the echo of his hands ✩｡⋆⸜ nuala and dream
summary: morpheus is gone, and nuala’s grief is a wound that refuses to heal. when the new dream grants her one small mercy, the chance to control her own dream, she asks for the only thing she’s ever truly wanted: him. in her dream, morpheus is alive again. he holds her like she is precious, kisses her like he loves her, and speaks words she longed to hear when he was alive. but the dream cannot last. as dawn approaches, nuala must wake and face a world that feels even emptier than before.
word count: 5.6k
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The Dreaming is quiet these days. It isn’t the silence of a realm at peace, nor is it the soothing hush that follows after a storm has finally burned itself out. It is hollow and unsteady, like a breath held for too long. The gardens bloom because they must, the libraries expand because that is their nature, and the denizens move with brittle smiles, each of them aware of the absence that lingers in every corner of their world.
Morpheus is gone. The words feel unreal even now, even after the rites have been observed and the stories whispered across a thousand dreaming minds. There is a new Dream now, the boy with the wide, watchful eyes and the same endless power thrumming through his veins, but it is not him. It will never be him.
Nuala walks the familiar corridors with her head bowed. The echo of her footsteps seems louder than it should be, as if the Dreaming itself is making note of her presence, as if it knows she does not belong here anymore. She is no longer the bright-eyed faerie gifted to serve in this realm, nor the one who once begged for freedom. She is something else entirely now: a shell filled with too much longing, too much memory.
Her hands twist together in front of her as she approaches the throne room. She does not come here often, not since his death, but tonight the ache in her chest is unbearable. There are too many ghosts in her chambers, too many shadows where his voice used to fill the space.
The great doors swing open silently, the new Dream sits upon the throne as though he was born for it, yet there is no arrogance in his posture, no weight of ages behind his gaze. He is young in ways his predecessor never was. He regards her with quiet curiosity as she steps inside, the golden light of the chamber washing pale across her faerie skin.
“Lady Nuala,” he says, his voice soft as falling ash. She lowers herself into a curtsy, head bowed so he cannot see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “My lord.”
“You do not need to call me that,” he murmurs, though he does not insist. The title will always belong to the one who came before. Her breath shudders out as she lifts her chin. “I… I wished to ask something of you.” He leans forward slightly, curious. “Anything.”
She swallows, the words catching in her throat like splinters. “Please. Let me… let me control my own dream. Only for a little while. Just once.”
The boy, no the Endless, regards her with the kind of solemnity that makes her heart twist. “You know that is not typically allowed,” he says, though his tone is gentler than his predecessor’s ever was.
“I know,” she whispers, stepping closer, her hands trembling at her sides. “But I beg you. I cannot bear…” She stops herself, teeth digging into her lower lip. “I just cannot bear it anymore.”
There is a long pause. The boy’s eyes flicker, a trace of understanding passing through them, though he has not lived long enough to comprehend the full weight of grief. At last, he nods. “Very well,” he says softly.
Her knees weaken with relief, and she barely remembers how to thank him before the world shifts around her. The air grows heavy and sweet, the throne room dissolving into nothingness as she falls into the dream she has been craving since the moment he died.
She lands softly in a place she knows like the back of her hand. The Dreaming as it once was: lush and alive, the sky caught in the indigo glow of twilight. There are no cracks in the marble bridges, no lingering scent of sorrow in the air. Birds sing in the distance, and the breeze carries the perfume of night-blooming flowers. It is perfect, and he is there.
Morpheus stands at the edge of the garden, his silhouette etched in black and silver. He turns at the sound of her breath catching, and the sight of him, tall and lean and painfully familiar, nearly drops her to the ground. His hair falls into his eyes the way it always did, his pale mouth softening at the corners when he sees her.
“Nuala,” he says, and it is his voice, low and melodic, threaded with an affection she once thought she imagined and she breaks.
Her feet move before she realizes it, carrying her across the grass and into his arms. He catches her without hesitation, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other curling into her hair. The contact steals the air from her lungs. His touch is warm and steady and impossibly real.
“You are here,” she whispers, clinging to him as if he might vanish if she lets go. “You are really here.” He hums softly, his lips brushing the top of her head. “I am,” he says, as though it is the simplest truth in the world.
