fine.”
“It is not what you think.”
You stepped backwards.
“I don't actually know what I think anymore.”
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is true.”
“Great.”
You reached for your door.
“Good night, Morpheus.”
“Wait.”
You looked at him.
For one second, he appeared on the verge of saying something.
Something important.
Instead:
“Good night.”
You stared.
Then laughed once under your breath.
“Unbelievable.”
You went inside and shut the door.
Then stood there with your back pressed against it for several seconds, staring furiously at absolutely nothing.
Because what exactly were you supposed to do with any of that?
He sought you out.
He spent hours with you when he had absolutely no reason to.
He walked with you. Played chess with you. Remembered stupid little things you liked. Looked at you in ways that made your stomach turn over and your power warm beneath your skin.
He had almost kissed you once already. You were sure of it. If Mathew hadn’t interrupted, he would have kissed you.
And now, whenever you tried to close that final inch between you, he behaved as though kissing you would initiate the apocalypse.
Perhaps there had been something between you.
Perhaps there still was.
But whatever Morpheus wanted, apparently it did not include actually allowing anything to happen.
You dropped onto the edge of your bed.
“Maybe I imagined the courting.”
That possibility was becoming increasingly humiliating.
Perhaps none of it meant what you thought it meant.
Perhaps spending nearly every evening with someone was entirely ordinary when you were an Endless and had existed since before most concepts currently recognised by civilisation.
You were a goddess, technically.
A very young one.
Embarrassingly young, compared with him.
Less than a century old.
Morpheus was—
You frowned.
Billions?
Probably billions.
You weren't entirely sure anyone knew.
The difference between you was so absurd that thinking about it for too long made your head hurt.
Maybe that was what he had finally realised.
Maybe one evening, sometime between chess and training and you attempting to kiss him, Morpheus had looked at you and thought, What precisely am I doing?
Because why would he bother with you?
You were barely anything by his standards.
A young goddess who could not reliably control her own power, had recently demolished part of his palace, had divine relatives crawling out of antiquity to claim pieces of her and still occasionally knocked chess pieces over when annoyed.
Morpheus was Dream of the Endless.
Not a god.
That distinction seemed increasingly important.
Gods rose and fell.
Gods depended on worship, stories, temples, memory.
Even the oldest of them faded.
He was something else.
Something fundamental.
Dream existed because dreaming existed.
Long before you.
Long before Ishtar.
Possibly long after every god currently causing problems for you had vanished completely.
Perhaps he should be with someone equally—
You stopped that thought.
Important?
Ancient?
Appropriate?
Someone who did not require training sessions to prevent accidental mass worship?
The thought made something unpleasant twist in your stomach.
Then again, that argument did not entirely work either.
Because Morpheus had loved mortals before.
You knew enough of his history by now to know that.
A mortal woman.
A witch.
A muse.
Others.
Women who had been powerful, ordinary, immortal, mortal, divine and everything somewhere between.
So perhaps age and species were not the issue.
Unfortunately, that led you directly to the much less comforting possibility.
Every relationship you knew about had ended terribly.
Not merely badly.
Terribly.
Imprisonment.
Curses.
Centuries of resentment.
Broken hearts on a scale apparently only immortal beings could achieve.
You lay backwards across the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“Maybe Endless just aren't meant to fall in love.”
The words sounded ridiculous once they were spoken aloud.
But not entirely.
Perhaps that was what this was.
Perhaps Morpheus had realised where things were going and was doing the closest thing he possessed to sensible self-preservation.
Or—
You frowned.
Perhaps he was trying to protect you.
That possibility irritated you almost immediately.
Still, you could see it.
Morpheus knew his own history better than anyone.
Maybe he looked at every person he had ever loved and saw disaster.
Maybe he had looked at you—already surrounded by treaties, gods, inheritances and enough supernatural complications to populate several mythologies—and decided becoming involved with Dream of the Endless was the last thing you needed.
Perhaps every time he stepped away, he was not rejecting you.
Perhaps he was protecting you from himself.
From whatever catastrophe the two of you might become if this went any further.
You rolled onto your side.
That interpretation was slightly less humiliating.
Unfortunately, it was also extremely Morpheus.
Make a unilateral decision.
Say nothing.
Decide it was for someone's own good.
Then stand there looking tragic and mysterious while everyone else attempted to work out what the hell he was doing.
You buried your face in the pillow.
“Bloody. Endless.”
Morpheus remained outside your door for a long time.
You did not know that.
You were too busy deciding that perhaps you had not imagined what was happening between you after all.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Because if Morpheus wanted you and was deliberately refusing to act upon it, you had absolutely no idea why.
And you were not going to humiliate yourself a fourth time trying to find out.
So the next morning, you did what any reasonable person would do.
You acted as though you did not care.
You were extremely bad at it.
******
Lucienne noticed by eleven.
She was polite enough not to say so.
The two of you were sitting at one of the long tables in the deeper section of the library, surrounded by enough divine law to make you understand why mortals eventually invented parliaments.
The work had begun as research into Ereshkigal's supposed entitlement to whatever Ishtar had left behind.
It had expanded alarmingly.
Apparently the ancient world had been very enthusiastic about writing laws explaining how one powerful being could legally acquire another powerful being's property.
Unfortunately, the definition of property was often horrifyingly broad.
You turned another brittle page.
“This one says daughters can be transferred with the father's territorial obligations.”
Lucienne looked over the top of her glasses.
“That text predates most modern conceptions of individual legal identity.”
“That's a very scholarly way of saying it's disgusting.”
“I am a librarian.”
“You are allowed opinions.”
“I have several.”
“Is one of them that ancient gods were terrible?”
Lucienne considered.
“That would be an unnecessarily broad classification.”
You waited.
She adjusted her glasses.
“But not an entirely unsupported one.”
You laughed.
It helped.
A little.
The table between you was divided into categories.
Divine custody.
Inheritance.
Transfer of divine authority.
Succession by conquest.
Succession by blood.
Ritual transfer.
They all raised questions.
“If Ishtar intended me to inherit something, surely that makes it mine,” you eventually determined.
“That is the strongest interpretation.”
“Even if Ereshkigal is her sister.”
“Sibling inheritance generally applies only where no deliberate successor exists.”
You tapped your chest.
“Scar suggests deliberate.”
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
You continued reading.
Several minutes passed.
Then you found something else.
At first, it seemed unrelated to Ereshkigal entirely—a much older section dealing with divine treaties that had resulted in the transfer of power, titles, territories, or authority from one being to another.
You frowned as the same phrase appeared for the third time.
“What does custodial authority mean here?”
Lucienne leaned closer.
You pointed to the passage.
“This keeps coming up.”
She read it.
“In older divine treaties, custody does not necessarily mean what the word implies in modern mortal law.”
“Naturally.”
“It may refer to responsibility, protection, territorial guardianship, political sponsorship or legal claim.”
You frowned.
“Claim.”
“Yes.”
“Like Zeus's treaty with Morpheus.”
There was a pause.
Small.
Very small.
But Lucienne had never been particularly good at lying to you.
You looked at her.
She returned her attention to the page.
“There are similarities.”
You stared for another second.
Then let it go.
You had been suspicious enough of everyone lately.
You did not want to become suspicious of Lucienne too.
Another hour passed.
You found three dead gods, two divine divorces, a goddess who had legally transferred ownership of an island by sleeping with the sea, and one treaty that appeared to have started a war because nobody had properly defined the word heir.
Then Lucienne glanced towards the upper galleries.
Someone had called her name.
A young dream stood waiting near the stairs with a stack of cataloguing slips and the expression of someone facing an emergency of librarian proportions.
Lucienne sighed.
“I shall return shortly.”
You looked at the mountain of documents surrounding you.
“Take your time. I'm having so much fun.”
“Try not to rearrange anything.”
You looked offended.
“I have never rearranged anything in this library.”
Lucienne stared at you.
“Intentionally.”
“That qualifier is doing a lot of work.”
She left.
You continued.
At first, there was nothing unusual.
A reference to a dissolution provision.
A reference to rites where the transfer of a power had failed entirely.
Another to a custodial treaty.
A cross-reference number.
You followed it because that was what you had been doing all morning.
The associated record was in a thinner leather folder beneath several older documents.
You pulled it free.
The cover was unremarkable.
No ominous glow.
No dramatic divine warning.
Just a filing notation in Lucienne's precise hand.
You opened it.
The first page was densely written.
You skimmed.
Treaty classifications.
Authority.
Precedent.
Jurisdiction between divine realms.
It seemed irrelevant to the issue at hand. You were researching rites, inheritance and the transfer of divine power—trying to establish whether Ereshkigal possessed any legitimate claim to what Ishtar had left within you.
This was something else entirely.
Treaty law.
Custodial claims.
Jurisdiction between sovereign realms.
None of it appeared to have anything to do with Ishtar.
Your fingers were already beginning to close the folder.
Then you saw your name.
Your hand stopped.
You looked back.
There it was.
Not a title.
Not daughter of Zeus.
Not divine dependant.
Your name.
You frowned.
Read from the beginning again.
The next line contained Zeus.
Your stomach tightened.
Then—
Morpheus.
You sat straighter.
The room seemed quieter.
You read more carefully.
The report concerned the treaty.
Your treaty.
The arrangement by which Zeus had transferred responsibility for you to the King of Dreams.
You had seen references to it before.
You knew the language.
Custody.
Protection.
Claim.
Obligation.
Jurisdiction.
All the words everyone insisted did not mean ownership while somehow continuing to determine where you lived.
You nearly closed the file then.
Then another word caught you.
Dissolution.
You stopped.
Read the sentence again.
Dissolution of custodial obligation may be initiated by the receiving sovereign...
Your heartbeat changed.
You continued.
Relinquishment of claim...
Your eyes moved faster.
Release of protected party...
You swallowed.
Termination of custodial obligation...
You went completely still.
No.
You read from the beginning.
Slower.
The legal phrasing was convoluted.
You forced yourself through it.
Zeus had transferred his claim.
Morpheus had accepted custodial authority.
Because the transfer had been completed willingly between sovereign powers, Zeus could not simply retrieve you without Dream's agreement.
You knew that.
Then came the part nobody had told you.
Acceptance did not make Morpheus's obligation permanent.
The receiving sovereign could relinquish his claim.
The custodial provision could be dissolved.
The treaty could terminate without returning you to Zeus.
You read that sentence four times.
Your fingers began trembling.
Not with power.
Not yet.
You turned the page.
There were notes.
Questions Lucienne had raised.
Precedents.
Exceptions.
Possible objections.
Then a final conclusion.
Clear.
Unambiguous.
Verified against three separate legal traditions.
Upon voluntary relinquishment by the King of Dreams, no enforceable provision of Zeus's original treaty prevented you from departing the Dreaming under your own authority.
You stared.
Your mind refused to accept it.
You read it again.
Then again.
There was a date at the bottom.
You looked at it.
At first it meant nothing.
Then it did.
Eleven days ago.
The report had been completed eleven days ago.
You counted.
Once.
Then again because you were certain you had calculated incorrectly.
Eleven.
Days.
Your breathing became very quiet.
You thought backwards.
Eleven days ago.
Training.
Chess.
The market.
Austin.
The fight about Austin.
Valí.
Morpheus standing there while Valí admitted Odin had deliberately placed him in your life.
Morpheus demanding Valí tell you everything.
Morpheus asking whether you had ever loved Valí.
Whether you had ever reciprocated his feelings.
Morpheus telling you repeatedly that no one owned you.
That Zeus did not own you.
That Ishtar did not own you.
That Odin will not own you.
You remembered standing in this very library only days ago.
And it's not like I can leave the Dreaming anyway.
You remembered the tiny pause.
You remembered Morpheus saying Ereshkigal could not take you from here.
Not telling you that you could leave.
Your vision sharpened.
You turned another page.
There was Morpheus's mark.
Not merely Lucienne's report.
His acknowledgment.
He had read it.
Your heartbeat slowed.
That was worse.
Anger usually made you loud.
This did not.
Not yet.
The gold beneath your skin appeared as a thin line along your wrists.
Lucienne returned carrying three books.
She saw you.
Stopped.
Her eyes went immediately to the folder.
Everything in her face changed.
You looked at her.
Your voice was extraordinarily calm.
“What is this?”
Lucienne did not move for a moment.
Then she set the books down.
Carefully.
“It is the final treaty assessment.”
“I gathered that.”
You placed one finger on the page.
“What does it mean?”
Lucienne looked at you.
You watched her make the decision.
Not to protect Morpheus.
Not to attack him.
Simply not to lie.
“It means Lord Morpheus may relinquish the custodial claim transferred to him by Zeus.”
You waited.
“And?”
Lucienne's voice was gentle.
“If he does so, the treaty does not require your return to Olympus.”
Your throat tightened.
“I can leave.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
You stared at her.
The gold moved further up your arms.
“I can leave the Dreaming.”
“Yes.”
You looked at the date again.
Then at her.
“Does Morpheus know?”
Lucienne said nothing.
You watched her.
“Lucienne.”
Still nothing.
Your voice did not rise.
That was what made it frightening.
“Does Morpheus know?”
Lucienne closed her eyes briefly.
Then:
“Yes.”
Something inside you cracked.
You looked down.
“When?”
Lucienne hesitated.
“The principal conclusion was established twelve days ago. The final verification was completed eleven days ago.”
You nodded.
Once.
“Eleven days.”
“Yes.”
You looked back at the page.
“And he read this?”
“Yes.”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Yes.”
You laughed.
A tiny sound.
Lucienne's face tightened.
“I advised him to tell you.”
You looked up.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
That hurt too.
Not because Lucienne had done anything wrong.
Because now you knew there had been no confusion.
No obscure technicality everyone had somehow overlooked.
Someone had known exactly what should have happened.
You closed the folder.
“Did he say why he wouldn't?”
Lucienne chose her words carefully.
“He believed the situation was unstable.”
You stared.
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
She took a breath.
“Initially, he wished to ensure the interpretation could not be challenged. Then Valí arrived. Then the extent of Odin's knowledge became apparent. Then Ereshkigal came.”
You nodded slowly.
Every excuse arranged itself perfectly.
One after another.
Each reasonable.
Each temporary.
Each enough for another day.
“Did you tell him that there would always be something?”
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
When he returned to the Dreaming, Morpheus told you everything.
That, more than anything else, should probably have warned you that something was wrong.
He did not soften Ereshkigal's account.
He did not omit the part where Ishtar had marked you as an infant.
He did not avoid telling you that Ereshkigal had killed her own sister.
He told you about the transfer rite. About the artifacts. About Ishtar's failing power. About Ereshkigal's own dwindling divinity and the reason Morpheus believed she had tried to take what remained of her sister.
He told you that Ishtar had anticipated it. That she had known for a very long time that her death was near, which is why she had done something to you.
Something deliberate.
Something no one had known about until it was already far too late to undo simply.
The library remained unusually quiet while he spoke.
Lucienne sat at the central table with several books open around her. Valí stood near one of the tall windows, arms folded tightly across his chest. The Corinthian occupied a chair backwards, chin resting on his crossed arms as though this were some particularly compelling performance.
You stood in front of Morpheus.
At first you said nothing.
Then you looked down at your chest.
At the place beneath your clothing where the scar sat.
Your fingers touched it automatically.
“She cut me when I was a baby and put part of herself inside me?”
Morpheus answered immediately.
“Not part of herself.”
You looked at him.
“Morpheus.”
“A trace.”
You stared.
“That is not significantly more comforting.”
A pause.
“No.”
That surprised you enough that your expression changed.
Normally he would have tried to distinguish the metaphysics until the distinction itself became the argument.
This time he simply accepted that it was horrible.
You looked away.
“So she knew.”
“She appears to have anticipated that someone would attempt to remove what remained of her power upon her death.”
“Ereshkigal.”
“Possibly Ereshkigal specifically.”
Your mouth twisted.
“Wonderful.”
You began pacing.
“So let me make sure I have this right.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You counted on your fingers.
“Zeus decided where I would live.”
One.
“Ishtar decided what would happen to my body before I could speak.”
Two.
“Odin decided who would stand beside me and why.”
Three.
Valí looked down.
You noticed.
You did not stop.
“And now Ereshkigal has decided that whatever Ishtar left inside me should belong to her.”
Four.
You dropped your hand.
“Did I miss anyone?”
The Corinthian raised one finger.
“Technically—”
Lucienne looked at him.
He lowered it.
“No.”
You turned back to Morpheus.
Gold had begun glowing faintly beneath the skin of your wrists.
Not surging.
Just there.
“Why does everyone think they can decide what happens to me?”
Morpheus’s expression became very still.
The question struck him harder than you realised.
You were too angry to notice.
“Why does everyone think they can control me? Claim me? Decide where I belong and who I belong to?”
Your voice sharpened.
“I am not a temple.”
You took another step toward him.
“I am not an artifact. I am not some throne somebody gets to inherit because they were clever enough to take it from the person before them.”
Your hands curled at your sides.
“I am not something Zeus can give away. I am not something Ishtar can hide inside. I am not something Ereshkigal can come here and take.”
Then, quieter, but somehow far more cutting:
“And I am not something someone gets to keep because they think they know what is best for me.”
Something shifted behind Morpheus’s eyes.
You did not see it.
“I am a person.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
Again.
Too immediate.
No argument.
No qualification.
“You agree very quickly today.”
His face revealed nothing.
“Because you are correct.”
That should have reassured you.
Instead it made you suspicious.
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
Morpheus continued before you could pursue it.
“Ereshkigal made an offer.”
You stopped pacing.
“What kind of offer?”
He did not soften that either.
“She believes the inheritance can be removed from you.”
You stared.
The room seemed to narrow suddenly.
Even the Corinthian lost some of his amusement.
“Removed how?”
“By another transfer rite.”
Your eyes immediately dropped towards the scar.
Morpheus noticed.
“Not the same rite used upon Ishtar.”
“That is not particularly comforting either.”
“I know.”
Again.
That strange willingness to concede the point.
You looked at him more carefully.
“And where would it go?”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Into Ereshkigal.”
You laughed once.
It was entirely without humour.
“Of course.”
Valí's face hardened.
Lucienne pushed her glasses higher.
The Corinthian leaned back in his chair.
You looked at Morpheus.
“And why exactly does she think I would agree to that?”
“She believes the power is dangerous to you.”
“It is dangerous to everyone.”
“Yes.”
“And she thinks she's a safer place for it.”
“She claims so.”
The wording caught you.
“Claims.”
“Yes.”
You folded your arms.
“You don't believe her.”
“No.”
That answer was immediate.
“Why?”
Morpheus's expression became colder.
“Because she killed Ishtar while attempting to transfer what remained of Ishtar's power into herself.”
You knew that part.
Hearing it reduced to one sentence somehow made it worse.
“Because she was fading too.”
“That is what I believe.”
“And now she wants mine.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
“She wants what came from Ishtar.”
“Which is currently mine.”
A pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
You rubbed your thumb over the scar beneath your shirt without thinking.
“Can she do it?”
Morpheus did not answer quickly.
That frightened you far more than certainty would have.
“Morpheus.”
“Possibly.”
You looked at him.
“Safely?”
Silence.
Lucienne looked towards him too.
Morpheus's expression tightened.
“I do not know.”
You stared.
He continued before you could speak.
“Ereshkigal believes it can be done without killing you.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“It was not.”
He stepped closer.
“I do not know whether removing the inheritance would leave you unchanged.”
Your anger faded slightly.
“Meaning?”
Lucienne answered.
“The mark was made too early.”
You turned towards her.
She had several pages open now, her fingers resting against passages she had evidently been cross-referencing while Morpheus spoke.
“Your divine development occurred around it.”
You frowned.
“Around the power.”
“Around the capacity to receive it.”
Lucienne chose the words carefully.
“There may no longer be a clean distinction between what you inherited from Ishtar and what subsequently became part of you.”
You looked back at Morpheus.
“So removing it might take other things with it.”
His face had become unreadable.
“Yes.”
“My powers.”
“Possibly.”
“Memories?”
Lucienne hesitated.
“Possibly.”
Your stomach tightened.
“My personality.”
No one answered.
You laughed softly.
“Great.”
Morpheus's voice sharpened.
“You will not undergo such a rite without considerably more certainty than we presently possess.”
You looked at him.
“I wasn't planning to.”
He stopped.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Actually, I wasn't even finished deciding.”
That silenced him.
Lucienne glanced down.
Valí looked very deliberately away.
Morpheus held your gaze.
Then, with visible effort:
“No.”
You waited.
His jaw tightened.
“You were not.”
The correction was small.
It mattered anyway.
You took a breath.
Then:
“Would you tell me not to do it?”
Morpheus did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ereshkigal has demonstrated both motive and willingness to take divine power for her own preservation.”
His voice was quiet but absolute.