Nuala presses her face into his chest, the scent of him: rain-soaked earth, ink, and dreams, filling her senses. She wants to scream with the unfairness of it, with the knowledge that this is a mercy granted by another Dream and not reality itself. But instead she allows herself to sink into his embrace, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
He draws back just enough to look at her, his thumb grazing her cheek. “You have been crying,” he says softly. Her breath hitches. “I miss you,” she whispers. “I miss you so much I cannot breathe.”
His expression softens in a way it never used to. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there until her knees tremble. “I am here now,” he murmurs against her skin. “Do not cry, my heart.”
She wants to tell him that she will cry forever, that she will never stop, because the real him is gone and nothing will ever fill the hole he left behind. But the words tangle in her throat. All she can do is cling to him as he holds her, as he presses gentle kisses to her hair and the corner of her temple, as if he is trying to anchor her to this fragile illusion. It breaks her all over again.
Nuala cannot let go. She stands in the garden with her arms wrapped around Morpheus as though the world itself might shatter if she loosens her grip. He holds her without complaint, one hand stroking through her hair in slow, deliberate motions that send tremors through her chest. She can feel the rise and fall of his breath, the subtle weight of his chin resting against the crown of her head.
“You feel so real,” she whispers, her voice trembling as it breaks the quiet. Morpheus leans back slightly, just enough to tilt her chin up with the gentlest touch of his fingers. His pale eyes meet hers, steady and dark as the velvet sky overhead. “I am real,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the tear-stained line of her cheekbone.
“No,” she says, the word barely audible. Her throat closes around it. “No, you are not. You died. I… I was there when they told us. I saw the empty throne.” His expression flickers between sorrow and tenderness, lands on an emotion she cannot name. “Then why does it matter?” he asks softly. “I am here with you now.”
She cannot answer him. Her breath comes in shallow pulls, and her heart beats so hard it feels like it might bruise her ribs. She lifts a hand to his chest, pressing her palm against the black fabric of his coat, feeling the faint, steady thrum of his heart beneath. It makes her dizzy. Morpheus covers her hand with his own, curling his long fingers over hers. “Do you wish me gone?” he asks.
“No!” The word escapes her in a ragged cry. She shakes her head furiously, the tears spilling hot down her cheeks. “I would die if you left me again.”
His brow furrows, and then he gathers her back into his arms, his hands splaying across her back as if to shield her from the very concept of pain. “Hush,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I will not leave you. Not tonight.”
The gentleness in his voice is unbearable. He was always reserved with his affection, careful with the boundaries of propriety and duty. To have him hold her so openly now, to feel the brush of his lips against her hairline, the warmth of his hand as it strokes slow circles at the small of her back, it makes her knees weak. It makes her wish she could shatter into a thousand pieces, just so he would gather them all up and keep them safe.
She clings tighter, and the soft sound that leaves her throat is closer to a sob than she would like to admit.
Morpheus pulls back again, only far enough that he can see her face. His hand cups her cheek, the pad of his thumb moving with aching delicacy across her damp skin. “Nuala,” he says, and the way her name sounds in his voice nearly undoes her. “Do not grieve so. You are breaking yourself open.”
She tries to smile and fails. “How could I not grieve for you?” He bows his head until their foreheads touch, his hair falling forward to frame them in a curtain of shadow. “I am here,” he says again, a mantra she cannot let herself believe. “Look at me. Feel me. I am with you.”
Her breath hitches as she closes her eyes. She cannot stop herself from leaning forward, from brushing the softest kiss against the corner of his mouth. She expects him to draw back, to remind her that this is not her place, that it never has been. But instead he turns his head just enough to capture her lips with his.
It is not a hungry kiss. It is soft, unbearably tender, as though he is memorizing the shape of her mouth with every brush of his lips. His hand slides to cradle the back of her head, his other arm pulling her flush against him. Nuala makes a choked noise against his mouth, half-sob and half-prayer.
Morpheus kisses her like he has kissed her a hundred times before, as if there is nothing forbidden about this. As if he has always wanted to.
When he finally draws back, he does not release her. His forehead rests against hers, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
She shakes her head violently, a tear spilling onto his hand. “No,” she whispers, her voice shaking with desperation. “Please… don’t stop.” He kisses her again.
This time, Nuala trembles all over. She winds her arms around his neck, holding on like she might be swept away by the force of it. His hands roam gently, reverently: one at the small of her back, one sliding into her hair, fingertips brushing the nape of her neck. He breaks the kiss only to press another to her temple, then another to the soft curve of her cheek, then the center of her brow. Every touch unravels her.
“Morpheus,” she breathes, his name a plea and a confession all at once. He hugs her then, properly, tucking her under his chin and holding her so tightly she can feel the steady beat of his heart against her own. “My Nuala,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice low and certain, as though speaking the words might make them true.
She cannot tell how long they stand there like that, surrounded by the beauty of the Dreaming she remembers from before. The air smells like night-blooming jasmine, and the faint glow of starlight makes everything shimmer with a fragile kind of magic.
But in the pit of her stomach, she knows this moment is borrowed, and when it ends, she will be left with nothing.
Morpheus leads her deeper into the garden. His hand remains at the small of her back as they walk, a gentle guide that makes her body ache with longing. She is aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm, the brush of his coat against her bare arm, the subtle, unyielding strength in the way he keeps her close as though he fears she might slip away.
It is the touch she once craved in silence, never daring to hope. Now it is offered freely, as if this is who he always was beneath the weight of duty.
They reach the great willow tree that stands at the heart of the garden. Its sweeping branches glow faintly in the starlight, the leaves whispering secrets to one another as they stir in the soft wind. Morpheus settles against the wide trunk and draws her down beside him without asking. He gathers her into the curve of his body, arranging her so that her head rests against his shoulder and her knees fold toward him.
Nuala closes her eyes as his arm wraps firmly around her. She feels his lips press into the top of her head, a kiss so light and reverent it sends a tremor through her chest. “Is this what you wished for?” he asks softly, his voice a low vibration against her temple.
She swallows. “I wished for you,” she whispers, the words cracking like fragile glass. Morpheus is silent for a moment. His long fingers begin to comb slowly through her hair, untangling each strand with careful patience. “Then you have me,” he says at last.
The truth of it is so cruel she nearly sobs. She bites the inside of her cheek, clutching at the folds of his coat as if that might keep her grounded. She can feel the steady thrum of his heart under her palm, hear the measured rhythm of his breath. It feels so real.
“You never held me like this before,” she says quietly, afraid the words might shatter him if she speaks too loudly. “I should have,” he answers, his hand pausing briefly in her hair before continuing its slow strokes. “I see that now.”
Her heart breaks a little more. “It would not have changed anything,” she whispers. He does not argue. Instead, he tilts her chin up gently and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath her eye, where the tears cling stubbornly. Then another kiss, feather-light, just at the corner of her mouth.
“Perhaps not,” he says softly, his breath warm against her skin. Nuala trembles. “Why are you being so kind to me now?” Morpheus does not answer right away. His fingers trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, before slipping back into her hair. “Because I can be,” he says finally.
She does not understand, but she cannot bear to question him further. Instead she leans into him, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart. She imagines what it would be like to spend eternity like this, tucked into the safety of his arms, without the weight of reality pressing against her.
It is a fantasy so sweet it is almost painful. They sit together under the willow tree for what feels like hours, though time in dreams is a fragile thing. Morpheus speaks little, but when he does his voice is so soft and melodic that Nuala wants to weep. He asks her about her days, about the gardens she tends, about the music she listens to in the quiet hours of the night. His interest is undivided, his pale eyes fixed entirely on her as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
She answers honestly, though each word feels like it is carved from her chest. “I try to fill the hours,” she admits, “but they are so empty now. Everything reminds me of you.” His hand cups her cheek again, thumb brushing tenderly across her skin. “I am sorry,” he murmurs.
The apology is almost her undoing. She shakes her head, blinking back fresh tears. “Don’t be. You are here now.” Morpheus leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead, holding the kiss there for a long, aching moment. “Yes,” he whispers. “I am.”
Nuala buries her face against him and clings. She can feel the warmth of his hand splayed across the small of her back, the protective weight of his chin resting lightly on her hair. His other hand never stops its soothing motions, stroking through her hair as if he could untangle the grief knotted into her very soul.
“You are shaking,” he says quietly. “Because I am afraid,” she admits. He tilts his head, his breath brushing her ear. “Of what?”
“Of waking,” she says, her voice breaking. Morpheus exhales slowly, as though he understands, though he does not offer comfort. He simply tightens his hold on her and murmurs, “Then stay with me a little longer.”
Nuala closes her eyes. She allows herself to memorize the feeling of his arms around her, the scent of him, the way his thumb rubs absent circles into her back. She knows this will end. She knows she will wake in her cold bed, alone, and the pain will be worse than before, but for now, she lets herself believe.