“Because her previous transfer failed due to precautions Ishtar concealed from her. Because she cannot tell me with certainty what else Ishtar may have done. Because she stands to benefit enormously if the rite succeeds.”
A pause.
“And because I do not trust her.”
You considered that.
“But if I wanted it gone.”
Something in his expression changed.
“Then we would seek another means.”
You stared.
“We.”
“If you wished it.”
Again that wording.
You noticed.
Morpheus noticed you noticing.
Neither of you commented.
You looked down at your hands.
The gold had faded.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then you shook your head.
“No.”
Morpheus's eyes lifted.
“No?”
“I don't want her touching it.”
A pause.
Then you corrected yourself.
“I don't want her touching me.”
Morpheus became very still.
“Very well.”
“And if we find another way later…”
You hesitated.
“Then maybe.”
“Yes.”
You looked at Lucienne.
“Can we?”
She closed one book and opened another.
“We can certainly investigate.”
“Something that doesn't involve handing me to Ereshkigal.”
“That would be my preference as well.”
The Corinthian lifted his head.
“She's growing on me.”
Lucienne ignored him.
You looked back at Morpheus.
“What happens now?”
“Ereshkigal may attempt to approach you.”
Your expression hardened.
“Can she get into the Dreaming?”
“Not without my knowledge.”
“Can she take the power from here?”
“No.”
That answer came with enough certainty to settle something inside you.
You exhaled.
“So I'm safe here.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“Yes.”
You nodded slowly.
Then shrugged.
“And it's not like I can leave the Dreaming anyway.”
Everything inside Morpheus stopped.
Only for a fraction of a second.
You did not see it.
Lucienne did.
Her eyes lifted immediately.
Morpheus's face remained still.
Too still.
You were looking down at the table.
“So she can't exactly grab me and take me somewhere else.”
Silence.
You finally looked up.
“Right?”
Morpheus answered.
“No.”
A beat.
“She cannot.”
The lie was not in the words.
That made it worse.
He had said nothing false.
You were safe inside his realm.
Ereshkigal could not simply take you here.
And because you believed you had no lawful means of leaving, you believed that protection was absolute.
Morpheus knew otherwise.
He said nothing.
*********
Once the immediate investigation was complete, the Corinthian took Valí elsewhere under Lucienne's instructions, complaining loudly that he had somehow become both researcher and babysitter.
You remained with Morpheus only a few minutes longer.
There were practical matters now.
Security.
Visitors.
Ereshkigal.
Morpheus explained what he intended to change.
Every gate would be watched.
Every divine visitor would be identified before entering the palace.
Routes between the Dreaming and older divine realms would be monitored.
You listened with growing suspicion.
Finally:
“Are you going to lock me in the tower again?”
Morpheus stopped.
The question cut deeper than you intended.
“No.”
You waited.
“No?”
“No.”
You stared at him.
“That was very quick.”
“Because I have no intention of doing so.”
“What do you intend?”
He explained.
Not ordered.
Explained.
“I would prefer that you remain within the palace or its immediate grounds until we determine who else can sense the inheritance.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Prefer.”
Morpheus's mouth tightened.
“Yes.”
“And if I don't?”
A pause.
“Then I will ask that you take an escort.”
You stared.
“Ask.”
“Yes.”
Now you were certain something was wrong.
“Who are you?”
Morpheus looked offended.
“Do not be absurd.”
“You're using words like prefer and ask.”
“They are ordinary words.”
“Not from you.”
Lucienne looked down very quickly.
You folded your arms.
“Fine. I can live with an escort for now.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“I choose who sometimes.”
He hesitated.
“Within reason.”
“That means yes.”
“It means precisely what I said.”
“Good enough.”
You glanced towards the doors.
“So now that we know who put the mark there, what do we actually do?”
Lucienne answered first.
“Research whether Ishtar's inheritance can be relinquished without transferring it into another being.”
You looked interested.
“Just… get rid of it?”
“Potentially.”
Morpheus looked towards Lucienne.
“If that is what she wishes.”
Again.
Lucienne heard it too.
“I shall begin immediately.”
You looked at Morpheus.
“And you?”
“Odin.”
Valí had already mentioned enough for all of you to know that name was no longer a side issue.
Morpheus's expression hardened.
“He knew too much too early.”
“You think he knew about the mark.”
“I think he knew enough to prepare Valí using material from the original rite.”
You rubbed your arms.
“And whoever else knows?”
“I intend to discover that as well.”
You looked between them.
“And if the power can't be removed?”
Lucienne's attention shifted towards Morpheus.
He looked at you.
For a moment he seemed to consider the answer with unusual care.
Then:
“Then I have approached your training incorrectly.”
You blinked.
“That's a first.”
His expression cooled.
“Do not become insufferable.”
“Too late.”
The faintest shift touched Lucienne's mouth.
Morpheus ignored it.
“Until now, the purpose of your training has been containment.”
“Yes. Don't accidentally make everyone worship me. Don't level buildings. Very inspiring.”
“Necessary.”
“I know.”
“But insufficient.”
You stopped.
Morpheus continued.
“If these powers remain yours, you must learn not merely how to prevent them from acting.”
His eyes held yours.
“You must learn how to use them with purpose.”
The idea unsettled you immediately.
“Use them on people?”
“Only when necessary.”
“That's incredibly reassuring.”
“You asked what happens if the inheritance cannot be removed.”
A pause.
“Then you learn to defend yourself with it.”
You stared at him.
“Against Odin.”
“If required.”
“Zeus?”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
“If required.”
You looked almost amused.
“I'd pay to watch his face.”
“I would not.”
That answer was too grim to joke with.
You looked away.
“Right.”
Morpheus's voice softened slightly.
“We are not there yet.”
“No.”
Then you looked back at him.
“But we might be soon.”
“Yes.”
There was no point lying to you.
He was learning that.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Not yet enough.
******
Long after you left the library, Morpheus remained.
He had told you everything about Ereshkigal.
Every ugly motive.
Every danger.
Every uncertainty.
He had watched your face as you discovered that yet another god had made decisions about your body before you were capable of understanding them.
And every time you spoke of choice, the hidden report became heavier.
He had almost told you.
When you said you could not leave the Dreaming anyway.
Almost.
The words had come very near.
You can.
Two syllables.
That was all.
He had not said them.
He stood now beside one of the high windows, looking down across his realm.
You believed yourself trapped here.
That was the simplest truth.
Whatever affection had grown between you, whatever evenings spent across a chessboard, whatever walks had become something perilously close to courtship, had all occurred while you believed departure impossible.
Morpheus did not know what remained when that belief disappeared.
That frightened him more than he cared to name.
He knew the arguments.
Ereshkigal could sense you now.
Odin had known of Ishtar's power before it fully emerged.
There were others.
You still could not reliably control what you carried.
A single uncontrolled surge had nearly brought down part of his palace.
Outside the Dreaming, there would be no Morpheus to stop the music.
No realm bending itself to contain the damage.
No guarantee that the next person who approached you would be Austin.
Or Valí.
Or anyone who wanted you for yourself rather than for what lived beneath your skin.
Those were facts.
He could build an impeccable case from facts.
That was precisely what disturbed him.
He had spent far too much of his existence turning fear into duty and duty into justification.
He knew what it was to be imprisoned by someone who insisted they required what he possessed.
The memory arrived unbidden.
Glass.
A circle on stone.
Decades measured by captors who always possessed another reason not to release him.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
You were not in glass.
You walked through his palace.
Argued with him.
Mocked him.
Played chess badly when distracted.
Dragged him through markets.
Demanded chocolate.
None of that altered the central question.
If you could leave—
and he had not told you—
what was the difference between protection freely chosen and protection imposed?
The answer was unpleasantly simple.
Consent.
And yours had not yet been asked.
His hand tightened against the window ledge.
The Dreaming shifted around him.
He could feel you somewhere in the palace.
Alive.
Safe.
Still here.
The thought of losing that presence opened something cold inside him.
If he told you, perhaps you would leave simply because you were angry that he had waited.
Perhaps you would leave because remaining would feel like surrender.
Perhaps you would leave because you had finally been given the right to do so.
He had no right to decide which of those reasons was sufficient.
He knew that.
He simply had not yet found the courage to act upon it.
*******
Lucienne found him later in the restricted archive.
He was reading Ereshkigal's history.
Or pretending to.
The same page had remained open for several minutes.
Lucienne approached carrying the treaty report.
Morpheus did not look up.
“You still have not told her.”
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
Lucienne set the report down.
“My lord.”
“Now is not the time.”
Lucienne's expression tightened.
“You said that before Valí arrived.”
Morpheus closed the book.
“That was before we knew Ereshkigal could sense her.”
“Yes.”
“Before we knew Odin possessed material from Ishtar's rites.”
“Yes.”
“Before we knew others may be searching.”
Lucienne watched him.
“And therefore?”
Morpheus stood.
“It is not safe beyond the Dreaming.”
Lucienne was quiet for a moment.
“It may never be entirely safe beyond the Dreaming.”
His expression darkened.
“Then perhaps she should remain here.”
Lucienne stared at him.
Morpheus heard himself.
So did she.
He corrected nothing.
Not immediately.
Lucienne's voice became very careful.
“My lord, what she is will always carry risk.”
Morpheus looked away.
“I know.”
“If she relinquishes the inheritance, Zeus remains her father. Odin remains interested in her. If she keeps it, others may seek her power.”
Lucienne moved closer.
“There will always be another reason why remaining within your realm appears safer.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“You cannot keep her here forever.”
His eyes lifted.
The answer came before restraint could stop it.
“Perhaps not.”
A pause.
His voice lowered.
“But I can try.”
Lucienne's expression changed.
Not shock.
Concern.
Morpheus looked away first.
“That was poorly phrased.”
“Was it?”
Silence.
Lucienne pushed the treaty report towards him.
“You do not need to decide whether she leaves.”
Her voice softened.
“You need to tell her that she can.”
Morpheus stared at the leather folder.
“I will.”
“When?”
He had no answer that did not sound like delay.
Lucienne waited.
Eventually Morpheus said:
“When I know she can survive the choice.”
Lucienne sighed.
“My lord, those are still not the same thing.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
At least he could admit that now.
Lucienne let the matter rest.
Not because she considered it resolved.
Because there was another problem before them.
She opened several notes concerning the Ishtar inheritance.
“Assuming she does not permit Ereshkigal to remove it, we must determine whether the power can be relinquished without another recipient.”
“Yes.”
“Returned to whatever source such divine domains arise from.”
“If such a process exists.”
Lucienne nodded.
“I shall research it.”
Morpheus moved around the table.
“And I will learn what Odin knows.”
“And who else knows.”
“Yes.”
Lucienne looked down at her notes.
“And if it cannot be relinquished?”
Morpheus became still.
This answer, at least, he had.
“Then I must teach her differently.”
Lucienne looked up.
“Not merely control.”
“No.”
His gaze moved towards the training records.
All those days spent teaching you not to influence.
Not to move.
Not to command.
Not to become dangerous.
“I have taught her how to restrain herself.”
His expression hardened.
“I must teach her how not to be helpless.”
Lucienne understood immediately.
“How to use it.”
“Yes.”
“Deliberately.”
“Yes.”
Lucienne considered the implications.
“Against gods.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Against anyone who attempts to take her.”
There was something in the wording.
Lucienne noticed.
Chose not to challenge it.
Not now.
“Will it be enough?”
Morpheus's answer was calm.
“Once she possesses full control?”
He considered the scale of what he had seen in the dance hall.
The way the Dreaming itself had responded.
The force required merely to resist her uncontrolled influence.
“More than enough.”
Lucienne raised an eyebrow.
Morpheus continued.
“Most ancient gods now carry a fraction of the power they once possessed.”
Ereshkigal was proof enough.
“Their worship has diminished. Their realms have contracted. Their names survive largely through story.”
Lucienne looked towards the records.
“And hers?”
“Her power does not depend upon worship in the same manner.”
He thought of desire.
War.
Fertility.
Things woven through mortal existence whether anyone called them Ishtar or not.
“Once she can command it instead of merely surviving it, neither Odin nor Zeus nor any other single deity I can presently identify would easily overpower her.”
Lucienne was silent.
Then, very softly:
“There is some irony in that.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Explain.”
“Zeus spoke of her as though she were an inconvenient daughter he could no longer manage.”
Lucienne's mouth tightened.
“A problem to be transferred elsewhere.”
Morpheus's expression darkened.
“Yes.”
“And she spends most mornings complaining that she cannot keep a bookshelf standing.”
Despite himself, something almost amused moved across his face.
Lucienne continued.
“Meanwhile she may be becoming one of the most powerful goddesses remaining in this age.”
Morpheus looked towards the distant palace.
Towards where you were.
Oblivious to the scale of what you might become.
Still irritated about a scar.
Still furious with Valí.
Still convinced Morpheus was behaving strangely.
Still believing you could not leave.
His faint amusement disappeared.
“Which is precisely why she must learn before anyone else understands what she is.”
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
For several seconds after Morpheus disappeared, nobody moved.
Black sand settled across the library floor in a thin crescent where he had stood.
You stared at it, your hand still pressed over the scar beneath your clothes.
A few minutes ago it had been nothing. A pale mark you had carried for as long as you could remember and never thought to question.
Now Morpheus had looked at it as though it had rearranged the entire investigation and vanished before bothering to explain why.
Fear came first.
Irritation followed closely behind.
“Oh, excellent.”
Valí looked at you.
“What?”
You gestured furiously towards the empty space where Morpheus had been.
“That.”
The Corinthian leaned one shoulder against the nearest shelf, apparently finding the entire situation considerably more entertaining than anyone else.
“Very dramatic exit.”
You glared at him.
“He does that constantly.”
Lucienne was already moving.
“My lord has gone to investigate.”
“Yes, Lucienne, I gathered that from the disappearing.”
She stopped.
Looked at you over her glasses.
You shut your eyes briefly.
“Sorry.”
“Understandable.”
That was somehow worse.
You dropped your hand from your chest and started pacing around the end of the table.
“He could have explained what he thinks happened before vanishing into the universe.”
Valí pulled his sleeve down over the scars.
His movements were slower than usual.
The humour had gone out of him completely since the gold had moved beneath his skin.
“He might not know yet.”
You turned on him.
“Then he could say, ‘I do not know yet.’ Those are words. He knows words.”
The Corinthian tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Some of them.”
Lucienne gave him a look.
“If you intend to remain here, make yourself useful.”
He straightened slightly.
“How?”
Lucienne had already begun selecting volumes from nearby shelves.
“West gallery. Third level. Anything concerning sympathetic blood magic, divine inheritance, rites performed upon children, or methods intended to prevent another deity claiming power after death.”
The Corinthian stared at her.
“You really know how to ruin an afternoon.”
“Go.”
He looked towards Valí instead.
“I am making myself useful.”
Lucienne stopped.
“By doing what?”
“Watching him.”
Valí looked at him.
“I hate you.”
The Corinthian smiled pleasantly.
“Most people warm to me eventually.”
Valí stared.
“Do they?”
A beat.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Small. Sharp. Completely inappropriate.
You immediately pressed your lips together. Valí noticed. So did the Corinthian.
You pointed towards the west gallery.
“Go find your blood-magic books.”
He pushed away from the shelf with theatrical resignation.
“You people are very demanding.”
Lucienne watched him leave.
“He is fortunate Lord Morpheus considers him useful.”
Valí rubbed absently at the faint mark still visible across his cheek from where you had struck him.
“Apparently that's a recurring theme around here.”
You looked at him.
He looked back. Whatever brief humour had been there disappeared.
The library became too quiet again.
Lucienne returned several moments later carrying an armful of books large enough to incapacitate a mortal librarian.
She dropped them onto the central table.
Dust rose between you.
“We begin with what we know.”
You moved closer.
“Which is?”
Lucienne opened the first volume.
“That Lord Morpheus believes the rite performed upon Valí involved something sufficiently close to your bloodline that your power recognises him as kin.”
Valí grimaced.
“Still hate that wording.”
“It is accurate.”
“Accuracy does not make it less disturbing.”
Your gaze dropped towards his arm. The scars were hidden again. Only minutes earlier they had burned gold beneath his skin. Responding to you.
You swallowed.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
Valí looked at you.
“I already told your boyfriend most of it.”
“He is not my boyfriend!”
Valí raised one eyebrow.
Heat climbed your face despite everything.
“Sorry. Of course not,” Vali said while his mouth twitched.
“Are you apologising to me or to him?”
You glared.
“Tell me.”
The amusement disappeared. Valí hesitated.
And immediately the anger came back.
“Unless Odin also told you not to.”
His jaw tightened.
“That's not fair.”
“No.”
You folded your arms.
“It isn't.”
Silence.
Lucienne glanced between you, then very deliberately returned her attention to the book in front of her.
Valí pulled out the chair opposite you and sat.
For several seconds he only looked at his hands.
Then he began. Not the ritual again. You already knew enough about the knife, the blood and the scars. Instead he told you the parts around it.
Odin had begun preparing him long before he ever met you. He had been told there would eventually be someone he needed to approach without fear of being altered by whatever power surrounded her. Someone dangerous. Someone important. Someone Asgard could not afford to have entirely beyond its influence.
Valí had agreed because Odin was his father. Because obedience had been expected. Because when you grew up beneath gods like Odin and Zeus, refusal was not always offered as though it were a genuine option.
Then Odin had told him who you were. Where you would be. When he should meet you. What he should learn. And Valí had gone.
You stood perfectly still throughout most of it.
When he finally stopped, you asked:
“So that first night. Every part of it was planned.”
Valí looked at you.
“The meeting was.”
“That's not what I asked.”
His expression tightened.
“No.”
You laughed once without humour.
“You're going to have to be a little more specific, Valí.”
“I was meant to meet you.”
He leaned forward, elbows against his knees.
“I was meant to get close enough that you trusted me. I was meant to report whether your power changed, whether anyone else had begun taking an interest.”
Your throat tightened.
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
No excuse. You almost appreciated that. Almost.
“You agreed to become my friend because Odin told you to.”
“At first.”
Your anger sharpened.
“Stop saying that as though it somehow fixes it.”
“I'm not.”
“You keep saying it.”
“Because there is a difference.”
“Not to me.”
Valí stood abruptly.
Lucienne looked up.
You did not move.
“There is to me.”
His voice had risen for the first time.
“Because I knew you afterwards.”
You stared at him.
“You knew me because you were sent to.”
“Yes.”
“You listened to me because Odin wanted information.”
“At first.”
“There it is again.”
“Because it matters.”
“Why?”
He looked genuinely angry now. Not at you. At the impossibility of making you understand something he had probably rehearsed in his own head for years.
“Because there came a point when I stopped thinking of you as anything Odin wanted from me.”
You shook your head.
“Convenient.”
“Do you think I don't know how convenient it sounds?”
“Apparently not.”
Valí dragged a hand through his hair.
“I started lying to him.”
“You started selectively reporting.”
“Yes.”
“Still reporting.”
“Because if I stopped entirely he would have known.”
“And?”
“And he would have removed me.”
You stared at him.
Valí stared back.
Then his voice dropped.
“I didn't want him to.”
Something shifted uncomfortably in your chest.
You hated it.
“Because I was useful.”
“Because you were my friend.”
You looked away.
He continued anyway.
“Because by then I wanted to see you.”
You said nothing.
“I wanted to know what you were doing. I wanted to hear whatever ridiculous thing you had done since the last time I saw you. I wanted you to complain about Zeus. I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to sit beside you at those awful dinners because you made them bearable.”
Your eyes stung.
You hated that too.
“Don't.”
Valí stopped.
You looked back at him.
“Don't make this sentimental so I feel guilty for being angry.”
His face fell.
“I'm not trying to.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Tell you why I didn't leave.”
You folded your arms tighter.
“Odin didn't tell you to leave.”
“No.”
Valí swallowed.
“But eventually he told me to do more.”
Your stomach turned. You knew.
Still, hearing it again made something ugly move beneath your ribs.
“Make me love you.”
Valí flinched.
“Yes.”
Lucienne became extremely interested in turning a page.
You laughed bitterly.
“And you were already in love with me by then?”
He did not answer.
You knew anyway.
“God.”
You turned away.
“That's why you never told me.”
“Partly.”
You spun back.
“Partly?”
Valí looked miserable.
“I was afraid.”
“Of Odin?”
“Of losing you.”
The anger in you stalled.
Only for a second.
Valí stepped closer but stopped well before reaching you.
“Even if you never felt the same.”
His voice had gone quiet.
“Even when I knew you didn't.”
You stared at him.
“You don't know what I felt.”
“I know you never looked at me like that.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Valí gave a short, painful laugh.
“I wasn't completely blind.”
He looked down.
“I knew I was your friend. I knew that might be all I ever was.”
Then he looked at you again.
“I could live with that.”