She tips her head up slowly, searching his face. The starlight catches in his pale eyes, and she thinks she might drown in the way he is looking at her. Without thinking, she reaches up and lays her palm against his cheek.
Morpheus leans into her touch as though it is the most natural thing in the world. He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her palm, lingering there until her breath shudders out of her. Nuala cannot stop the tears. “You will destroy me,” she whispers.
His thumb brushes over the delicate bones of her wrist as he lowers her hand. “I will hold you together,” he says, voice like a vow. She believes him, even though she knows it is a lie.
The willow tree’s branches sway above them like a curtain drawn around a secret world. Nuala is curled against Morpheus’ side, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, holding her as if he might tether her here. His fingers trace slow, deliberate circles against her hip through the soft fabric of her gown, the simple rhythm soothing and devastating all at once.
She does not remember the last time she felt this safe. Perhaps she never has. “Morpheus,” she whispers into the quiet.
“Yes, my heart,” he murmurs. The endearment makes her breath hitch. “I think I am dreaming,” she says, though the words tremble with uncertainty.
His hand stills on her hip for a moment before moving again. “Do you wish to wake?” She turns in his embrace, her hands clutching at the front of his coat. “No,” she says fiercely. “Never.”
The faintest ghost of a smile curves his lips. He dips his head and presses his mouth to her temple, lingering there long enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath seeping into her skin. “Then you will not,” he promises softly.
Nuala shuts her eyes. She knows it is not a promise he can keep, not truly. Still, she burrows closer, tucking herself into the steady rise and fall of his chest, willing the night to stretch into eternity.
For a long time, neither of them speaks. She listens to the faint hum of the garden around them, the rustle of the willow leaves, the distant chirping of unseen birds. Morpheus’ fingers slip from her hip to the end of her spine, his touch impossibly gentle, and she shivers.
“Do you remember,” she says finally, “when I first came here? I hated it, at first. I was a gift no one wanted, not even myself. I felt like an object, a thing.”
His hand tightens slightly at her back. “I remember,” he says quietly. “I was not kind.” She shakes her head against him. “You were who you were,” she whispers. “But I remember you spoke to me as though I was a person. That was enough for me.”
Morpheus exhales softly, the sound stirring her hair. “It should not have been enough,” he says. Nuala pulls back just enough to see his face. The expression he wears makes her chest ache; it is softer than she has ever seen, regret curling in the corners of his pale eyes.
“What would you have done differently?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her cheek in a way that makes her tremble. “I would have told you,” he says. “Told me what?”
“That you mattered.” His hand lingers at the side of her face, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheekbone as though he can soothe away years of hurt. “That I saw you. That you were more than a gift, more than a servant. That you were… precious to me.”
Nuala’s lips part in a shaky breath. She cannot hold back the tears this time; they slip down her cheeks silently, hot and relentless. Morpheus leans forward and kisses each one away, his mouth soft and reverent against her skin. “Why are you doing this?” she asks, voice breaking. “Why are you saying these things now?”
“Because I can,” he says again, his forehead coming to rest against hers. Her fingers clutch at his coat like she might tear it apart. “Do you love me?” she whispers, the question tasting like blood and hope.
He does not flinch. He cups the back of her head and kisses her hairline, his lips warm and steady. “Yes,” he breathes against her skin.
The sound that leaves her throat is closer to a sob than a word. She buries her face in the hollow of his shoulder, her tears dampening the black fabric there. Morpheus strokes her back slowly, his other hand threading through her hair, petting her with a tenderness that feels like it might break her in half. “I wish we could have had this,” she whispers into the curve of his neck.
“We have it now,” he says softly, as though that is enough. But it isn’t, and she knows it isn’t. Nuala tips her head up and presses her lips to his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Morpheus turns his head and catches her lips with his own, kissing her with the same devastating gentleness as before. His hand slides from her hair to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin just beneath her ear.
When they break apart, he leans his forehead against hers. “You are trembling again,” he whispers. “Because I do not want to lose you,” she says.
“You will not,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her brow. But she can feel it already, the faint pull at the edges of the dream.
Nuala burrows back into his chest, clutching at him like he is the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. She wants to tell him everything: how the pain of his absence hollowed her out, how she wishes she had confessed her love when it might have mattered, how she is afraid she will not survive waking from this dream. But the words will not come.