Your anger softened just enough to become something more painful.
“So instead you lied.”
“Yes.”
No defence.
You hated that answer more than an excuse.
“For years.”
“Yes.”
“You let me tell you things.”
“Yes.”
“You let me trust you.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
Your voice broke slightly.
“And every time you could have told me, you decided you would rather keep me.”
Valí went still.
That landed. Hard. You saw it.
He looked away.
“Yes.”
The single word barely carried.
You swallowed hard.
That was the part you could not escape.
Not Odin. Not the ritual. Not prophecy.
Valí had eventually become old enough to know exactly what he was doing. And he had chosen silence because the truth might cost him your friendship.
You looked at him for a long time.
“Do you understand why that's worse?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“You were scared I would leave.”
“Yes.”
“So you took away my chance to decide whether I wanted to.”
His eyes closed.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
When he opened them again, the anger had gone out of him.
Only guilt remained.
“Yes.”
You pressed your lips together.
It was too close to too many things.
Fathers making choices. Treaties. Protection used as justification. People deciding that losing you would be worse than allowing you to choose.
You did not yet know just how close.
Valí did. At least regarding himself.
“I'm sorry.”
You looked at him.
There was no charm left now.
No smile.
No attempt to soften it.
“I should have told you.”
You said nothing.
“Years ago.”
His voice lowered.
“The first time I realised I cared more about what happened to you than what Odin wanted from you, I should have told you everything.”
A pause.
“And every day after that, not telling you became another lie.”
Your anger twisted painfully.
“Yes.”
Valí nodded.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I think I do now.”
You gave him a hard look.
“That's not particularly reassuring.”
“No.”
He breathed in.
“But I'm not going to lie to make it sound better.”
Silence stretched.
Then Valí asked, very quietly:
“Can you forgive me?”
The question hurt more than you expected.
You looked at him.
At the man who had been one of the most familiar people in your life. At the mark your hand had left on his face. At the scars Odin had left beneath his clothes. At someone who had betrayed you and, at the same time, had been used long before he understood enough to object.
Both things could be true.
That did not mean one cancelled the other.
You shook your head.
“Not yet.”
Valí's expression fell.
You continued before he could say anything.
“I understand more now.”
His eyes lifted.
“I understand that Odin used you too.”
You swallowed.
“And I understand that somewhere along the way this stopped being an assignment to you.”
Valí said nothing.
“But you still lied to me.”
“I know.”
“And you don't get forgiven just because you eventually loved me while you were doing it.”
Pain crossed his face.
He nodded.
“I know.”
You looked away.
“So no.”
A pause.
“Not yet.”
Valí stood very still.
Then he gave the smallest nod.
“All right.”
No argument.
No attempt to bargain.
That helped more than it should have.
From somewhere in the west gallery came a voice.
“That's incredibly romantic.”
You closed your eyes.
Valí stared towards the shelves.
The Corinthian appeared around the end of the aisle carrying three books beneath one arm.
“Betrayal. Secret assignments. Unrequited love. Ancient blood rites.”
He placed the books on Lucienne's table.
“Really has everything.”
Lucienne looked at him over her glasses.
“Were you listening?”
“I have excellent hearing.”
Valí stared at him.
“I hate you again.”
The Corinthian smiled.
“See? We're getting back to normal already.”
******
Far beyond the ordered regions of the Dreaming, Morpheus followed the resonance of your scar.
Not blood itself.
Memory.
Intent.
Every wound dreamed in some fashion. Even the oldest scar retained some impression of its making: pain, fear, the pressure of a blade, the hand that held it.
Yours remembered something different.
Purpose.
That was what disturbed him.
So Morpheus followed it through regions of the Dreaming that had not been walked in centuries.
The palace disappeared behind him.
The sky became bronze.
Sand stretched beneath ruined walls that had vanished from the waking world thousands of years before, preserved only because mortals had once believed hard enough for their memory to survive.
Lions watched from broken gates.
Stars had been carved into stone.
Dreams of ancient worshippers knelt in courtyards open to a sky that no longer existed: kings without crowns, priestesses with painted eyes, soldiers laying weapons before a goddess whose name had changed many times before Olympus had learned to call itself ancient.
Ishtar.
Morpheus passed beneath seven gates.
The world diminished with each.
Sound first.
Then colour.
Then warmth.
At the final gate, even the stars were gone.
A woman's voice entered the darkness.
“You are very far from your throne, Dream King.”
Morpheus stopped.
The dark gathered itself into the shape of a woman.
Ereshkigal stepped from it.
Queen beneath.
Sister to the dead goddess whose remnants Morpheus had spent weeks tracing.
She wore no crown. She required none. The realm recognised her without display.
Her gaze settled upon him with neither fear nor welcome.
“You seek my sister.”
Morpheus regarded her.
“I seek the truth of what became of her.”
Ereshkigal's mouth curved faintly.
There was no affection in it.
“Then you have chosen a remarkably tiresome subject.”
That was the first thing he noticed.
Not grief.
Not loss.
Contempt.
Morpheus's expression remained unchanged.
“There is a mark upon her daughter.”
The contempt vanished.
Ereshkigal became still.
“A mark.”
“Made in infancy.”
He watched her reaction carefully.
“Upon her chest.”
Recognition appeared this time.
Not surprise at the existence of the mark.
Recognition of its significance.
Morpheus saw it.
“You know it.”
Ereshkigal looked at him for several seconds.
Then:
“Show me.”
The darkness between them altered.
Morpheus did not show her your body.
Only the scar.
Its pale shape appeared suspended between them.
Ereshkigal stared at it.
Her expression hardened.
“Yes.”
Morpheus's gaze sharpened.
“When did you learn of it?”
A pause.
“After she died.”
“Not before.”
“No.”
That mattered.
Morpheus allowed the image of the scar to fade.
“Explain.”
Ereshkigal turned away.
The darkness opened around them into a memory.
A vast temple chamber appeared, its walls blackened with age. At its centre stood a stone basin filled with water so dark it reflected nothing.
Ereshkigal approached it.
“Before the child was born, things began disappearing.”
Morpheus followed.
“Things.”
“Objects my sister believed belonged to her.”
The phrasing was deliberate.
Morpheus noticed.
The water changed.
A ceremonial blade vanished from a sealed treasury.
Tablets were removed from hidden chambers.
Small figures.
Seals.
Gold ornaments.
Objects old enough that even their worshippers had forgotten precisely what they once signified.
“Sacred objects.”
“She called everything sacred if someone had once knelt before it.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Ereshkigal's expression remained cool.
“You still disliked her. Even after all this time.”
She gave him a flat look.
“She was arrogant. Impulsive. Worshipped adoration and called it sovereignty. Started wars and then complained when men behaved violently in her name.”
The water shifted again.
Ishtar walking through a crowded city.
Someone following.
Then another figure waiting beyond a doorway.
A priest watching from the steps of a temple.
“And yet,” Ereshkigal continued, “she was not stupid.”
That seemed the closest thing to praise she was willing to offer.
“She realised she was being watched.”
“By whom?”
“Some I recognised. Most I did not.”
“Olympians?”
Her lip curled.
“Among others.”
Ishtar turned suddenly in the memory.
Alert.
Afraid.
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“She feared them.”
Ereshkigal watched her sister's image with something colder than sympathy.
“She feared what they wanted.”
“Which was?”
“Her.”
A pause.
“Or rather, what she would leave behind.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Her power.”
“Yes.”
Ereshkigal touched the surface of the water.
The image changed.
Ishtar alone.
Agitated.
Drawing symbols across parchment.
Burning them immediately afterwards.
“She had always suffered from premonitions.”
“Suffered.”
Ereshkigal glanced at him.
“My sister enjoyed claiming foresight when events proved her correct and denied ever having spoken when they did not.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“But near the end…”
For the first time Ereshkigal hesitated.
“Near the end, she was certain.”
“That she would die.”
“Yes.”
The water stilled.
Morpheus looked at her.
“And who killed her?”
Silence.
“Did you?” Morpheus then asked and Ereshkigal did not deny it.
Morpheus's face changed.
Not dramatically.
Somehow that made the disgust in it worse.
“You murdered your own sister.”
Ereshkigal's expression hardened.
“I ended what others had already begun.”
“Do not dress murder in inevitability.”
Something dark moved behind him.
Stars appeared faintly overhead.
Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
Morpheus did not move.
“You speak of her fear. Of those pursuing her. Of a death she believed was coming.”
His voice had gone very quiet.
“And then tell me that you were the one who brought it.”
“Because if I had not, someone else would have.”
“That is the defence of every coward who wishes necessity to absolve desire.”
The hall seemed to contract around them.
Ereshkigal stepped closer.
“You know nothing of what occurred.”
“Then enlighten me.”
She stared at him.
Then turned sharply back to the basin.
The water erupted into memory.
Fire.
Figures surrounding Ishtar.
Bindings.
Blood.
A ritual circle.
Ereshkigal inside it.
Not watching.
Participating.
Morpheus's expression became colder with every detail.
The memory sharpened.
Ishtar lay at the centre of the circle, diminished almost beyond recognition as the goddess whose temples had once shaken beneath thousands of voices. Gold still lived beneath her skin, but barely. It flickered rather than burned.
Ereshkigal stood over her.
A blade in one hand.
The other pressed against a sigil cut into the stone.
Around them were objects Morpheus recognised from Lucienne's research.
Fragments of Ishtar's temples.
Seals.
Carved lions.
A broken eight-pointed star.
Objects that had vanished from the waking world one by one.
Morpheus watched the memory for several moments.
Then:
“A transfer rite.”
Ereshkigal said nothing.
“You did not merely kill her.”
His gaze moved across the circle.
“You attempted to take what remained.”
“Yes.”
There was no shame in the admission.
Morpheus looked at her.
“Why?”
Ereshkigal's mouth tightened.
“Because others were preparing to do the same.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“Were they.”
“You saw what was taken.”
She gestured towards the black water.
The images changed.
Empty shrines.
Ransacked vaults.
Ancient objects carried beneath robes.
“Her artifacts had been disappearing for years. Those pursuing her were gathering what remained of her worship.”
“And therefore you killed her before they could.”
“Before they could make use of what she was.”
Morpheus looked back at the memory.
Ishtar's light was so faint now that the gold beneath her skin disappeared entirely between heartbeats.
“No.”
Ereshkigal's gaze snapped towards him.
“No?”
“That is not what the artifacts did.”
Silence.
Morpheus stepped closer to the basin.
“They did not make Ishtar's remaining essence transferable to any being who happened to possess them.”
Ereshkigal's expression hardened.
“With sufficient knowledge—”
“Do not believe me a fool.”
His voice never rose.
It did not need to.
The dead hall went still around them.
“There was no open succession.”
He looked directly at her.
“Her remaining power would not simply have passed to whoever killed her.”
A pause.
“Nor could a collection of relics change that merely because someone wished it so.”
Ereshkigal held his gaze.
Then said:
“No.”
Morpheus waited.
She clearly disliked conceding even that much.
“The artifacts contained remnants of what she had been.”
“Anchors.”
“Yes.”
Ereshkigal turned towards the water.
The stolen objects appeared again.
This time Morpheus saw what connected them.
A faint residue.
Worship.
Sacrifice.
Memory accumulated over thousands of years.
“Her power had almost died,” Ereshkigal said. “But those objects had been made when it had not.”
Morpheus understood.
“They could call it back.”
“In sufficient number. With the correct rites.”
“Restore what had diminished.”
“Some of it.”
Ereshkigal's lip curled.
“Perhaps eventually much of it.”
Morpheus considered that.
It was a significant danger.
But it did not explain the scene before him.
“Then destroy them.”
Ereshkigal looked at him.
“I did.”
Morpheus went still.
“All of them?”
“What I recovered, yes.”
“And those you did not?”
“Hunted down afterwards.”
Her expression held a trace of satisfaction.
“Broken. Burned. Unmade where possible.”
Morpheus stared at her.
There it was.
The contradiction.
“Then your justification collapses.”
Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed.
“It does not.”
“It does.”
Morpheus stepped away from the basin.
“You claim you killed Ishtar and took part in a transfer because another might otherwise have restored her power and misused it.”
“Yes.”
“Yet the danger lay in the artifacts.”
“In part.”
“Artifacts you destroyed.”
Ereshkigal said nothing.
“Without them, what remained within your sister was little more than an ember.”
Her jaw tightened.
“An ember is still fire.”
“One that would have gone out.”
Silence.
Morpheus's gaze became colder.
“Had Ishtar died without this rite, her remaining power would have diminished with her.”
“Yes.”
The word came reluctantly.
“No god could simply have claimed it from her corpse.”
“No.”
“No thief possessing a broken statue could have absorbed it.”
“No.”
“And once you destroyed the artifacts, no one could have restored what had already faded.”
Ereshkigal looked at him.
“Not easily.”
Morpheus's expression darkened.
“Do not retreat into qualifications now.”
She said nothing.
He stepped towards her.
“If preservation was truly your concern, you needed only destroy the artifacts.”
His voice dropped.
“Then let Ishtar die.”
A beat.
“At your hand or another's, it would scarcely have mattered. Her remaining divine flame would have died with her.”
Ereshkigal's face had become unreadable.
“So why transfer it?”
No answer.
Morpheus watched her.
The ancient realm around them suddenly seemed different.
Not less vast.
Less alive.
Its queen stood at the centre of a kingdom remembered far more than worshipped.
He looked at Ereshkigal again.
Then understood.
“You are fading as well.”
Darkness struck the walls.
The basin trembled.
Ereshkigal's eyes became terrible.
“Careful, Dream King.”
Morpheus did not move.
“Ishtar was not the only goddess whose worship had diminished.”
“Enough.”
“Her temples fell.”
His gaze travelled briefly across the remnants of this place.
“So did yours.”
“Dream.”
“Her mortal worship dwindled.”
He looked directly at Ereshkigal.
“As did yours.”
The darkness pressed towards him.
It did not touch him.
“And unlike your sister…”
A pause.
“…there are no artifacts left through which you might restore yourself.”
Ereshkigal said nothing.
That was confirmation enough.
Morpheus's disgust settled into certainty.
“That is why you took part in the rite.”
“I have told you why.”
“You told me what made your actions sound necessary.”
His voice sharpened.
“I am telling you why they were desirable.”
Ereshkigal's eyes flashed.
“You presume much.”
“Do I?”
He looked towards the memory of Ishtar.
Fading.
Barely divine.
Still possessing something Ereshkigal did not.
“Your sister's flame was dying.”
Then back at her.
“Yours was dying faster.”
The hall shook.
“And you believed even what little remained of Ishtar might sustain you.”
Ereshkigal stared at him.
For a long moment there was nothing but the low sound of the black water moving against stone.
Then:
“Fine.”
The word was almost spat.
Morpheus waited.
Ereshkigal's mouth twisted.
“Yes.”
No apology.
No embarrassment.
Only resentment that he had forced her to say it.
“I was diminishing.”
She glanced towards the ancient hall around them.
“I remain diminished.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“My sister's domains survived mortal forgetfulness better than mine.”
War.
Desire.
Fertility.
Sex.
Things that did not require Ishtar's name to continue existing.
“What remained in her was weak,” Ereshkigal continued, “but it was compatible with what I am. It could have strengthened me.”
Morpheus looked at her coldly.
“So you killed your sister for enough power to prolong your own existence.”
Ereshkigal's expression hardened.
“I killed a goddess who was already dying, who had given up on what she was and ensured what remained would be contained by someone who understood it.”
“Yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Practical.”
Morpheus's disgust became unmistakable.
“You may call it what you wish.”
Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed.
“And you may stand there pretending you have never justified cruelty by necessity.”
That struck somewhere she could not see.
Or perhaps she did.
The glass sphere.
A son condemned.
A woman sent to Hell.
A report hidden in his study.
Morpheus's expression became glacial.
“We are not discussing me.”
Ereshkigal gave him the faintest smile.
“No. I imagine you would prefer not to.”
His attention returned to the basin.
“But the rite failed.”
The smile vanished.
“Yes.”
The memory changed.
Ereshkigal's blade descended.
Blood entered the carved channels.
The ancient symbols ignited.
Ishtar's remaining light tore free.
It should have crossed the circle.
Into Ereshkigal.
It did not.
The gold halted.
Shuddered.
Then violently changed direction.
The circle shattered.
Ereshkigal was thrown backwards.
Gold exploded through the chamber, breaking into fragments that vanished beyond the walls as though answering a summons none of those present could hear.
Morpheus watched closely.
“You did not understand what happened.”
“Not then.”
Bitterness entered Ereshkigal's voice.
“I believed the rite defective. That some piece had been removed. That someone inside the circle had betrayed me.”
“But later you discovered otherwise.”
Ereshkigal looked at him.
“Years later.”
The water changed.
Not the ritual now.
You. Older. A tiny scar.
The same shape Morpheus had followed here.
“I discovered she had marked her daughter.”
Morpheus's expression sharpened.
“Even long before her death.”
“Yes.”
“Before your rite.”
“Yes.”
Now he understood the mark fully.
“It was not merely protection.”
“No.”
“It was designation.”
Ereshkigal's face tightened.
“Inheritance.”
Silence.
Morpheus looked towards the infant reflected in the basin.
“She made her daughter capable of receiving what little remained.”
“Yes.”
“So that when your rite released it…”
“It recognised her instead of me.”
There was open hatred in Ereshkigal's voice now.
Not for you, exactly.
For what Ishtar had done through you.
“She knew.”
Ereshkigal scoffed.
“She suspected.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Your sister possessed premonitions of her death. She knew her artifacts were being stolen. She secretly nominated an heir before you performed a rite intended to take her remaining power.”
Ereshkigal's mouth twisted.
“She always did enjoy having the final word.”
Morpheus ignored that.
Something else mattered more.
“Without your rite, the mark would have done nothing.”
Ereshkigal looked at him.
“Not nothing.”
“Explain.”
“It made the child eligible to receive Ishtar.”
“But there would have been nothing to receive had Ishtar simply faded and died naturally.”
A pause.
“Correct.”
The irony was ugly.
Morpheus looked again at the shattered circle.
“You released the power.”
Ereshkigal's expression became poisonous.
“Yes.”
“Your attempt to take it is the reason it reached her daughter at all.”
“Yes.”
Morpheus was not amused.
There was nothing amusing about an infant inheriting ancient power because one sister had anticipated the greed of another.
“Then Ishtar did not merely choose her daughter over you.”
Ereshkigal's gaze hardened.
“She prepared for you.”
Silence.
The darkness around Ereshkigal became nearly solid.
“Do not flatter my sister with omniscience.”
“I do not.”
Morpheus turned towards her.
“But neither will I ignore the obvious because it displeases you.”
His voice lowered.
“She could have allowed her power to die completely.”
“Yes.”
“She chose not to.”
“Yes.”
“And when she chose where it would go if someone tore it from her…”
A pause.
“…she chose her daughter rather than you.”
Ereshkigal's eyes flashed.
“You think that makes the child deserving of it?”
“I think it makes me interested in why Ishtar considered her preferable.”
“She was spiteful.”
“Perhaps.”
“She hated me.”
Morpheus regarded her.
“I am beginning to consider that reasonable.”
For a moment Ereshkigal looked as though she might attempt to kill him.
Morpheus remained entirely unconcerned.
Then her anger cooled into something much more calculating.
“Very well.”
She stepped towards him.
“You distrust me.”
“Profoundly.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
Ereshkigal continued.
“You know Dream King, I can remove what she placed in her daughter.”
He went utterly still.
“No.”
Ereshkigal's expression sharpened.
“You have not heard me.”
“I heard you.”
“The power can be drawn out.”
She gestured towards herself.
“Into me.”
“No.”
“It would free her.”
“And restore you.”
“Both can be true.”
Morpheus looked at her with open distrust.
Ereshkigal spread her hands.
“The daughter loses a power she cannot control. I take responsibility for keeping it contained. No artifact remains through which another could rebuild what Ishtar was.”
A small smile.
“And I continue to exist.”
“There.”
Morpheus's voice was soft.
“At last, the entire truth.”
Ereshkigal's smile disappeared.
“It is still a solution.”
“Perhaps for you.”
“For her as well.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know more of divine transference than she ever will.”
“Your last attempt did not proceed particularly well.”
Her expression darkened.
“Because Ishtar had altered the succession without my knowledge.”
“Precisely.”
Morpheus stepped closer.
“You failed because your sister concealed something from you.”
A pause.
“I see no reason to assume she concealed only one thing.”
Ereshkigal stared.
“The mark is understood now.”
“You believe it is.”
“I can remove the inheritance safely.”
“Your confidence does not constitute evidence.”
Silence.
Then Ereshkigal said:
“This is not your decision.”
Morpheus stopped.
For a fraction of a second something changed in him.
The treaty.
Lucienne's report.
Your freedom.
The knowledge he had still not given you.
Then:
“No.”
Ereshkigal seemed almost surprised.
“It is not.”
His voice was quieter now.
“Nor is it yours.”
He held her gaze.
“I will tell her what you have offered.”
“And if she wishes me to take it?”
Morpheus was silent for a moment.
“Then she will decide.”
Ereshkigal smiled.
“How very liberal of you.”
He ignored that.
“But I will advise her to refuse.”
The smile widened.
“There it is.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You have made that tedious point repeatedly.”
“And you continue to justify it.”
Black sand began gathering slowly around his boots.
Ereshkigal watched.
“You cannot keep that power hidden in your realm indefinitely.”
“I am aware.”
“It is waking.”
Morpheus's attention sharpened.
“The daughter has been using it.”
The black water changed.
Gold tearing through the dance hall.
Mirrors breaking.
Stone splitting.
Your power rolling through the Dreaming.
Ereshkigal looked almost fascinated.
“It was barely perceptible once.”
The image changed again.
Training.
Fear.
Anger.
Desire.
Each surge brighter than the last.
“But not anymore.”
Morpheus's expression hardened.
“You can sense her now.”
“Yes.”
“Could you before?”
“Not like this.”
That was dangerous.
Ereshkigal knew he understood it.
“And if I can…”
She did not finish.
She did not need to.
Odin.
Whoever had stolen the artifacts.
Anyone who still remembered what Ishtar had been.
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
Ereshkigal stepped nearer.
“Give me the power, Dream King.”
“It is not mine to give.”
“Then convince her.”
“No.”
Her expression darkened.
“You may regret that.”
The sand climbed higher around him.
“Perhaps.”
“When those who have been searching for Ishtar find her daughter, remember that I offered you a means of ending this.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Cold.
Ancient.
Utterly certain.
“And when I tell her of your offer, I will also tell her what you neglected to mention.”
Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed.
“What is that?”
“That you do not wish merely to relieve her of a burden.”
Notes: This is only a short smutty fic. No romance! It will have three or four parts!
For as long as anyone in your order could remember, there had been a covenant with the King of Dreams.
Not a story.
Not a metaphor.
A covenant.
It was written upon black vellum beneath the oldest part of the temple, recorded in a language no living priest could properly pronounce, and repeated in simpler words to every child born within the order.
Once every fifty years, one woman would be given to Dream of the Endless.
She must have reached her eighteenth year.
She must never have lain with another.
And she must go willingly.
In return, Dream would extend his protection over the people of the covenant and their descendants. They might still dream of death. They might dream of grief, of fear, of strange places and stranger things. Prophetic dreams were not forbidden. Nor were dreams that frightened simply because the mind sometimes frightened itself.
But true nightmares would not have them.
Not the things that crawled from the darkest corners of the Dreaming.
Not the nightmares that fed.
Not the ones that followed a dreamer night after night until sleep became something to fear.
For the generations covered by the covenant, they would be kept away.
That was what one life—one night, according to the oldest records—purchased.
Peaceful sleep for thousands.
The Offering was therefore not spoken of as a victim.
She was revered.
Portraits of the women who had gone before you lined the long eastern corridor of the temple.
Some were painted.
Some had been carved in stone.
The oldest had no surviving likeness at all, only names cut into slabs of black marble.
Anastasia.
Miriam.
Eleanor.
Sabine.
Margaret.
Women separated by centuries, nations and languages, all bound by the same title beneath their names.
The Offering.
As a child, you used to stop beneath those portraits and stare.
And now, you had been chosen by the Dream King himself.
You had just turned eighteen when it happened.
You remembered very little of the dream now.
Only a dark shore.
Stars where no stars should have been.
A tall man standing some distance away from you, dressed entirely in black.
You had not been afraid of him.
Not then.
You remembered looking up at him and asking whether he was lost.
The priests had nearly wept when you told them that part.
You remembered his face less clearly than his eyes.
And his voice.
Low.
Ancient.
Impossible somehow for you to understand properly even though you had understood every word.
“No.”
You had frowned at him.
“Then why are you here?”
The slightest tilt of his head.
As though no one had asked him that in a very long time.
“To see you.”
You had looked behind yourself, certain there must be someone more interesting standing there.
There had not been.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Then he had come closer.
You remembered black sand beneath bare feet.
You remembered looking up.
He had touched two fingers beneath your chin and said:
“When the appointed hour comes, you may enter my realm.”
You woke with a small black mark directly above your heart.
By sunset, the entire order knew.
People who had known you since birth suddenly bowed their heads when you passed. Priests touched their fingers reverently to their foreheads. Your family received congratulations as though something extraordinary had been bestowed upon them.
From that moment onward, your life changed.
For months before the appointed date, the preparations became increasingly serious, and with each passing week your nervousness grew.
You had no experience whatsoever.
That was hardly unusual within the order. Most eligible girls were raised with the understanding that one of them might someday be chosen, and their virginity was carefully preserved until the Dream King made his selection. Courtship could come later for those who were not chosen.
For you, there would be no later.
Dream had chosen you himself.
And now, as the date approached, everyone seemed to know exactly what was expected of you except you.
There was, however, one person who might be able to tell you.
The previous Offering was still alive.
Her name was Agnes Vale.
She was sixty-eight years old by the time you were permitted to meet her.
Tradition dictated that an Offering could speak privately with her predecessor during the final month before her ceremony. No priest could attend. No record could be made. Whatever passed between them belonged only to the two women who had shared—or would share—the same strange honour.
Agnes lived in a cottage behind the western gardens.
You had seen her before, of course.
Everyone had.
Children were brought to her on festival days.
Newly married couples asked for her blessing.
People touched her hand as though some residue of the King of Dreams might remain upon her skin nearly sixty years later.
But you had never been alone with her.
Until now.
She was sitting beside the window when you entered.
Tiny.
That was your first thought.
For someone whose portrait dominated an entire wall of the eastern corridor, she was astonishingly small.
Her eyes were perfectly clear.
They moved immediately to you.
Then to the black ceremonial pendant hanging against your chest.
She smiled.
“So.”
You stopped awkwardly inside the doorway.
“So.”
Her smile widened.
“You may come closer. I assure you, whatever the priests have told you, being an Offering does not make one contagious.”
You gave a nervous laugh and sat across from her.
For several seconds neither of you spoke.
Agnes watched you.
You watched Agnes.
Then you decided you had not waited for this opportunity in order to waste it on politeness.
“What happened?”
Agnes blinked once.
Then laughed.
Not cruelly.
Actually laughed.
“Oh, excellent.”
Your face heated.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. I asked precisely the same question.”
You leaned forward.
“And?”
“And my predecessor refused to answer.”
Your heart sank.
Agnes's expression softened.
“As will I.”
“Why?”
“Because it is not mine to tell you.”
You stared at her.
“It happened to you.”
“Yes.”
“Then surely it is yours to tell.”
“My experience is mine. Yours must be yours.”
You sat back, frustrated.
“That sounds suspiciously like something the priests say when they do not wish to answer a question.”
“Most priestly wisdom consists of finding dignified ways to avoid answering questions.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Then you looked down at your hands.
“Did you want to go?”
That changed her expression.
The amusement disappeared.
Agnes considered the question seriously.
“Yes.”
You looked up.
“Actually?”
“Actually.”
“You weren't forced?”
“No.”
“Pressured?”
She thought about that one longer.
“I was raised as you were. Everyone I loved believed the Offering was sacred. Everyone told me I was fortunate. Everyone reminded me of what my choice would mean for them.”
Your stomach tightened.
“That sounds like pressure.”
“It was.”
Her answer surprised you.
Agnes folded her hands in her lap.
“But pressure is not the same thing as absence of choice. I had one. So do you.”
You stared at her.
“Did you ever think about refusing?”
A pause.
“Of course.”
You had never heard anyone admit that.
“Really?”
“My dear, I was eighteen. I was expected to go to sleep and awaken before an immortal being whose domain encompasses every dreaming mind in existence, and I had been told that the encounter would be…”
She paused delicately.
You waited.
“…intimate.”
Your face went hot.
Agnes noticed.
Her mouth twitched.
“Yes. Quite.”
You rubbed your palms against your skirt.
“Were you frightened?”
That answer came immediately.
“Very.”
Something about her honesty loosened the tightness in your chest.
Not much.
But enough.
You swallowed.
“Did he hurt you?”
Agnes's face became unexpectedly firm.
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
You looked down again.
There was one question left.
The one you had rehearsed several times and almost decided not to ask.
“Was he kind?”
Agnes went very still.
Outside the cottage, you could hear birds in the garden.
The clock on the mantel ticked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You began to regret asking.
Finally Agnes said:
“Kind is a mortal word.”
Your brows drew together.
“What does that mean?”
She looked towards the window.
“It means that you must not expect a man simply because he wears the shape of one.”
That did absolutely nothing helpful for your nerves.
“That is possibly the least comforting thing anyone has said to me this month.”
Agnes smiled faintly.
“I imagine so.”
“Could you try again?”
Her eyes returned to yours.
There was something strange in them then.
Not fear.
Not exactly reverence either.
Memory, perhaps.
“Do not mistake his shape for what he is.”
Your stomach dropped.
“That was worse.”
She laughed softly.
“You asked.”
“I was hoping for something like, ‘He is very nice and entirely ordinary and you'll wonder why you worried.’”
“I would prefer not to lie to you before sending you into the realm of the anthropomorphic personification of dreams.”
You groaned quietly and put your face into your hands.
Agnes chuckled.
Then, after a moment:
“Look at me.”
You did.
“You may still refuse.”
You stared at her.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing the words and believing them are different things.”
You were silent.
Agnes leaned back.
“If you do not wish to go, tell them.”
“And what happens to everyone?”
“Another agreement may be sought.”
“Eventually.”
“Perhaps.”
“And until then?”
Agnes did not answer.
You already knew.
Nightmares.
The real ones.
The thought of children waking screaming because you had been frightened of one night—
No.
You hated even thinking it.
Agnes seemed to read something in your face.
“Do not go because you believe fear makes you cowardly.”
You looked at her.
“I don't.”
“Good. You should be frightened.”
“That is also not comforting.”
“I am not here to comfort you.”
You blinked.
Agnes's expression softened.
“I am here to tell you the truth where I can.”
You looked down.
After a moment, you asked:
“Did you regret it?”
Agnes inhaled slowly.
That, more than anything else, made you nervous.
Then she said:
“No.”
You searched her face.
“Never?”
A tiny smile.
“I did not say that.”
“Agnes.”
“I regretted being afraid. I regretted not asking certain questions. I regretted imagining a hundred terrible possibilities beforehand, because none of them prepared me for the reality anyway.”
You stared.
“Again: not comforting.”
“No.”
Then she reached across the table and took your hand.
Her skin was paper-thin and warm.
“But I never regretted going.”
You did not speak.
Agnes squeezed your fingers.
“And when you wake tomorrow morning, you may still decide that you will not.”
*********
You did not.
The final month began three days later.
From that point onward, you no longer slept in your family's home.
You moved into the temple precinct.
Your rooms overlooked the inner courtyard, directly opposite the eastern corridor where the portraits of the previous Offerings hung.
You disliked that immensely.
Every morning you opened your curtains and found thirty-seven dead women staring back at you through painted eyes.
The priests called it inspiring.
You called it unsettling.
Your days became ritual.
Lessons before breakfast.
Meditation after.
Scripture.
Dream-lore.
History.
Ceremonial preparation.
There were physical examinations that everyone treated with such clinical solemnity that you somehow found them more embarrassing than if anyone had simply acknowledged that the entire point was verifying that you met the covenant's ancient requirements.
Your virginity was never described as innocence.
Nor purity.
The order did not consider sex sinful.
Virginity mattered because the covenant demanded an Offering who had never given herself in that way before.
The distinction was explained to you repeatedly.
As though repetition would make it less strange.
Older women of the order prepared you for what they politely called the practical aspects.
Unfortunately, the practical aspects contained remarkably few practical details.
Three matrons sat with you one afternoon in a small room filled with incense.
You endured nearly forty minutes of euphemisms before finally losing patience.
“Has anyone here actually met him?”
Silence.
The eldest matron cleared her throat.
“No.”
“Then how exactly are you preparing me?”
Another matron looked offended.
“There are certain things a young woman should understand before—”
“I understand how sex works.”
All three women froze.
You closed your eyes.
“I cannot believe I just said that to you.”
The youngest matron suddenly became fascinated by the carpet.
The eldest recovered first.
“Understanding the mechanics is not the same as understanding—”
“Do you know what he does?”
Silence again.
“Specifically?”
More silence.
You pointed between them.
“None of you know.”
“The particulars of each Offering's encounter are private.”
You stared.
“So no one is permitted to tell me what happened to them.”
“Correct.”
“But I am expected to be completely prepared.”
“Spiritually prepared.”
“Wonderful.”
You stood.
“Spiritually, I am doing marvellously. Practically, apparently I am going in blind.”
That became the defining feature of the month.
Not knowing.
Nobody could tell you whether Dream would speak before anything happened.
Nobody knew what form he would take.
Nobody could tell you whether time worked normally in his realm.
Nobody knew whether he would look as he had in your dream.
Nobody could even tell you whether the ancient descriptions of his appearance were accurate, because those descriptions contradicted one another.
Sometimes he was pale.
Sometimes shadow.
Sometimes a man.
Sometimes a vast shape filled with stars.
Sometimes his eyes were black.
Sometimes blue.
Sometimes silver.
One record, written nearly eight hundred years ago, simply described him as:
Beautiful enough to make terror seem reasonable.
You hated that one.
You thought about it constantly.
At night, lying alone in your temple chamber, you wondered whether he remembered you.
Of course he remembered you, everyone insisted.
He had chosen you.
But gods—and whatever Dream actually was—experienced time differently.
Perhaps touching your chin had been a trivial moment to him.
Perhaps he would not recognise you until he saw the mark he had left.
Perhaps he would.
You were not sure which possibility frightened you more.
And then there were the questions you never voiced.
Did he actually desire the Offerings?
Or was this merely obligation to him?
Did someone who embodied dreams experience desire at all in the way human beings did?
Would he find you beautiful?
The thought embarrassed you so badly that the first time it occurred, you pulled your blanket over your head despite being entirely alone.
Then you became irritated with yourself.
You were about to be ritually offered to an immortal entity.
Surely you were permitted to wonder whether he would at least find you attractive.
By the final week, your emotions had become impossible to separate.
Fear.
Curiosity.
Pride.
Embarrassment.
Duty.
And beneath all of them, something dangerously close to anticipation.
You wanted it over.
You wanted another month.
You wanted to know.
You did not want to know.
On the final morning, you woke before dawn and stared at the ceiling.
“Tonight.”
The word sounded ridiculous aloud.
So you said it again.
“Tonight.”
Your heart immediately began pounding.
You covered your face.
“Oh, God.”
Then remembered exactly whom you were being offered to.
“Wrong jurisdiction.”
You laughed despite yourself.
It helped.
Barely.
*********
By sunset, the temple bells were ringing.
The ceremonial sanctuary lay beneath the oldest part of the complex, reached by a staircase descending farther underground than you had ever been permitted to go.
Everyone gathered there.
Every family.
Every priest.
You were taken away before the ceremony began.
Four women bathed you in water scented with black roses and lavender.
Nobody spoke while they washed your hair.
Nobody spoke while they dried you.
Your ceremonial dress was white.
Not a bridal gown.
Everyone had been very clear about that.
It was older in design.
Simple.
Floor-length.
Bare at the shoulders.
No jewellery except the black pendant identifying you as the Offering.
Your hair remained loose down your back.
When you looked into the mirror, you hardly recognised yourself.
One of the women standing behind you began to cry.
You turned.
“Please don't.”
She covered her mouth.
“I'm sorry.”
“If you cry, I'll cry.”
That made another woman cry.
“Oh, excellent.”
Someone laughed through tears.
You did too.
And somehow that was worse.
By the time they led you downstairs, you had recovered.
Mostly.
The sanctuary was enormous.
Black candles burned along the walls.
Dreaming symbols had been painted across the stone floor.
At the centre of the room stood an ornate bed surrounded by black flowers.
That was the moment everything became horribly real.
You stopped walking.
The priest beside you noticed.
“Are you well?”
You stared at the bed.
“Define well.”
His mouth twitched despite the solemnity of the occasion.
Then you looked around the sanctuary.
Hundreds of faces watched you.
People you had known since childhood.
Teachers.
Neighbours.
Friends.
Your family.
Your mother's eyes were already wet.
You breathed in.
And continued walking.
One by one, members of the order approached you.
Not to congratulate you.
To thank you.
Eventually your parents came forward.
Your mother embraced you hard enough to hurt.
“You can still come home.”
You froze.
She had never said that before.
Not once.
You pulled back.
Her hands remained on your arms.
“You know that?”
You nodded.
“I know.”
“You do not owe us this.”
That nearly broke you.
You swallowed.
“I know.”
Your father touched your cheek.
“We are proud of you regardless.”
You closed your eyes for a second.
Then opened them.
“I want to do it.”
Your mother studied you.
“Are you certain?”
You looked towards the bed again.
The black flowers.
The candles.
The impossible promise waiting somewhere beyond sleep.
Were you certain?
No.
Not completely.
But certainty and willingness were not the same thing.
You looked back at her.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
They kissed you.
Then they left.
Slowly, the sanctuary emptied.
The priests departed last.
The High Priest stopped at the doorway.
He had known you since infancy.
For the first time in your life, he looked unsure of what to say.
Finally:
“When you wake, someone will be waiting outside.”
You nodded.
“All right.”
He bowed his head.
“May your dreams be merciful.”
You nearly laughed at the absurdity.
Instead you said:
“Thank you.”
The doors closed.
And you were alone.
Completely alone.
You stood in the middle of the sanctuary.
The silence became enormous.
Every candle flame remained perfectly still.
Your bare feet sounded absurdly loud against the stone as you crossed towards the bed.
Black roses surrounded it.
You touched one.
Real.
Of course it was real.
Everything tonight was horribly, inconveniently real.
You sat on the mattress.
Then immediately stood again.
“No.”
You paced once around the bed.
Stopped.
Looked at the door.
“This is ridiculous.”
You were talking to yourself now.
That was apparently where you were emotionally.
You sat again.
Your heart was hammering.
There was one sentence left.
One sentence you had been taught since long ago.
It appeared in every version of the covenant.
The words that transformed ceremony into consent.
They could not be spoken for you.
The priests could not prompt you.
No witness could remain.
You had to say them alone.
You placed both hands in your lap.
Breathed in.
And spoke.
“Lord of Dreams, I come willingly.”
Your voice trembled.
You stopped.
Swallowed.
Tried again.
“What was promised, I freely give.”
Nothing happened.
You waited.
One second.
Two.
Ten.
The candles continued burning.
You stared around the sanctuary.
“Right.”
Apparently that was it.
Now you had to sleep.
You lay down.
The mattress was far softer than expected.
You arranged yourself beneath the white blanket.
Closed your eyes.
Opened them again.
You stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling stared unhelpfully back.
You closed your eyes once more.
Immediately your mind supplied:
You are trying to fall asleep so that an immortal being can collect you.
Your eyes opened.
“Excellent.”
You rolled onto your side.
Closed your eyes.
What if he is already watching?
Your eyes opened again.
You looked around the room.
“Are you?”
Nothing.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the shadows.
“Because that would be extremely rude.”
Still nothing.
You rolled onto your back.
Twenty minutes passed.
Perhaps thirty.
You had no clock.
Eventually you sat up in frustration.
“How is anyone supposed to sleep under these circumstances?”
Your voice echoed.
No answer.
You fell backwards against the pillows.
“Of course the entire covenant depends upon falling asleep. Why would it be convenient?”
You covered your face.
Then another thought occurred.
What if Dream was somewhere in his realm waiting?
What if he knew you were lying here arguing with the ceiling instead?
That was mortifying.
You pulled the blanket higher.
“I am trying.”
Nothing.
“You chose me. You can wait.”
You immediately regretted saying that aloud.
“That sounded disrespectful.”
Silence.
You stared into the darkness.
“I apologise.”
Another pause.
“Mostly.”
And strangely, after that, some of your fear finally loosened.
Not vanished.
Never vanished.
But loosened.
You lay still.
You listened to your breathing.
You thought of Agnes.
Do not mistake his shape for what he is.
Still terrible advice.
You thought of the black shore, asking a strange man whether he was lost.
You remembered his eyes.
His fingers against your chin.
“When the appointed hour comes, this one may enter my realm.”
The appointed hour had come.
Your breathing slowed.
Your limbs became heavier.
Exhaustion, denied all evening by terror and ceremony and expectation, finally began taking what it was owed.
The sanctuary softened at the edges.
The candles blurred.
Your thoughts drifted apart.
One last fragment of nervous awareness insisted that you should remain awake.
That you should be ready.
But sleep did not care whether you were ready.
Sleep came anyway.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, the stone sanctuary disappeared.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning, training resumed.
You were beginning to suspect Morpheus scheduled your most unpleasant lessons immediately after emotionally catastrophic evenings simply because he enjoyed structure too much to reconsider them.
You arrived at the training hall barefoot, irritated and only halfway through your first cup of tea. Morpheus was already there. Of course he was.
He stood in the centre of the reconstructed hall in black, hands clasped behind his back, looking entirely unaffected by the fact that approximately twelve hours earlier he had departed the Dreaming to collect the son of Odin.
Several dreams waited around the perimeter. You looked at them. Then at him.
“Valí is here.”
It was not a question.
Morpheus regarded you.
“Yes.”
Your stomach tightened anyway.
You had known he would be. You had agreed to it. That did not make the knowledge less strange. Valí. Here. Somewhere within the palace.
“Since when?”
“Shortly before dawn.”
You stared at him.
“And you weren't going to tell me?”
One eyebrow shifted by approximately nothing.
“You asked before I had opportunity to do so.”
That was annoyingly fair.
You took another drink.
“Can I see him?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
You almost choked.
“Morpheus.”
“No.”
“You literally spoke to me yesterday because you said you were trying to stop making decisions that would make me angry.”
“I informed you of the conditions under which Valí would enter my realm.”
“Yes. Supervision.”
“And separation from you until I determined whether he presented a threat.”
You glared.
“You determined enough to bring him here.”
“I determined that his fear of Odin was genuine.”
Morpheus stepped closer.
“I have not yet determined that everything he has told me is, nor has he complied with my conditions yet.”
You folded your arms.
“Then let me speak to him.”
“No.”
Gold stirred faintly beneath your skin. Morpheus looked at it. You immediately pulled it back. He noticed that too.
“Good.”
You glared harder.
“Don't praise me while annoying me.”
“Your control has improved.”
“And you are still annoying.”
The smallest pause.
Then Morpheus said:
“There is another matter.”
You waited suspiciously.
“Valí has admitted that Odin arranged his place in your life.”
You went still. You knew that already. Sort of. Knowing it as theory and hearing that Valí had admitted it himself were not the same.
“How much?”
“Enough that I will not permit him to speak with you until he tells you himself.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have made honesty a condition of his contact with you.”
You stared at Morpheus.
That surprised you.
“You told him that?”
“Yes.”
“And he agreed?”
A pause.
“Eventually.”
You almost smiled.
You could imagine that conversation. Valí refusing. Morpheus staring. Valí discovering that arguing with the sovereign of the realm providing his sanctuary was strategically unwise.
Your smile faded.
“Can you be there?”
Morpheus's expression changed faintly.
“For what?”
“When I see him.”
He studied you. You disliked how vulnerable the request suddenly sounded. You looked away.
“Just—if he's going to tell me all of this, I don't particularly want to be alone with him.”
Morpheus answered immediately.
“Yes.”
You looked back.
“Yes?”
“I will be present.”
Relief moved through you.
You hated that he noticed. You hated slightly less that he did not comment on it.
“Today?”
“No.”
You stared at him.
“Please.”
Morpheus sighed.
A small, very put-upon sound.
“After training. Under my supervision.”
You looked around the hall at the waiting dreams.
“Great.”
Morpheus inclined his head towards the first dream.
“Begin.”
You stared at him.
“You expect me to concentrate now?”
“Yes.”
“You're horrible.”
“Begin.”
******
You saw Valí three hours later.
Morpheus did not bring him to the throne room. You were grateful for that.
Instead, the meeting took place in a smaller sitting room you had rarely used, tucked away in an older wing of the palace. It was comfortable without being intimate. A fire burned. Three chairs had been placed apart from one another.
You immediately noticed the arrangement.
Morpheus beside you. Valí opposite.
Distance deliberately built into the room.
You entered first. Morpheus followed. Valí was already there.
He stood when you came in. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You had seen him hundreds of times. Laughing. Drinking. Stealing food from your plate. Appearing on Olympus when you were bored enough to contemplate throwing yourself from a balcony simply to escape another banquet. Sitting beside you on temple steps. Mocking gods who believed themselves impressive. Listening when you told him things you told almost no one.
He looked exactly the same. And completely different. There were shadows beneath his eyes. His clothes were plain. No weapons. You noticed that.
Morpheus had probably noticed it first.
Valí looked at you.
Something softened in his face.
“Hello.”
You hated how familiar his voice was.
“Hi.”
Silence.
Valí glanced towards Morpheus.
Morpheus did not move.
“Does he need to stand there like an executioner?”
“Yes.”
You and Morpheus answered simultaneously.
Valí looked between you.
“That's disturbing.”
You sat. Morpheus took the chair beside yours.
Valí remained standing for another moment. Then sat opposite.
Silence returned.
You looked at him.
“So.”
Valí exhaled.
“So.”
You waited.
He looked towards the fire. Then down at his hands. That frightened you more than anything else. Valí rarely struggled for words.
“Odin sent me to you.”
Your chest tightened.
Morpheus remained silent.
Valí continued.
“The first night we met, I wasn’t there by chance. I was waiting for you.”
You said nothing.
For several seconds, you simply looked at him, letting the words settle into place.
That night had existed differently in your memory for years. Something accidental. Yet, apparently, even that had been arranged.
Your fingers tightened slowly against your knees.
Before you could ask anything, Morpheus spoke for the first time.
His voice was quiet.
“Tell her all of it.”
“I know.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
Valí looked back at you.
“My father had been given a prophecy years earlier. Something about Zeus's daughter eventually carrying a power older than Olympus.”
Your stomach dropped.
Ishtar.
“He knew about my mother’s power passing to me?”
“He knew something would happen after Ishtar died.”
“Before she died.”
“Yes.”
You looked down. You suddenly felt cold.
Valí continued.
“He told me to stay close to you.”
You laughed once.
Quietly.
“Stay close.”
He winced.
“At first, yes.”
“And later?”
Silence.
Morpheus's gaze remained fixed on him. Valí looked miserable. Good.
Part of you wanted him to.
“Later he told me to make certain you trusted me.”
You stared.
“I did trust you.”
“I know.”
“No, apparently you don't.”
Gold flashed beneath your wrist. Morpheus's hand moved slightly on the arm of his chair.
Not towards you. He did not interfere. He simply watched.
Valí's voice lowered.
“I know.”
You looked away.
“Keep going.”
He breathed out.
“Odin believed that when your power fully emerged, Asgard would need influence over you.”
“Influence.”
“Yes.”
You wanted to be angry.
Instead you felt hollow.
“Was I supposed to fall in love with you?”
Valí closed his eyes.
That answered before he spoke.
“Eventually, that was what he wanted.”
You stared. Morpheus became utterly still beside you. You felt the temperature of the room change.
Valí noticed.
“I never—”
“Don't.”
You cut across him.
His mouth closed.
“Just don't try to make it sound better.”
He nodded.
You swallowed.
“What was the plan?”
“He wanted me beside you. Someone resistant to your abilities. Someone you trusted enough to listen to.”
“And when I became whatever he thought I was going to become?”
Valí looked at you.
“I was meant to steer your loyalty towards Asgard.”
Your mouth twisted.
“For war.”
“Yes.”
You laughed again.
This one hurt.
“Fantastic.”
Valí leaned forwards.
“I stopped doing what he wanted.”
You immediately looked at him.
“When?”
He stopped.
“When, Valí?”
“Years ago.”
“That's vague.”
“Because there wasn't one specific day.”
You shook your head.
“Convenient.”
“It isn't.”
His voice sharpened.
“I was naïve when he started this.”
Valí looked down.
You hated the sting behind your eyes. You refused to let it become anything more.
“Did you ever tell him things about me?”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
Your throat tightened.
Morpheus's gaze snapped towards Valí.
You looked at neither of them.
“What?”
“At first? Stupid things. Who you spent time with. Whether Zeus kept you close. Whether your power had started manifesting. Whether you had dreams you couldn't explain.”
You looked at him sharply.
“My dreams?”
“Odin was interested in them.”
Morpheus spoke quietly.
Dangerously.
“Why?”
Valí looked towards him.
“I don't know.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“You will endeavour to remember.”
Valí looked back to you.
“Later I stopped giving him anything useful.”
“And he didn't notice?”
“I gave him truths that didn't matter.”
You frowned.
“Like what?”
A tiny, painful smile.
“That you hated formal dinners. That you still couldn't play cards without cheating. That you once pushed Apollo into a fountain.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Then you remembered why he had been reporting anything at all. The amusement died.
Valí saw.
“I am sorry.”
You stared at him.
The apology sat between you. It was not enough. Perhaps nothing would have been.
“Was any of it real?”
Valí looked hurt.
You almost hated yourself for caring.
“You and me. Was any of that actually real?”
His answer came instantly.
“Yes.”
You looked away.
“All the important parts were.”
You said nothing.
Valí leaned forwards.
“I know how that sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His voice dropped.
“I did what Odin wanted in the beginning because he was my father and because I was dumb enough to think obedience was the same thing as survival.”
He swallowed.
“Then I knew you.”
Your eyes returned to his.
“And I stopped caring what he wanted.”
You hated the sincerity in his face. You hated it because you believed at least some of it.
“I love you.”
The words entered the room softly. Everything in you froze.
Beside you, the darkness around Morpheus's chair deepened.
Valí saw. He did not take the words back.
“I have for a long time.”
You stared. You had always known Valí loved you. Not like this. Or perhaps you had deliberately never examined it closely enough to find out.
“Valí…”
“I don't expect anything.”
Morpheus's voice cut across the room.
“That is enough.”
Valí looked towards him.
“She asked whether any of it was real.”
“And you have answered.”
The authority in Morpheus's voice left no space for argument.
Valí sat back.
You looked at Morpheus. His face was unreadable. Too unreadable. You knew him well enough now to distrust that particular stillness.
The conversation ended shortly afterwards. Not because you had run out of questions. Because you had run out of whatever was holding you together.
You stood.
Valí stood too.
“Can I see you again?”
You stopped.
Morpheus's attention sharpened.
You looked at Valí. For years, your answer would have been automatic. Of course.
Now you could not manage it.
“I don't know.”
His face fell.
You hated that too.
You turned and left.
Morpheus followed.
********
There was chess that evening.
You almost did not go. Then you became irritated at yourself for considering allowing Valí to take that from you as well.
So at seventh bell you went to Morpheus's chambers.
The board was already waiting. So was wine. Chocolate. Pretzels. The familiar things.
You sat opposite him. For almost twenty minutes, neither of you mentioned Valí.
You played badly. Morpheus noticed. Naturally. You sacrificed a knight for absolutely no strategic reason.
He stared at the board. Then at you.
“Why did you do that?”
You frowned.
“Do what?”
“Give me your knight.”
You looked down.
“Oh.”
“You have not done so accidentally in fourteen games.”
“Maybe I'm innovating.”
“You are distracted.”
You moved a pawn.
“I'm fine.”
“You are not.”
You looked at him.
“Thank you, physician.”
Morpheus ignored that.
“You are upset.”
You picked up your wine.
“Obviously.”
He waited.
You hated his ability to do that. Simply sit there and allow silence to become so large that eventually you filled it.
“I feel stupid.”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
You laughed softly.
“Because I trusted him.”
“Trust is not stupidity.”
“It is when the person was literally sent to manipulate you.”
“You did not know.”
“Maybe I should have.”
Morpheus's brow furrowed.
“How?”
You gestured vaguely.
“I don't know. Maybe gods are just awful and I should assume everyone has a secondary motive.”
“That would be an exhausting manner in which to exist.”
You stared at him.
“That is almost funny coming from you.”
His expression cooled.
“I do not distrust everyone.”
You raised your eyebrows.
He considered.
“Not equally.”
A laugh escaped you. Small. But real. Morpheus watched until it faded.
Then he moved one of his pieces.
“Valí's feelings for you appear genuine.”
You looked up.
You had not expected him to say that.
“You believe him?”
“On that matter.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
You studied him.
His attention remained on the board. Too carefully.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Does that bother you?”
Morpheus's fingers stopped over the rook.
“His deception bothers me.”
“Not what I asked.”
He looked at you. For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then:
“Did you ever reciprocate them?”
You froze. There it was. The question sat innocently between the chess pieces. It was not innocent.
You looked down.
“No.”
Morpheus remained still.
“Never?”
You frowned.
“No.”
Then, because your mouth was apparently determined to make everything awkward:
“I mean, I liked him. Obviously. Or I thought I knew him enough to value him as a friend. But not like that.”
Morpheus's gaze remained on your face.
You became painfully conscious of the almost-kiss. The walks. The handholding. Calliope. The fact that Morpheus had ended whatever possibility had existed there.
You looked at the board again.
“Why?”
“It was relevant.”
You scoffed.
“To chess?”
“No.”
Silence. Your face heated.
Morpheus moved his rook. You stared at him.
“Coward.”
His eyes lifted.
You smiled faintly.
“Again.”
For one second, something almost warm moved through his expression.
Then disappeared.
Something was different tonight. Not cold. Not exactly. But contained.
He had been drawing nearer to you for days. Weeks, perhaps. Tonight he seemed to be deliberately holding himself at a careful distance.
You noticed. You did not understand it. Instead you said:
“Thank you.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“For what?”
“Giving him sanctuary.”
His expression returned to neutrality.
“I did not do so for his comfort.”
“I know.”
“His information may prove useful.”
“Still.”
You looked down at your pieces.
“Odin scares him.”
“As he should.”
“You could have refused.”
“Yes.”
You waited.
Morpheus finally said:
“He may assist us in determining what occurred to Ishtar.”
There it was again. Logic. Utility. Duty.
You smiled slightly.
“You really can't just accept a thank you, can you?”
His brow furrowed.
“I have accepted it.”
“Badly.”
“There are no degrees of acceptance.”
“There absolutely are.”
For a little while, the evening became easier.
Not normal. But easier. You finished the game. Lost. Demanded another. Lost that too.
When you finally stood to leave, Morpheus walked you to the door.
You slowed. So did he. Your heart began doing that stupid thing again.
This was where it had happened before. Not this exact door. But close enough.
You turned. Morpheus stood perhaps two feet away. You looked at him. He looked at you.
Nothing happened.
No step closer. No hand against your face. No gaze dropping towards your mouth.
Instead Morpheus inclined his head.
“Goodnight.”
You blinked.
“Goodnight.”
You left.
The corridor felt colder than it had before.
********
Morpheus remained beside the closed door long after you had gone.
He knew you had noticed. Of course you had. You noticed more than he preferred.
He returned to the chessboard. Two glasses remained upon the table. Your half-finished wine. A chocolate wrapper folded badly beside your chair. One knight lying on its side where you had sacrificed it for no reason whatsoever. Morpheus looked at it. Then towards the door.
He had nearly kissed you. He had ended the possibility of reconciliation with Calliope. He had asked whether you loved Valí. And yet he remained in possession of knowledge you did not have.
Knowledge that changed everything. The treaty. The release. The fact that you could leave.
Lucienne's findings sat in his private study. Thirty-seven pages proving that Zeus's hold upon the agreement could be dissolved. That your confinement was no longer legally required.
You did not know. He had not told you.
At first, he had delayed because he needed to verify it. Then because Odin's interest had emerged. Then Valí. Then Ishtar. Every delay had possessed reason. None of them erased the truth.
He had spoken to you that morning about ownership. About choice. You belong to no one. The words returned now with uncomfortable precision.
Morpheus looked towards the chessboard. He had meant them. That was what made the contradiction unbearable.
If you belonged to no one, then the choice to remain in his realm had to be yours.
Not his.
His expression tightened.
He should tell you. Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon.
The word had become increasingly difficult to justify.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
For centuries, he had believed duty could excuse almost any cruelty provided the intention behind it was preservation.
He no longer believed that. Not entirely. Perhaps not enough.
The palace shifted uneasily around him.
Morpheus opened his eyes.
“I know.”
The Dreaming offered no reply.
It did not need to.
*******
The next several days reorganised the palace around Valí.
You saw him. Frequently.
You did not speak to him. The first time was outside the Hall of Records. Valí walked between two palace attendants while someone followed several paces behind.
You stopped. Not because of Valí. Because of the man behind him. Tall. Pale. Blond. Dark glasses. A smile that belonged nowhere near anything trustworthy.
You stared. The new Corinthian stared back. His smile widened.
“Morning.”
You looked towards Valí. Then towards him.
“Seriously?”
The Corinthian shrugged.
“Boss wanted security.”
You looked towards the ceiling as though Morpheus might somehow be visible through several floors of palace.
“This is security?”
The Corinthian placed one hand against his chest.
“Hurtful.”
Valí looked miserable. You almost laughed. Almost. Then remembered you were not speaking to him. You walked past.
The Corinthian called after you:
“He hasn't escaped once.”
You did not turn.
“Congratulations.”
*****
Lucienne hated the arrangement.
Not Valí. Although she did not particularly trust him either.
The Corinthian. Specifically the Corinthian being in her library.
“Must you stand there?”
He leaned against one of the shelves.
“Apparently.”
“You are blocking Classical Nightmares, Volume Six.”
He glanced behind himself.
“Popular?”
Lucienne removed her glasses.
“Move.”
He moved. Approximately six inches.
Lucienne stared. He smiled.
“Better?”
“I preferred you unfinished.”
You choked on your tea.
Valí laughed before remembering you were still ignoring him.
You looked away quickly.
*********
Morpheus questioned Valí daily.
Sometimes for hours.
The information came slowly. Fragments of old rites. Things Odin had asked him to watch for. Names of seers. Places Odin had searched after Ishtar's death. One name led Lucienne to an archive she had previously dismissed as irrelevant. Another connected the ritual destruction of Ishtar's temple to an older method of transferring divine essence through blood rather than inheritance. For the first time in weeks, the investigation shifted. Lucienne became almost energised.
You found her buried beneath records one morning.
“Anything?”
She looked up.
“Possibly.”
That was practically enthusiasm.
“Valí remembered a phrase Odin used repeatedly. ‘Blood recognises blood even when the vessel does not.’”
You frowned.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Most ancient texts do.”
“Fair.”
Soon afterwards, Valí was assigned to the library.
Not freely. Never freely.
The Corinthian sat somewhere nearby every time. Sometimes reading. Sometimes pretending to. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing in a way Lucienne found deeply offensive.
You and Valí worked within twenty feet of each other for nearly three days without speaking.
It was childish. You knew that. You did not care.
Meanwhile, Morpheus continued appearing. Constantly.
He checked the library. He checked your training. He checked whether Valí's presence unsettled your power. He claimed all of this was necessary.
You became increasingly unconvinced.
There were walks. Not every evening. Enough.
One through a forest where every leaf contained someone's forgotten dream. Another through a seaside city assembled from places mortals had only imagined visiting. Morpheus showed you a theatre that performed plays nobody had ever written. You dragged him through a dream-market and made him eat something suspiciously similar to fairy floss. He disliked it. You bought him another.
There were dinners. Chess. Long conversations that increasingly had nothing to do with training or Ishtar.
No more almost-kisses. That was the strange part. Everything else continued. The closeness. The attention. The way Morpheus sometimes looked at you and then deliberately looked elsewhere.
He was courting you. You were almost certain. He simply seemed unwilling to admit it. Or finish what he had started. That became increasingly irritating.
******
Nearly a week after Valí's arrival, the library finally provided the opportunity for disaster.
Of course it did. Lucienne had gone to the lower archive.
The Corinthian had been called away because a nightmare had attempted to leave through the western gate.
Austin was shelving records two galleries away. You were alone at the central table. Almost. You heard the chair move. Looked up. Valí stood opposite you.
You immediately returned to your book.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“I haven't said anything yet.”
“Excellent. Continue.”
He sighed.
“Are you ever going to speak to me again?”
You turned a page.
“Currently speaking.”
“You know what I mean.”
You ignored him.
Valí dragged the chair out. Sat.
You looked up.
“The Corinthian is going to eat you.”
“Apparently the new one doesn't do that without permission.”
“Comforting.”
Valí watched you. You hated how easily his face still felt familiar.
“So.”
You closed the book.
“What?”
He hesitated.
Then, astonishingly:
“An Endless.”
You stared.
“What?”
His mouth curved. Not happily.
“I leave you unsupervised for a few months and you manage to develop feelings for an Endless.”
Your entire body went still.
“Excuse me?”
“Dream.”
Gold flashed beneath your skin.
Valí looked down. Unaffected. Of course.
That irritated you more.
“You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”
He laughed.
“I've known you since you were quite young.”
“Apparently under false pretences.”
That hurt him. Good.
“Fair.”
He leaned back.
“Still. Him?”
“Do not –“
Valí stared. Then laughed again.
“Oh, you're gone.”
Gold brightened.
“Valí.”
“I'm serious.”
His amusement disappeared.
“What are you doing?”
You stood.
“None of your business.”
He stood too.
“He's Endless.”
“I am aware.”
“No, I mean actually think about that.”
“I have.”
“They don't love like we do.”
That stopped you.
Valí saw.
He continued.
“They possess and they make kingdoms around things and call it devotion until whatever they love suffocates.”
Gold climbed your wrist.
“Stop.”
“Look at his history.”
“I said stop.”
“Nada.”
You went cold.
“Calliope.”
“Valí.”
“Even his own son—”
Your hand moved before you thought about it.
The slap cracked through the library.
Valí's face snapped sideways.
Silence.
Your palm stung.
Gold blazed over your forearm.
Valí slowly turned back.
A red mark appeared across his cheek.
He looked more shocked than hurt.
You were breathing hard.
Valí stared at you.
Then something behind you said:
“Well.”
You closed your eyes.
Of course.
The Corinthian stood at the end of the aisle.
Dark glasses.
Hands in his pockets.
Deeply entertained.
“This seems supervised.”
You looked at him.
“Shut up.”
“Wasn't criticising.”
His smile widened.
“Personally, I thought that was pretty good.”
Valí touched his cheek.
“You're terrible at security.”
“You still have all your limbs.”
A shadow moved behind him.
The Corinthian's smile vanished.
Morpheus stepped into the aisle.
Everyone stopped.
His eyes went first to you.
Then Valí.
Then the mark on Valí's face.
Then the gold beneath your skin.
His expression became dangerously blank.
“What happened?”
Valí answered first.
“I was being an arse.”
You looked at him.
Morpheus did not.
“That is insufficiently specific.”
The Corinthian leaned against the shelf.
“He insulted you. She hit him.”
Silence.
Morpheus looked at you.
You looked elsewhere.
Valí muttered:
“That's an extremely simplified version.”
“It was thirty seconds long.”
The Corinthian smiled again.
Morpheus's attention shifted to Valí.
“You were given rules.”
Valí's mouth tightened.
“I didn't touch her.”
“The rules were not limited to physical contact.”
His voice became quieter.
“You were instructed not to interfere.”
Valí folded his arms.
“We were talking.”
“You were provoking her.”
“She can handle being provoked.”
Darkness spread across the floor.
You stepped forwards.
“Morpheus.”
His eyes moved to you immediately.
“It's fine.”
“It is not.”
“I slapped him.”
“I am aware.”
You looked at Valí's face.
Your anger had already begun fading.
Mostly.
“Sorry.”
Valí shrugged.
“I've had worse.”
Morpheus's gaze dropped towards Valí's cheek.
Something changed.
You noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“Do it again.”
Valí frowned.
“What?”
Morpheus moved closer.
Not to his face.
His gaze had shifted towards Valí's wrist.
You followed it.
Nothing seemed unusual.
Then Morpheus looked at you.
Something had sharpened in his expression.
“Touch him.”
You stared.
“What?”
Valí stared too.
The Corinthian slowly straightened.
Morpheus extended one hand slightly towards you.
“Please.”
That made it stranger.
“Why?”
“I wish to understand something.”
You looked at Valí.
Then back.
“No.”
Morpheus's brow furrowed.
“You struck him moments ago.”
“That doesn't mean I want to hold his hand.”
Valí almost smiled.
You pointed at him.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Morpheus stepped closer.
“Only for a moment.”
Something in his voice made you stop arguing.
You held out your hand.
Valí looked suspicious.
“This feels like a terrible idea.”
The Corinthian said:
“Most interesting things do.”
Lucienne's voice came from somewhere behind him.
“Why are all of you gathered in my aisle?”
Nobody answered.
Valí reluctantly put his hand in yours.
The instant your palms touched, gold flashed.
Not from you.
From him.
Valí gasped.
You jerked.
Morpheus caught his wrist before either of you could pull apart.
“Remain still.”
“Lord Shaper, I—”
“Still.”
The command struck hard enough that Valí obeyed.
Thin lines of gold raced beneath the skin of his forearm.
Not the warm branching glow of your own power.
These followed something else.
Old scars.
You stared.
“What the hell?”
Morpheus pushed Valí's sleeve higher.
The scars beneath it ignited.
Every rune Odin had carved into him suddenly visible in gold.
Valí swore.
“That has never happened.”
Morpheus's expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Your shirt.”
Valí stared.
“Absolutely not.”
“Move it.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
The Corinthian made an appreciative noise.
Morpheus looked at him.
Valí immediately stopped smiling.
He pulled the collar of his shirt aside.
More scars ran over his shoulder.
Down towards his chest.
Your gold moved through them.
Not randomly.
Following a pattern.
Morpheus stared.
Lucienne had reached the group now.
Her eyes widened.
“My lord…”
“Yes.”
You looked between them.
“Would someone like to explain why Valí is glowing?”
Morpheus did not answer immediately.
He released Valí.
You dropped his hand.
The light faded.
Slowly.
Valí looked disturbed.
You were more than disturbed.
“What?”
Morpheus turned towards you.
“The rite Odin performed did not merely make him resistant to your power.”
“Then what did it do?”
Morpheus looked back towards the scars.
“It made his body recognise you as kin.”
Silence.
You stared.
“What?”
Valí looked equally horrified.
“Kin?”
You took a step backwards.
“Wait. Are you saying we're related?”
“No.”
Morpheus answered instantly.
“Not by birth.”
You frowned.
“Then how can his body recognise me as kin?”
Lucienne was already staring at Valí's scars as though mentally searching twenty thousand books.
Morpheus's voice lowered.
“Something was placed within him.”
Valí's face changed.
“The ritual.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Morpheus's eyes remained on him.
“An essence belonging to her bloodline.”
You stared.
“An essence.”
“Blood. Divine matter. Something sufficiently close to your lineage that your power does not perceive him as foreign.”
Your stomach turned.
Valí looked sick.
“That's why it doesn't affect me.”
“I believe so.”
Valí's gaze dropped towards the scars.
Then suddenly lifted.
“The knife.”
Morpheus's eyes sharpened.
“What knife?”
Valí looked towards him.
“During the rite.”
His breathing had changed.
“Odin cut me with a knife.”
“You already told me there was blood.”
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Valí shook his head.
“Before mine.”
Silence.
Morpheus became very still.
“Explain.”
Valí closed his eyes, trying to remember.
“The blade was already stained.”
Lucienne stepped closer.
“With blood?”
“I assumed so.”
Morpheus's voice lowered.
“Fresh?”
Valí frowned.
“I don't know. I didn’t pay attention. I wasn't exactly inspecting it.”
He rubbed his forearm unconsciously.
“But I remember thinking it was strange. Odin never used dirty ceremonial tools.”
Morpheus was no longer looking at Valí.
He was looking at you.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
His gaze had dropped.
Not far.
Towards your chest.
You frowned.
Then his face changed.
Barely.
But you saw it.
Recognition.
Your stomach tightened.
“What?”
Morpheus looked back at your face.
“Your scar.”
Everything stopped.
You stared.
Valí looked between you.
Lucienne did too.
The Corinthian's eyebrows lifted behind his glasses.
“My what?”
Morpheus did not answer.
Your heart began to beat faster.
“How do you know about my scar?”
Silence.
Then understanding hit you.
Hard.
The bedroom.
The blanket.
Your naked body.
Morpheus standing in the doorway.
Heat exploded across your face.
His did not.
Mostly.
There was, however, the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth that told you he had remembered the exact same thing.
You stared at him.
“Oh my God.”
Valí frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You and Morpheus said it simultaneously.
The Corinthian smiled.
Lucienne abruptly became fascinated by Valí's sleeve.
Valí looked between everyone.
“Why is this suddenly weird?”
“It isn't.”
You glared at Morpheus.
“You saw it then.”
Morpheus's voice became painfully formal.
“Yes.”
Your face became hotter.
“Of course you did.”
“I did not deliberately—”
“Please do not finish that sentence in front of everyone.”
Morpheus stopped.
The Corinthian bit the inside of his cheek.
You pointed at him.
“If you laugh, I will use my powers.”
He raised both hands.
“Didn't say a thing.”
You turned back to Morpheus.
“What about the scar?”
His expression changed immediately.
Serious again.
“Where did you get it?”
Your embarrassment faded slightly.
You instinctively touched the place.
High on your left side, near your breast.
A small pale mark.
Old enough that you barely noticed it.
“I don't know.”
Morpheus stared.
“You do not know.”
“I've had it forever.”
“Since when?”
You shrugged.
“Since I was little.”
His expression hardened.
“How little?”
You thought.
“Baby, probably.”
Silence.
Something passed between Morpheus and Lucienne.
You noticed.
Immediately.
“What?”
Neither answered.
You looked between them.
“What?”
Lucienne spoke carefully.
“Do you know what caused it?”
“No.”
“Did Zeus ever explain?”
You laughed bitterly.
“Zeus didn't explain anything.”
Morpheus stepped closer.
You touched the scar again.
“I just assumed it was something from when I was a baby. An accident. Whatever.”
Morpheus stared at the place beneath your clothing.
Not sexually now.
Not remotely.
His expression had become something much darker.
Calculation.
Memory.
Pieces moving into place.
Ishtar.
Blood.
The ritual.
Odin preparing Valí before Ishtar died.
A knife already stained with blood.
A scar you had possessed since infancy.
Morpheus looked at Valí.
Then at you.
“Stay here.”
You frowned.
“What?”
Black sand had already begun gathering around him.
“Morpheus.”
He looked towards Lucienne.
“Find every account we possess concerning divine blood rites performed upon infants. Particularly those involving transference, concealment or sympathetic protection.”
Lucienne nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
You stepped towards him.
“Where are you going?”
Morpheus's expression was terrible now.
Not angry.
Certain.
“To learn who put that scar upon you.”
Your stomach dropped.
“How?”
But the question reached empty air.
Morpheus was gone.
Black sand collapsed where he had stood.
Silence filled the library.
You stared at the space.
Valí slowly pulled his sleeve back down.
The Corinthian looked towards the ceiling.
Lucienne was already moving towards the restricted archives.
You remained where you were, one hand pressed unconsciously over the tiny scar you had carried for as long as you could remember.
For the first time in your life, it no longer felt insignificant.
And somewhere very far from the Dreaming, something old was about to discover that the King of Dreams had begun asking the right questions.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Meanwhile…
You had accomplished nothing. Literally nothing. For nearly an hour.
You had copied the same catalogue number twice. Misfiled a dream concerning a baker in Prague. Dropped three books. And read half a page upside down before Austin quietly reached over and turned the volume around.
You glared at him.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
You looked towards the library doors again.
Austin followed your gaze.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“No.”
“You've looked at the door fourteen times.”
You snapped your attention towards him.
“Why does everyone count things I do?”
“Because you become very predictable when nervous.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“Fifteen.”
You threw a scrap of paper at him.
The doors opened. You sat upright so quickly your chair scraped the floor.
Matthew flew inside.
You immediately looked behind him. No Morpheus. No Calliope. Just Matthew. You pretended you had not moved.
Matthew landed beside you.
He stared. You stared back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Matthew hopped closer.
“Okay, so, good news and bad news.”
Your stomach tightened.
“What?”
Lucienne was already approaching.
Nuala emerged from another aisle.
Austin put his book down.
Matthew looked around.
“Okay. Serious thing first. Odin is looking for you.”
You stared at him.
“Odin?”
“Yep.”
For a second, you genuinely wondered whether you had misheard.
“Not Valí?”
“No. Valí’s actually the one who warned you. Well—not you exactly. He warned the boss, but still.”
You stood.
“Where is he?”
Matthew shifted his wings.
“Complicated.”
“Matthew.”
“He gave something to Orpheus. Orpheus gave it to Calliope. Calliope brought it here. That is about as much as I got from it.”
You frowned.
“Why didn’t Valí come himself?”
Lucienne answered quietly.
“Because he believes Odin may be watching him.”
The room seemed to cool.
You looked between them.
“Watching him how?”
“Closely enough that Valí fears entering the Dreaming would reveal where his loyalties lie.”
Your stomach tightened.
You thought of Valí. Of all the years you had known him. Of the possibility that every movement he made now had to be measured against his father noticing.
Then another thought struck.
“Why is Odin looking for me?”
Matthew's wings shifted.
“It’s got something to do with your powers.”
You immediately thought about every conversation you had ever had with Valí. Every unexplained appearance. Every time he had arrived on Olympus when you needed someone. Morpheus had already told you Odin might have placed him near you deliberately.
You had hated that.
“Does my father know?”
Matthew made a face.
That was not promising.
“Apparently.”
“And?”
Matthew looked towards Lucienne.
Lucienne's expression became grim.
“Zeus informed Odin that you are now the property of the Dreaming and therefore the matter does not concern Olympus.”
You went completely still.
“Property.”
Gold flickered once beneath your wrist.
Nuala moved closer.
Austin's expression darkened.
You laughed once.
There was no humour in it.
“Of course he did.”
Lucienne started to speak.
You shook your head.
“No. That's exactly what he would say.”
Matthew quickly added:
“The boss wasn't happy about that wording.”
Your eyes moved towards him.
“What did he say?”
Matthew puffed himself up slightly, deepened his voice terribly and attempted what was apparently meant to be Morpheus.
“She is not property.”
You stared.
Austin snorted.
Lucienne closed her eyes.
Nuala covered a smile.
“That sounded nothing like him.”
Matthew looked offended.
“I thought it was pretty good.”
“You sounded constipated.”
“He's got a deep voice!”
Despite everything, you laughed. The tension broke slightly. Then you looked at Matthew again.
“What was the bad news?”
Matthew blinked.
“That was the bad news.”
“You said good news and bad news.”
“Oh.”
Something changed in his expression.
Then he became entirely too pleased with himself.
You immediately grew suspicious.
“What?”
Matthew hopped closer.
“No more Calliope.”
Silence.
Your brain stopped.
“What?”
Matthew's feathers fluffed.
“The boss ended it.”
You stared.
“Ended what?”
“Whatever possibility there was of them doing the whole getting-back-together thing.”
You became acutely aware of Nuala beside you. And Austin. And Lucienne. And the fact that absolutely everyone was now watching you.
You attempted indifference.
“Oh.”
Matthew stared.
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“That's it?”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“I don't know. Maybe stop looking like someone just handed you a birthday present.”
Your face heated.
“I do not.”
Austin looked at you.
Nuala looked at you.
Lucienne very deliberately looked away.
Traitors. All of them.
Matthew continued.
“She asked if he wanted to spend time with her privately.”
Your stomach flipped. You hated it.
“Matthew.”
Lucienne's warning came immediately.
Matthew looked towards her.
“What? She was going to ask.”
You absolutely had been. You hated that too.
“And?”
Matthew looked back at you.
“He said no.”
The relief was so immediate you nearly hated yourself for it.
Matthew saw.
Of course he did.
“Then they talked about, you know, their marriage and everything that happened, and she said she thought maybe after he rescued her from that writer guy and he'd changed and they were talking again—”
“Matthew.”
Lucienne's voice became sharper.
“I am summarising.”
“Poorly.”
“Fine. Short version.”
Matthew looked directly at you.
“She thought maybe reconciliation. Boss said no. Said he had changed, and that's exactly why he wasn't going to confuse guilt or regret with love and try to resurrect something that was over.”
You said nothing.
Something warm and deeply inconvenient unfolded beneath your ribs.
You looked down at the desk.
“Oh.”
Matthew leaned closer.
“That's a different oh.”
You glared.
“Go away.”
“Also—”
Lucienne moved.
Matthew immediately flew upwards.
“Okay! Going!”
He circled once above you.
Then called down:
“He definitely isn't sleeping with his ex anymore!”
Every person in the library froze.
Your jaw dropped.
“MATTHEW!”
He disappeared through the nearest archway.
Lucienne removed her glasses.
“I am going to pluck that bird.”
*********
Naturally, Morpheus entered the library approximately thirty seconds later.
You saw him. Your entire body reacted.
Not with dangerous power. Thankfully.
Just an immediate rush of heat directly into your face. He looked first towards Lucienne. Then Nuala. Then Austin. Then you.
His gaze stopped. You knew. He knew. Somehow he knew Matthew had told you. Perhaps it was the expression on your face. Perhaps it was the fact that Matthew was conspicuously absent. Perhaps Morpheus simply possessed a supernatural awareness of when his raven had betrayed him.
“Where is Matthew?”
No one answered.
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
From somewhere high within the library came a very faint flutter of wings.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Morpheus looked towards you again.
“May I speak with you?”
Your pulse immediately misbehaved.
“About Odin?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
You stood.
Austin watched.
Nuala watched.
Lucienne pretended not to.
You followed Morpheus towards one of the quieter side galleries.
He waited until you were beyond earshot.
Then turned.
“Matthew spoke to you.”
You folded your arms.
“Depends what about.”
Morpheus stared.
You failed to maintain composure.
“Yes.”
His eyes closed for one brief second.
“Of course he did.”
You almost smiled.
Then remembered the important part.
“Odin is looking for me.”
Morpheus became serious immediately.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I do not yet know, but I assume he knows about your powers.”
“And Valí sent the warning.”
“He did.”
“So he's all right?”
Morpheus paused.
“As far as we know.”
That was not enough reassurance.
He saw it.
“The warning itself suggests he remains capable of acting against his father's wishes.”
You nodded slowly.
“Which probably means Odin doesn't know Valí warned us.”
“That is our assumption.”
You looked away.
“And Zeus really called me property?”
The air around Morpheus shifted.
“Yes.”
You laughed bitterly.
“At least he's consistent.”
Morpheus stepped slightly closer.
“His description has no bearing upon what you are.”
You looked at him.
“Good.”
Morpheus regarded you for another moment. Then some of the softness left his expression. Not entirely. Enough for the King of Dreams to return.
“Very well. May I return to the matter for which I asked to speak with you now?”
You blinked. Then nodded.
“Fine. Continue.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Valí seems to seek protection within the Dreaming.”
You frowned.
“From Odin.”
“Yes.”
That settled heavily.
You knew Valí feared his father. Not in the way mortals feared an angry parent. Odin was not merely his father. He was a king. A god. A creature who had sacrificed pieces of himself in pursuit of knowledge and treated nearly everyone around him as something that might eventually prove useful. Including, apparently, his own son.
“Are you going to give it to him?”
Morpheus did not answer immediately. That meant the answer was complicated. Of course it was.
“I am considering it.”
You studied him.
“You don't trust him.”
“No.”
No hesitation whatsoever.
You almost laughed.
“You really don't like Valí.”
Morpheus's expression remained perfectly composed.
“My personal feelings towards him are irrelevant.”
“That means yes.”
“It means they are irrelevant.”
You let him have that one. Barely.
Morpheus continued.
“Whether I trust him is more pertinent. Valí has been close to you for years. We now know Odin deliberately arranged at least part of that association.”
Your amusement disappeared.
“You think Valí was working for him.”
“I think I do not yet know whose interests Valí has served, nor when those interests may have changed.”
That hurt more than you wanted it to. Morpheus saw.
His tone became marginally less severe.
“But that does not mean his warning is false.”
You looked towards the shelves.
“But it might be.”
“Yes.”
You exhaled.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Speak with him.”
You looked back.
“Here?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“Not yet.”
Something about that made you uneasy.
“Why?”
“Because until I am satisfied that this is not a device designed to gain him entrance to my realm, Valí will not enter it.”
You frowned.
“But he asked for protection.”
“And if his information proves useful, I may grant it.”
“May.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
Morpheus continued before you could object.
“His knowledge could assist more than one matter presently under investigation. If Odin knew what you would become before Ishtar's death, then he may know something concerning the destruction of her temple, the removal of her power, or the means by which that power came to reside within you.”
Your stomach tightened.
Ishtar.
Every road seemed to return there.
“And Valí knows what Odin knows.”
“Perhaps.”
“That's vague.”
“Because we possess insufficient information.”
“So you want to trade protection for answers.”
“Essentially.”
You considered that.
Then another thought arrived.
“And if you let him into the Dreaming?”
Morpheus's expression hardened again.
“He will not be placed near you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“If I grant Valí sanctuary, he will reside in another part of the palace. His movements will be restricted. He will be observed.”
“Observed by who?”
“Whomever I appoint.”
“Matthew?”
A pause.
“Perhaps not Matthew.”
You laughed once.
“Probably wise.”
The faintest irritation crossed Morpheus's face.
Then he continued.
“Valí possesses no power within my realm that I cannot contain. Should he attempt deception, violence, escape, or contact with Odin, I will know.”
You stared at him.
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
Of course he was. This was the Dreaming. His realm. Valí might have been the son of Odin in the waking world, but here he would be standing inside Morpheus's mind made kingdom. That was probably not an especially comfortable position for anyone Morpheus distrusted.
“And you are telling me this why?”
Morpheus became quiet.
You waited.
His answer, when it came, was much less imperious than expected.
“Because you will be affected by his presence.”
You frowned.
“I already know Valí.”
“Precisely.”
His gaze held yours.
“And because I have learned that making decisions concerning those close to you without first informing you tends to cause considerable anger.”
You stared.
He stared back.
Your mouth slowly opened.
“Are you learning?”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“Do not make me regret the attempt.”
You smiled.
You could not help it.
“Sorry.”
“You are not.”
“No.”
Something almost amused moved through his face.
Then he became serious again.
“If Valí enters the Dreaming, those will be the conditions. He will be protected from Odin while within my realm, but he will remain apart from you until I determine that his intentions are what he claims them to be.”
You considered it.
Valí. Here. Close, but not allowed near you. Supervised like some dangerous visitor.
The idea should have offended you. A few weeks ago it absolutely would have. But a few weeks ago you had not known Odin had deliberately sent Valí into your life. You had not known Odin had anticipated whatever you were becoming. You had not known Valí himself was afraid enough to ask Morpheus for sanctuary.
You sighed.
“Okay.”
Morpheus waited.
You looked at him.
“What?”
“That is all?”
“Yes.”
His brow furrowed.
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that.”
Now you stared.
“Are you disappointed I'm not arguing?”
“No.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I am surprised.”
“I'm capable of being reasonable.”
A beat.
“Occasionally.”
Your mouth dropped open.
Morpheus's expression remained perfectly blank.
“Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“That was absolutely a joke.”
He turned away.
“I will make the necessary arrangements.”
You followed him with your eyes.
“Morpheus.”
He stopped.
You hesitated.
Despite everything—Odin, Zeus, Ishtar, Valí—another question pushed against the back of your teeth.
Something about Calliope. Something about last night. Something much more dangerous.
You swallowed it.
“Be careful.”
Morpheus looked back at you.
For a moment, something unreadable moved through those impossible eyes.
Then:
“I shall.”
He left.
You remained between the shelves.
And only after he disappeared around the corner did you realise something.
He had told you.
Before deciding.
Before bringing Valí here.
Morpheus had actually asked what you thought.
You stared after him.
That might have been more alarming than Odin.
**********
There was no chess that night.
You discovered this at precisely the hour you normally would leave the library to get ready for it.
Instead, Nuala found you in the library with a message.
“His lordship will not be available this evening.”
You looked up from the catalogue.
“Oh.”
Nuala watched you.
You attempted to make the sound less disappointed after the fact.
Impossible.
“Did he say why?”
“Only that he had business in the waking world.”
Your hand stopped.
“Of course. He is going to speak with Vali.”
Nuala hesitated.
“I would assume so.”
You looked towards the nearest window.
The Dreaming beyond it had settled into deep blue.
No unusual weather.
No storms.
No stars disappearing.
Nothing to tell you where Morpheus had gone.
Or what he intended to do when he found Valí.
*********
The waking world received Dream badly that night.
Not because it resisted him.
It never truly could.
But because the place Valí had chosen to hide was already full of uneasy dreams.
A village without tourists. A railway line without trains. A narrow strip of northern woodland where black firs crowded so close together that the moon touched only the uppermost branches.
There had once been a town there.
Not much remained.
Three houses leaned against the weather.
A ruined chapel stood among graves whose names had been erased by rain.
Beyond it, a hotel had burned decades ago and never been rebuilt. Its foundations remained beneath the moss.
Mortals avoided the place without knowing why. They called it abandoned. It was not.
The dead left impressions. The frightened left more.
Morpheus stepped from darkness onto the old road.
No sand announced him.
No gate opened.
He was simply there.
Black coat moving faintly in a wind that had not existed until he arrived.
The nearest streetlamp flickered.
Then died.
Farther down the road, another followed. Then another. One by one.
Darkness moved towards the house at the end.
Valí was waiting inside.
Morpheus knew before approaching.
He knew because nothing in that house slept.
Not the rats between the walls.
Not the birds in the roof.
Not Valí.
Every living thing within it had been awake for three days.
Fear did that sometimes.
Morpheus stopped before the door. Rot had swollen the wood in its frame. A strip of yellow light showed beneath it.
He did not knock.
The door opened.
Valí stood on the other side.
For perhaps two seconds neither spoke.
Morpheus had never liked him. He disliked him more now.
Valí looked less like a god's son tonight.
Dark clothes. Unshaven. Hair tied badly away from his face. There were shadows beneath his eyes that suggested either exhaustion or the deliberate refusal to sleep.
Probably both.
A knife sat within reach on the table behind him.
Morpheus looked at it.
Then at Valí.
Valí gave a humourless smile.
“It isn't for you.”
“It would be useless if it were.”
The smile disappeared.
Valí stepped aside.
Morpheus entered.
The house smelled of damp wood, extinguished candles and old smoke.
Runes had been drawn across every window.
Salt marked the thresholds.
Pieces of iron hung above the doors.
Morpheus glanced once around the room.
“You believe these will conceal you from Odin?”
Valí closed the door.
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because they make me feel marginally less like prey.”
Morpheus looked at him.
“You are afraid.”
Valí laughed quietly.
“Brilliant observation.”
“Fear is useful when justified.”
“And is mine?”
“That remains to be determined.”
Valí stared.
“You came.”
“You requested protection.”
“Yes.”
“Then you requested much from someone you have given little reason to trust you.”
Valí's jaw tightened.
There it was.
The hostility Morpheus expected.
Good.
He preferred it to charm.
“I warned you.”
“You sent an object through my estranged son and former wife.”
Valí winced faintly.
“When you say it like that—”
“There is no other way to say it.”
Silence settled between them.
The house creaked.
Something moved outside among the trees.
Neither looked.
Valí eventually said:
“Will you protect me?”
Morpheus's answer came immediately.
“Not yet.”
Valí's expression hardened.
“Then why are you here?”
“To decide whether bringing you into my realm would protect you or merely complete whatever design Odin has begun.”
“You think this is a trap.”
“I consider the possibility.”
“And her?”
The shadows in the room deepened.
Valí noticed.
Morpheus's voice became very quiet.
“You will not speak of her as though you possess some claim upon her.”
Valí stared at him and gave a shy nod.
Morpheus moved farther into the room.
He did not sit.
Valí did not offer.
“And if you enter the Dreaming, you will not be brought near her until I am satisfied that you present no danger.”
Valí's expression changed immediately.
“She'll want to see me.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“To you.”
The room darkened.
Valí stopped.
Morpheus took one slow step towards him.
“If your presence in her life was arranged by Odin, then until I know the purpose of that arrangement, you will not approach her.”
Valí held his gaze.
“I never hurt her.”
“That is not the same as saying you were not used against her.”
That struck.
Morpheus saw it.
Valí looked away first.
Good.
“Tell me why her power does not affect you.”
Valí went very still.
There.
The question mattered.
Morpheus had known it would.
“You noticed.”
“I notice everything that concerns my realm.”
Valí's mouth twisted.
“She's not your realm.”
Silence.
The lamps went out.
All of them.
Valí froze.
Only moonlight remained, thin and grey through the runes painted across the windows.
Morpheus stood within it like something the darkness itself had constructed.
“Answer me.”
Valí swallowed.
“My father made me resistant.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“How?”
“An old rite.”
“Which rite?”
“I don't know.”
Morpheus said nothing.
Valí exhaled sharply.
“I was young.”
“You are still young.”
“By your standards, everyone is.”
Morpheus waited.
Valí rubbed one hand over his face.
“It happened before I met her. Odin said there were powers I needed to endure without bending. Desire. Worship. Compulsion. He performed a rite over me.”
“What did it require?”
“Blood. Mine. His. Something burned that I was never allowed to see. Runes carved beneath the skin.”
Morpheus's gaze dropped.
Valí hesitated.
Then pulled back his sleeve.
Old scars crossed the inside of his forearm.
Not random.
A pattern.
Morpheus recognised pieces of it.
Much older than Asgard.
Older than the names Odin now used for such magic.
Interesting.
Unpleasantly interesting.
“He prepared you specifically for her.”
Valí lowered his sleeve.
Silence.
Morpheus's expression changed.
“Answer.”
“Yes.”
The house shuddered once beneath a wind that struck from nowhere.
“Before you met her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Valí looked towards the dead fireplace.
“Because he'd been told what she would become.”
Morpheus went perfectly still.
“By whom?”
“An oracle.”
“Name them.”
“I don't know.”
Darkness pressed inward.
Valí turned sharply back towards him.
“I don't. He never told me.”
Morpheus watched him.
No obvious lie.
That did not make it truth.
“What was Odin told?”
Valí hesitated.
“That Zeus's daughter would become something older than Olympus had intended.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“That power would pass into her.”
Still nothing.
Valí's voice lowered.
“After Ishtar died.”
The darkness changed.
Not violently.
Worse.
Every shadow in the house turned towards Valí.
He noticed.
His breathing slowed.
“When did Odin receive this prophecy?”
“Years before her death.”
Morpheus stared.
The implications unfolded rapidly.
Ishtar alive.
Odin already aware that her power would somehow pass to you.
Valí prepared.
Placed near you.
A contingency assembled long before the event itself.
“Did Odin kill Ishtar?”
Valí's answer came quickly.
“No.”
“You are certain.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he has spent years trying to discover who did.”
Morpheus studied him.
“That does not preclude involvement.”
“No. But if Odin had arranged her death, he would have tried to claim her powers somehow.”
Morpheus accepted that.
Barely.
“What were his instructions to you? Why did Odin place you near her?”
Valí laughed once.
Bitterly.
He looked away.
“You really want the humiliating version?”
Morpheus’s expression did not change.
“I want the truth.”
Valí paced towards the fireplace.
“Odin told me to befriend her.”
Morpheus's expression did not move.
“Continue.”
“Become someone she trusted.”
“Continue.”
Valí's shoulders tightened.
“Court her, eventually.”
The room became cold.
Not dream-cold.
Not ordinary winter.
The sort of cold that belonged between stars.
Valí slowly looked back.
Morpheus had not moved.
That somehow made it worse.
“You were instructed to seduce her.”
“No.”
The answer came sharply.
“Not like that.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
“Explain the distinction.”
Valí's jaw clenched.
“He wanted attachment. Trust. Loyalty. If she became what the oracle predicted, Odin wanted someone beside her who could withstand her power and direct her.”
There it was.
Morpheus had expected ugliness.
Odin rarely disappointed.
“Direct her towards what?”
Valí did not answer.
Morpheus already knew.
He asked anyway.
“Towards what, Valí?”
Valí met his eyes.
“To support Asgard.”
Morpheus’s expression did not change.
“Support Asgard in what?”
A beat passed.
Valí’s mouth tightened.
“War.”
Morpheus remained perfectly still.
Of course.
Power such as yours had never interested Odin for its beauty.
“Of course.”
Valí gave a short, tired laugh.
“That was more or less my reaction when I finally understood it.”
“You obeyed him.”
“At first.”
“For how long?”
Valí's eyes hardened.
“Long enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Years.”
Morpheus's dislike sharpened into something colder.
“You cultivated her trust for years at your father's instruction.”
“Yes.”
“And you now expect me to permit you access to her.”
Valí's temper finally broke.
“I was naïve when it started.”
The windows rattled.
Morpheus did not blink.
“And later?”
Valí stopped.
That was the real question.
Later.
When he understood.
When choice had replaced obedience.
Valí looked away.
“Later, I stayed around her because I wanted to.”
Morpheus watched him.
“Why?”
Valí gave him an exhausted look.
“You know why.”
“Say it.”
Valí's mouth tightened.
For the first time that night, fear gave way to something else.
Something much less convenient.
“Because I love her.”
Silence.
Not a single board creaked.
Not a branch moved.
Even the wind seemed to stop outside.
Morpheus's face revealed nothing.
Valí laughed softly.
“There. Happy?”
“No.”
That answer was so immediate Valí almost smiled.
Almost.
“I love her,” Valí repeated. “Actually. Not because Odin told me to. Not because of what she could become. Half the time I wished she had no power at all because then none of them would have cared.”
Morpheus's gaze sharpened.
“Did you tell her what Odin intended?”
Valí's face fell.
“No.”
“Then your love did not prevent deception.”
“I was trying to keep her out of it.”
“By continuing the lie.”
“By keeping Odin convinced I was still useful.”
That gave Morpheus pause.
Valí continued quickly.
“You think I could just tell him no? Tell her everything? Odin would have removed me from her life or found someone else. Someone who actually would have done what he wanted.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps.”
Valí stepped closer.
“You don't know him like I do.”
Morpheus's expression became almost contemptuous.
“I know Odin.”
Valí laughed.
“You know the All-Father. The king. The god who bargains with other ancient beings. I know what he is when the doors close.”
That remained between them.
Morpheus did not challenge it.
Instead:
“Why betray him now?”
Valí's face tightened.
“I betrayed him years ago.”
“Why reveal yourself now?”
That was different.
Valí understood.
He looked down.
“Because Zeus gave her to you.”
The shadows moved faintly.
“He did not give her to me.”
“Fine. Treaty. Custody. Responsibility. Whatever word makes you less angry.”
Morpheus's eyes flashed.
Valí held up one hand.
“My point is that she disappeared into the Dreaming. Odin couldn't reach her. I couldn't reach her either.”
“You attempted to.”
“Of course I did.”
Morpheus disliked the speed of that answer.
Valí saw.
“She's my friend.”
A beat.
“Among other things.”
The darkness deepened.
Valí sighed.
“You asked.”
“And once you learned she was protected here?”
“I realised Odin would move sooner than I expected.”
“Why?”
“Because the one thing he never planned for was her becoming inaccessible.”
That mattered.
Morpheus filed it away.
“So you contacted Orpheus.”
“Yes.”
“Why him?”
Valí's expression changed.
Softer.
“Because she trusted him.”
Morpheus went still.
Valí continued.
“She spoke about him. More than she probably realised. I knew they were friends. I knew he would recognise that anything concerning her was serious.”
Pain moved through Morpheus too quickly to name.
Orpheus.
Of course.
“And you believed my son would carry your warning to me.”
“No.”
Morpheus looked at him.
“I hoped he would.”
Valí gave a humourless smile.
“He refused.”
“I know.”
“But he gave it to Calliope. Which was close enough.”
Morpheus looked away for a moment.
Then back.
“Do you seek sanctuary in the Dreaming.”
Valí's exhaustion returned.
“Yes.”
“And in return you will tell me everything you know concerning Ishtar, the prophecy, the ritual performed upon you, and Odin’s intentions towards Zeus’s daughter.”
Valí hesitated.
“Yes.”
“You will have no contact with Odin while within my realm.”
“Obviously.”
“Nothing concerning the Dreaming will pass through you to Asgard.”
“Agreed.”
“You will submit to whatever restrictions I impose.”
Valí's jaw tightened.
“Within reason.”
Morpheus's expression chilled.
“You are seeking sanctuary from me. You do not determine the conditions.”
Valí stared for several seconds.
Then:
“Fine.”
Morpheus stepped closer.
“And you will not interfere with her.”
Valí frowned.
“Interfere how?”
“You will not attempt to remove her from the Dreaming. You will not encourage her to act against the protections presently surrounding her. You will not conceal information from her for the purpose of directing her actions.”
Valí's expression sharpened.
“You mean I don't get to tell her what to do.”
“Correct.”
A small, humourless smile appeared.
“You hear yourself, right?”
The room went black.
Not dim.
Black.
Valí stopped breathing for half a second.
Morpheus's voice came from directly in front of him.
“I am entirely aware of the irony.”
Two stars opened in the darkness.
Valí stared at them.
Morpheus continued.
“Which is why I am telling you this now rather than pretending I am incapable of the same mistake.”
The darkness receded.
Valí said nothing.
That answer had disarmed him more effectively than anger would have.
Morpheus stepped back.
“If I allow you into my realm, you will remain separate from her until I decide otherwise.”
Valí's expression immediately hardened.
“No.”
Morpheus looked at him.
Valí reconsidered.
“I mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“She'll think I've abandoned her.”
“She already knows you seek sanctuary.”
Valí froze.
“You told her?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to genuinely shock him.
“Before deciding?”
“Yes.”
Valí stared.
Then a strange little smile appeared.
“You really have changed, Lord Shaper.”
Morpheus's face became dangerously still.
Valí's smile widened.
A raven somewhere in the Dreaming would have been very proud of him.
Morpheus spoke with lethal calm.
“Do not test the limits of sanctuary before I have granted it.”
The smile vanished.
“Right.”
Morpheus looked once around the rotting house.
At the runes.
The salt.
The useless little protections of a frightened god.
Then back to Valí.
“I will grant you temporary refuge.”
Valí's entire body changed.
Not relaxation.
He did not seem capable of that yet.
But something loosened.
“In the Dreaming?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Valí glanced towards the windows.
For the first time, Morpheus saw just how badly he wanted to leave.
“And Odin cannot reach me there?”
Morpheus regarded him.
“Not without going through me.”
Valí went silent.
The answer seemed to mean something.
Perhaps because there were very few beings in existence willing to place themselves between Odin and something he wanted.
Morpheus was one.
Valí nodded.
“Then I agree.”
Morpheus extended one hand.
Black sand began to coil around his fingers.
Valí looked at it.
Then at him.
“Where are you putting me?”
“Somewhere far away from her.”
Valí sighed.
“Of course.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
“You should be grateful it is within the palace at all.”
“I am.”
A pause.
“Mostly.”
Morpheus almost reconsidered.
Almost.
Instead the sand rose.
The ruined room disappeared beneath it.
The final lamp extinguished.
And when the darkness cleared, the house stood empty.
Outside, something moved between the trees.
Something that had been watching for a very long time.
It reached the front door.
Stopped.
The threshold had changed.
A single line of black sand lay across it.
The thing beyond the door did not cross.
Far away, in another realm, the King of Dreams opened his eyes.
He had felt it.
Someone had indeed been watching Valí.
And whatever Odin intended, Valí had told the truth about at least one thing.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The next morning was intolerable. There was no other word for it.
You woke beneath a blanket you had somehow managed to twist entirely around yourself during the night, opened your eyes, and for one glorious half second remembered nothing.
Then you saw the flowers. They were still there.
Not as many as last night. Most of the gold had faded from the walls and the vines had retreated back into the carved wood of the bedposts, but several small blossoms remained stubbornly tucked among them.
Evidence. Humiliating, botanical evidence.
You stared at one. It stared back in the way flowers did when they had personally witnessed the worst moment of your life.
“I hate you.”
The flower did nothing.
You rolled over and buried your face in the pillow. That was a mistake. Because then you remembered the pillow. The book had been beneath it. The book Morpheus had seen. Beside your naked body.
While your hand—
You sat upright.
“No.”
Absolutely not. You were not replaying that again. You had done enough of that during the night.
Unfortunately, refusing to think about the incident only made your mind skip backwards several hours to what had happened before it.
Fiddler’s Green. His hand holding yours. His fingers against your cheek. Your back against the chamber door. Morpheus leaning down. You leaning up. His mouth—
Then Matthew.
Then your own catastrophic lack of judgement. Then Morpheus entering your chamber.
You dropped backwards onto the mattress.
“I am never leaving this room.”
That seemed sensible. You could live here. Lucienne could send books. Nuala could send food. Perhaps after several hundred years Morpheus would forget.
You considered this.
No. He was Endless. He would remember forever.
You pulled the blanket over your face. Death suddenly seemed easier. Unfortunately, death was apparently not on the morning schedule.
A knock came at your door. You went rigid beneath the blanket.
Another knock. Your entire body flooded hot.
No. Surely not. He could not possibly—
“It is Nuala.”
Your lungs started working again.
You lowered the blanket.
“Come in.”
The door opened cautiously.
Nuala stepped inside carrying breakfast. Her eyes travelled immediately towards the bed. Then the flowers. Then you. You watched the exact moment she decided not to ask. You loved her for it.
She placed the tray down.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?”
Nuala glanced towards the flowers again.
“Perhaps not.”
You narrowed your eyes.
She immediately turned her attention towards the teapot.
“Tea?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Lots.”
Nuala poured it. You watched her. She was being suspiciously careful. Far too careful. You accepted the cup.
“You know.”
Nuala froze.
“Know what?”
“Something happened.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“I know that your power disturbed a considerable portion of the palace last night.”
You closed your eyes. Of course it had.
“How considerable?”
Nuala hesitated.
That was bad.
“Nuala.”
“Several corridors.”
You stared at her.
“Several?”
You wanted the mattress to swallow you.
“Yes. But there was no real damage. There was just…”
Nuala trailed off.
Her cheeks coloured.
You stared at her.
“Just what?”
She hesitated.
“Light.”
You covered your face with both hands.
“Oh my God.”
“A considerable amount of light,” Nuala added carefully.
“That does not make it better.”
“I did not think it would.”
You looked at her through your fingers.
“Does everyone know?”
“They know there was a disturbance. No one knows why it happened.”
Your stomach sank all over again.
“Morpheus does.”
Nuala became very interested in the teapot.
“His lordship has said nothing.”
Somehow that was worse. Of course he had said nothing. Morpheus would not gossip. Morpheus would simply carry the knowledge until the end of creation.
You drank your tea.
Nuala remained nearby.
Eventually you asked the question you had been attempting not to ask since opening your eyes.
“Is he here?”
Nuala looked at you.
“His lordship?”
“No, the other terrifying black-haired immortal who owns the palace.”
Her mouth twitched.
“He is here.”
You stared into your tea.
“Right.”
You exhaled.
“After you leave here, please tell him I died.”
“I do not think he will believe me.”
“Tell him I left.”
“You cannot currently leave the palace.”
“Tell him I became a flower.”
Nuala looked towards the bedpost.
“That may be more believable.”
You stared at her.
She smiled.
Traitor.
*********
You delayed leaving your chamber for as long as humanly possible.
You washed. Dressed. Changed your clothes. Changed them again because the first dress reminded you too much of last night. Then changed back because allowing a piece of fabric to emotionally defeat you seemed pathetic.
You brushed your hair. Rebrushed it. Considered climbing out the balcony. Remembered you were in the Dreaming and Morpheus could appear wherever he pleased anyway.
Finally, shortly before midday, you opened your door.
The corridor was empty. Excellent.
You stepped out. Turned left. And walked directly into Morpheus. Not literally.
You stopped approximately three feet from him with such abruptness that your shoes squeaked against the floor.
He stopped too. Silence. Terrible, enormous silence.
Morpheus looked immaculate. Naturally. Black coat. Pale face. Impossible hair. Not remotely like a man who had accidentally walked in on a naked woman touching herself while thinking about him.
You, meanwhile, were fairly certain your entire body had turned red. His eyes met yours. Then, very deliberately, remained on your face.
That somehow made you even more aware of the fact that he had seen the rest of you.
“Good morning.”
You stared.
“Is it?”
His brow moved slightly. You immediately regretted saying exactly what you had said to Nuala.
Another silence.
You stepped sideways. Morpheus stepped the same direction. You stopped. He stopped. You moved the other way. So did he.
You stared at each other.
Under any other circumstances it might have been funny. But these were not other circumstances.
“Could you—”
“I wished to—”
You both stopped.
You looked at the floor.
“You first.”
“No.”
Morpheus frowned.
“No?”
“I don't want you to speak first.”
His expression became deeply perplexed.
“Then why did you say—”
“I panicked.”
That silenced him.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Perfect. Excellent. Very dignified.
Morpheus regarded you for several seconds.
Then:
“I wished to apologise.”
Your eyes opened.
“No.”
Another faint furrow appeared between his brows.
“You object to my apology?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you apologise, I remember what you're apologising for.”
Morpheus became very still.
You became hotter.
“And now I've said that.”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful.”
You looked anywhere except at him. One of the windows. A statue. The ceiling. The floor.
Definitely not Morpheus. Especially not his hands. Absolutely not his mouth.
You saw his mouth anyway.
Your mind immediately returned to the corridor last night. His breath against yours. His thumb beneath your cheekbone.
You looked at the ceiling again.
Morpheus, unfortunately, noticed everything.
“Are you unwell?”
“No.”
“You appear flushed.”
You stared at him.
“Do not analyse me right now.”
His mouth closed. Good.
You folded your arms. Then unfolded them because that made you feel defensive. Then realised you had no idea what to do with your hands.
Morpheus's gaze remained carefully above your shoulders.
You noticed that too. Of course you did.
“You can look at me normally.”
His eyes sharpened faintly.
“I am.”
“You're looking at my forehead.”
His gaze dropped approximately an inch.
“Better.”
You wanted to die. The smallest pause.
Then Morpheus said, very quietly:
“Your privacy wards have been strengthened.”
You stopped. That was not what you expected.
He continued.
“What occurred last night should not have permitted your power to escape them so readily. I have corrected that failing.”
Your embarrassment eased by one fraction.
“So you won't know if…”
You stopped. Absolutely not finishing that sentence.
Morpheus's expression remained admirably neutral.
“Your private activities will remain private.”
You stared at him.
He stared back. A slight darkness gathered at his feet.
You suddenly realised he might actually be embarrassed too.
That helped enormously. Not enough. But enormously.
“Good.”
“Yes.”
Another awful silence.
You shifted. He shifted. Your eyes met. And suddenly the other thing was there. Not what happened afterwards. Before. The almost-kiss.
His face changed. Barely.
Your pulse immediately accelerated.
For several seconds neither of you said anything.
You wondered if he was thinking about it. He must be. Surely.
Unless nearly kissing someone was an entirely ordinary event to an Endless.
Perhaps it was. Perhaps Fiddler's Green had meant nothing. Perhaps holding your hand had meant nothing. Perhaps touching your face—
Morpheus spoke.
“I should allow you to continue to the library.”
Your stomach dropped slightly.
Of course.
“Right.”
He stepped aside. You walked past him. Two steps. Three. Then stopped.
You had absolutely no idea why, but you turned.
Morpheus had not moved. He was watching you.
Your heart gave an irritating little jump.
“Last night—”
His attention sharpened.
You panicked.
“The gate.”
A pause.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
“What of it?”
“Was it fixed?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
You nodded.
He nodded.
You turned around again. Coward. Utter coward. You had nearly kissed the King of Dreams and apparently your solution was to ask about structural maintenance.
******
Lucienne knew immediately. Of course she did.
You entered the library and she looked at you once. Only once. Then removed her spectacles.
“You are late.”
“I know.”
“By nearly two hours.”
“I know.”
Austin appeared between two shelves.
“You're red.”
You pointed at him.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Matthew landed on the desk. You stared. Matthew stared back. Then his wings shifted uneasily.
“Morning.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You.”
Matthew hopped backwards.
“I saved the northern gate.”
“You interrupted something.”
Austin's head turned.
Lucienne put her spectacles back on.
Matthew looked alarmed.
“I didn't know!”
“You couldn't have waited five seconds?”
Austin's eyes widened.
Matthew flapped his wings.
“Five seconds might have been enough for the gate to collapse!”
“Would it?”
Matthew paused.
“I mean… probably?”
You stared.
“Matthew.”
“Okay, I don't actually know.”
Austin looked between you.
“What did he interrupt?”
“Nothing.”
Matthew immediately said:
“Definitely nothing.”
You glared at him.
“Excellent recovery.”
“Thanks.”
Lucienne lowered her pen.
“Perhaps we might work.”
“Wonderful idea.”
You sat. Austin continued staring.
“What happened last night?”
You picked up a ledger.
“A gate folded.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“Then ask Matthew.”
Matthew recoiled.
“Nope.”
You opened the ledger with more force than necessary.
That was when the library doors opened and Nuala hurried inside.
Something about her expression caught Lucienne's attention immediately.
“What is it?”
Nuala looked towards you.
Then Lucienne.
“Lady Calliope has arrived.”
Your hand stopped on the page. Everything inside you dropped.
Calliope. Of course.
You had not seen her since her previous visit, but you remembered her perfectly.
Elegant. Beautiful. Ancient in a way that did not show on her face. Morpheus's former wife. The mother of his son. The woman he had loved enough to marry. The woman he had once hurt terribly. The woman he had later rescued from imprisonment in the waking world. The woman with whom he had, by all accounts, reached some form of fragile peace. The woman he had been sleeping with on a regular basis.
And she had arrived the morning after Morpheus had almost kissed you. Wonderful.
You stared at the same line of text. Read it. Understood none of it. Read it again.
Austin noticed.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
Nuala approached Lucienne.
“His lordship has been informed.”
Lucienne's expression tightened.
“Was she expected?”
“No.”
You looked up before you could stop yourself.
“She's just here?”
Nuala glanced at you.
“Yes.”
You immediately looked back down. None of your business. Absolutely none.
You lasted perhaps six seconds.
“Where is he receiving her?”
Austin looked at you.
Matthew looked at you.
Lucienne looked at you.
You became defensive immediately.
“What?”
No one answered.
“It was a normal question.”
Matthew made a noise.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
Nuala, mercifully, answered.
“The throne room.”
You blinked.
“The throne room?”
“Yes.”
Something unpleasant and tight inside you loosened slightly before you could prevent it. You hated that.
Nuala continued:
“Lady Calliope was not pleased.”
Your head came up.
“Why?”
Nuala's mouth tightened faintly.
“She requested a private audience.”
You stared.
“In his chambers?”
Nuala did not answer immediately. That was answer enough.
The sick feeling returned with twice the force. You looked down.
Last night Morpheus had stood outside your chamber with his hand against your face. This morning his former wife had apparently arrived asking to be received in his.
You felt ridiculous. You had no claim on him. He had made no promise. He had not even kissed you. Almost did not count.
Perhaps Morpheus nearly kissed people frequently. The thought was so absurd you nearly laughed. No. Morpheus did not strike you as someone who accidentally wandered around nearly kissing people. Still. Calliope was different. She had history with him. A son. A marriage. Thousands of years of complicated feelings you knew almost nothing about.
Nuala watched you.
You pretended to read.
“I thought he had been cancelling these meetings with her.”
You regretted the words immediately.
Nuala looked slightly uncomfortable.
“He had.”
You looked up.
“Then why isn't he cancelling this one?”
Lucienne answered.
“Because Calliope informed him the matter concerned you.”
Your irritation disappeared.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
You closed the ledger.
“What about me?”
“We do not yet know.”
You stood.
“Then I'm going.”
Lucienne immediately said:
“No.”
You stared.
“If it concerns me—”
“His lordship will tell you.”
“I would rather hear it directly.”
“That may not be appropriate.”
“Why?”
Lucienne looked at Nuala.
Nuala looked at Matthew.
Matthew looked at the ceiling.
You threw your hands up.
“Excellent. Everyone is weird again.”
********
Calliope stood alone before the throne. She had dismissed the attendants who brought her.
Morpheus had dismissed his own. Only Matthew remained after he had entered, perched high upon one of the dark stone arches where he had been instructed to remain silent.
For once, he intended to obey.
Calliope looked around the throne room.
Then towards Morpheus.
“The throne room.”
Morpheus descended the final step.
“You said the matter was urgent.”
“It is.”
“Then speak.”
Her mouth tightened.
Once, that tone would have infuriated her. Perhaps it still did. But something about him was different today. More guarded than usual. Not colder. If anything, quite the opposite. As though warmth existed somewhere beneath the surface and he was deliberately keeping it contained.
Calliope studied him.
“I had thought we might speak somewhere less formal.”
“This is sufficient.”
There it was. A refusal delivered as simply as fact.
Calliope looked towards the doors.
“Your faerie attendant informed me you would not receive me privately.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
“Nuala follows instruction.”
“She seemed pleased by it.”
“Then your perception was mistaken.”
Calliope gave a quiet, humourless laugh.
“You always did defend those who belonged to your realm.”
His eyes sharpened.
“They do not belong to me.”
Something about the speed of that correction interested her. She reached inside the folds of her robe.
“How interesting that you should say so.”
Morpheus's gaze dropped towards her hand.
Calliope withdrew a small object wrapped in dark red cloth. She held it out.
Morpheus did not immediately take it.
“What is this?”
“A warning.”
That changed him. The faint tension around him vanished beneath absolute stillness.
He extended one pale hand.
Calliope placed the bundle in his palm.
He unfolded the cloth.
Inside lay a narrow piece of antler, no longer than a finger. Three runes had been carved deeply into its surface. One was blackened. One stained red. The third appeared to move if viewed too long, changing its shape whenever Morpheus attempted to focus upon it.
He knew the hand that carved them.
Valí.
“Where did you obtain this?”
“From Orpheus.”
Morpheus looked at her. A long silence followed.
Calliope's expression softened despite herself.
“He is well.”
Morpheus's fingers tightened faintly around the token.
“I did not ask.”
“No.”
Another silence.
Calliope continued.
“Valí brought it to him three nights ago.”
Morpheus looked down at the runes again.
“Why Orpheus?”
“Because Valí believed approaching the Dreaming himself might be observed.”
Morpheus's gaze lifted sharply.
“By whom?”
Calliope held his eyes.
“Odin.”
The throne room changed. Only slightly. The shadows stretched farther. The stars overhead disappeared behind dark clouds that had not existed a moment earlier. Matthew's feathers flattened.
Morpheus looked back towards the antler.
“Explain.”
“Valí believes his father is searching for my sister now. He believes Odin intends to use her to obtain some manner of power.”
Morpheus’s expression hardened.
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
Calliope hesitated.
“But Valí does.”
Morpheus’s gaze sharpened.
“And he did not tell Orpheus?”
“No. Whatever he knows, he would not entrust it to a message, even through Orpheus. He wishes to speak with you directly.”
“Then why has he not come?”
“Because he believes doing so would place him in danger. As I said, he fears that if he enters the Dreaming, his father will know. He wants your assurance of protection before he approaches your realm.”
Morpheus looked once more at the token in his hand.
“Then he has supplied little.”
“He supplied what he could without revealing the extent of what he knows—or risking Odin discovering that he is the source.”
Calliope nodded towards the antler.
“The first rune means the All-Father has begun asking questions among those who keep old knowledge. The second means he has sent eyes beyond Asgard.”
Morpheus looked towards the shifting third rune.
“And that?”
“He does not know what Odin intends to do once he finds her.”
Morpheus’s jaw tightened.
“Odin will not get near her.”
Calliope studied him.
“You sound very certain.”
“She is within the Dreaming. She is under my protection.”
His voice lowered.
“Whatever Odin seeks from her, he will not have it.”
Calliope watched him.
There was nothing boastful in the statement.
Nothing theatrical.
Morpheus simply said it as though reality itself would be required to obey.
Calliope did not move.
“There is more.”
Morpheus’s eyes returned to her.
“What?”
“Zeus is aware.”
His expression sharpened.
“Zeus knows Odin searches for his daughter?”
“Apparently.”
“And?”
Calliope hesitated.
She already disliked the answer.
“Odin approached him first. He made Zeus an offer.”
Morpheus went very still.
“What offer?”
“Zeus did not understand precisely what Odin wanted from her. Whatever Odin offered in exchange held little value to him, so he declined.”
A beat passed.
“And that was the extent of his concern?”
Calliope’s mouth tightened.
“His response was that she is now property of the Dreaming and therefore no longer Olympus’s concern.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then Morpheus said:
“She is not property. She is under my protection by treaty. That does not make her a possession.”
Calliope watched him carefully.
“You accepted her custody.”
“I accepted responsibility.”
His voice lowered.
“There is a difference.”
Calliope said nothing for a moment.
Then:
“Valí appears to believe Odin may not recognise that distinction.”
“Odin's recognition is irrelevant.”
“Do not underestimate him.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Calliope almost smiled.
“Yes. I realise how absurd it is to tell you not to underestimate another ancient being.”
“Then why do so?”
“Because you are still you.”
For one second, something almost familiar passed between them. Old irritation. Old affection. A memory of being married before too much grief accumulated around them. Then it was gone.
Morpheus looked once more at the token.
“Why did Orpheus not bring this himself?”
Calliope's expression cooled.
“You know why.”
A small silence.
“He would not come.”
“No.”
Morpheus looked away.
Calliope continued more gently.
“Valí went to him because he could reach him without entering your realm. And because he knows that Orpheus had cared for my sister. Orpheus agreed the warning should reach you. He did not agree to carry it himself.”
Morpheus's thumb moved once over the red cloth.
“I understand.”
Calliope doubted that understanding made it hurt less. She looked at him. For all the history between them, there were still moments when she could see the man she had loved beneath the monarch he had spent so long becoming. Perhaps that was why she tried.
“The warning has been delivered.”
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
Calliope allowed the silence to lengthen.
Then:
“I could remain awhile.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“That is unnecessary.”
Her brows lifted.
“Unnecessary.”
“The matter which brought you here is concluded.”
Calliope's expression changed.
“I did not mean in the throne room.”
Matthew's eyes widened. He became intensely interested in one of his feathers.
Morpheus remained perfectly still.
Calliope stepped closer.
“We have not spoken privately in some time.”
“We have spoken.”
“Not as we once did.”
A pause.
Then Morpheus said:
“No.”
Simple. Final.
Calliope's mouth tightened.
“You will not even consider it?”
“I have considered it.”
That surprised her.
She searched his face.
“When?”
He didn’t answer and a strange little wound opened beneath her composure. Not because she had expected him to fall into her arms. They had hurt each other too badly for such fantasies. But after Richard Madoc—
After Morpheus had come for her. After he had freed her. After he had sat with her and listened rather than demanded. After he had acknowledged what he had done to her and asked for nothing in return. After they had begun being intimate again. She had wondered. Perhaps against her better judgement.
“I thought things between us had changed.”
Morpheus held her gaze.
“They have.”
She continued.
“And you changed.”
Morpheus was silent for several seconds. When he answered, his voice was quieter.
“Yes.”
Calliope waited.
Morpheus looked towards the high windows.
“And because I have changed, I will not attempt to resurrect what we were.”
Calliope stared.
He continued.
“Nor will I mistake remorse for love.”
That hurt. Not cruelly. That was the problem. There was no cruelty in him now. No pride. No punishment. Only honesty.
“You did love me.”
“I did.”
Morpheus looked at her again.
“Very much.”
Her eyes stung.
She hated that.
“And now?”
A long silence.
“What we were is ended.”
Calliope swallowed.
Then her expression hardened.
“And yet you still slept with me.”
Morpheus did not look away.
“Yes.”
“Recently.”
“Yes.”
A bitter little laugh escaped her.
“Then forgive me if I mistook that for something other than an ending.”
Morpheus was silent for a moment.
“I made you no promise, Calliope.”
“No.”
“Nor did I tell you that what passed between us meant reconciliation.”
“You did not need to say it for me to wonder.”
His expression softened, though his answer did not.
“Then I apologise that I allowed room for that misunderstanding. But I will not continue it because ending it now causes pain.”
Calliope studied him.
“So it meant nothing?”
“I did not say that.”
A pause.
“What remains between us is not nothing. We have too much history for that. But neither is it what it once was, and I will not pretend otherwise.”
She held his gaze for several seconds. Then something clicked into place. The private audience refused. The formality. The certainty with which he spoke now, when only recently he had still allowed old familiarity between them.
The strange warmth contained behind his eyes. The faint trace of gold she had noticed caught against the edge of his coat when she entered.
Not his power. Someone else’s.
Calliope’s gaze sharpened.
“There is someone.”
The darkness at Morpheus's feet stirred. He did not answer.
Calliope gave a small, incredulous laugh.
“There is.”
“That is not the reason for my decision.”
“No.”
She watched him carefully.
“But it made the decision easier.”
Morpheus’s expression cooled.
“Do not make assumptions regarding matters which do not concern you.”
Calliope’s eyebrows rose. There. That was almost the old Morpheus. Almost. She watched him for another moment, and then understanding sharpened across her face.
“Is it my sister?”
Morpheus said nothing. He did not need to.
Calliope stared at him.
“It is.”
Still, he offered no denial.
A strange expression crossed her face—surprise first, followed by something almost disbelieving.
“You really have changed.”
Morpheus’s gaze hardened slightly.
“You have already observed as much.”
“Not like this.”
She studied him as though seeing something she had not quite understood before.
“Once, someone like her would have been little more than another obligation to you. A troublesome young goddess placed beneath your protection. Someone whose affections—or whose opinion of you—you would scarcely have considered worth your attention.”
His jaw tightened.
“Take care, Calliope.”
That confirmed more than any confession might have. Calliope gave a faint, sad smile.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You defend her before I have even insulted her.”
Morpheus did not answer.
Calliope stepped back. The amusement disappeared from her expression. What remained was older. Sadder. Kinder than either of them might once have managed.
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Well.”
A small breath left her.
“I hope you are better with her than you were with me.”
Morpheus did not defend himself. Did not grow angry. Did not remind her of her own failures.
He only said:
“So do I.”
Calliope's face softened. For a moment, they simply looked at one another. Thousands of years between them. Love. Marriage. A son. Cruelty. Loss. Forgiveness, incomplete but real. And finally an ending neither of them needed to turn into another wound.
Calliope inclined her head.
“Goodbye, Oneiros.”
Morpheus returned the gesture.
“Goodbye, Calliope.”
She turned and walked from the throne room.
Morpheus did not follow.
Only when the doors closed did Matthew slowly look down from the arch.