Instead, she listens to the sound of his heart beneath her ear and lets herself pretend it will never stop. “Will you stay with me until I wake?” she asks finally, her voice hoarse. “Always,” he says, and for a moment, she almost believes him.
The first sign that the dream is faltering is subtle, so subtle Nuala almost convinces herself she imagined it. The glow of starlight dims ever so slightly, and the rustle of the willow’s branches grows quieter, as if the world is holding its breath. She feels a faint pull at the edges of herself, an almost imperceptible drag toward the waking world.
No, she thinks, please, not yet. Morpheus feels it too. She sees it in the way his arm tightens instinctively around her waist, in the fleeting shadow that crosses his pale eyes when she lifts her head. He does not say anything at first. He simply pulls her closer, shifting so that she is no longer at his side but curled fully in his lap.
Nuala makes a small, startled noise as he gathers her against his chest, her legs draped over his knees. But she does not resist. She presses herself into him, arms wrapped tight around his neck, clutching at the back of his coat as though she can anchor herself there.
Morpheus strokes her hair slowly, reverently, his long fingers gliding through the soft strands. “Do not be afraid,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crown of her head. Her throat closes. “I can feel it,” she whispers. “The dream is ending.”
His hand cups the back of her skull, holding her head gently to his shoulder. “I will keep you as long as I am able,” he says softly, and his voice is rougher now, thick with an emotion she cannot name.
Nuala trembles in his lap, her face pressed against the curve of his neck. She can feel the steady beat of his heart under her cheek, can smell the faint, familiar scent of rain-soaked earth and old parchment. She tries to memorize every detail: the rise and fall of his chest, the strength of his arms, the way his thumb rubs absently at the small of her back.
“Please,” she whispers, and the word sounds like a prayer. “Please don’t let me wake.” Morpheus exhales slowly, his breath warm against her ear. “If I could keep you here forever,” he says, “I would.”
She tips her head back enough to meet his eyes. “Then do it,” she pleads, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Keep me here.”
He cups her face in both hands, thumbs brushing away her tears even as more fall to replace them. “I cannot,” he says softly. “This dream belongs to you, Nuala. It is bound by the same laws as all dreams. But I will not waste a single moment we have left.” He leans forward and kisses her.
It is not a fleeting kiss this time. It is long and deep and unbearably tender, his mouth moving against hers as if he is trying to pour all the words he cannot say into her. Nuala clings to him desperately, her tears wetting his cheeks, her body shaking with the force of her grief.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against hers. “Do not forget me,” he whispers. “I could never,” she chokes out.
Morpheus brushes her hair back from her face, his fingertips lingering at the nape of her neck. “You are the only one who ever truly saw me,” he says, his voice so low she almost doesn’t hear it. She stares at him, unable to speak through the ache in her chest.
He presses a kiss to her brow, then the bridge of her nose, then each damp cheek in turn. “You are precious to me,” he murmurs between each kiss. “You always were.”
The dream trembles around them. The stars flicker, and the garden grows dimmer still, like a candle guttering in the wind. “No,” Nuala whispers, clutching at his coat. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”
Morpheus wraps both arms around her and rocks her gently, his lips pressed to her temple. “I am here,” he whispers again and again, a litany meant to soothe the panic rising in her chest. “I am here, my heart. Until the very last moment.”
The air is thinning now, the willow’s branches fading into shadow. Nuala buries her face against his neck, inhaling his scent as if she can trap it in her lungs and carry it back with her. She feels his hand slide into her hair, holding her close, while the other strokes slow, comforting circles against the small of her back.
“Morpheus,” she sobs, her tears soaking the collar of his coat. “I don’t want to lose you again.” He tilts her head up with infinite care and presses one last kiss to her lips. “You will find me in your dreams,” he says softly, and then the world falls away.
Nuala wakes with a soundless gasp. Her body jerks upright in the narrow bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as though she can still feel Morpheus’ coat beneath her hands. But there is nothing: no warmth, no heartbeat beneath her ear, no soft scent of rain and ink and earth. Only the cold press of reality.
The chamber is dark and still, too still. Her chest is heaving as she tries to draw breath past the sharp pain lodged in her ribs. The dream lingers in her veins like a cruel drug: she can still feel the ghost of his lips on her forehead, the way his hands had stroked her back, the weight of his arms wrapping around her as though she were precious, it’s gone.
Nuala curls forward, clutching her stomach as the sob tears loose from her throat. She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. The sound she makes is raw and broken, the kind of sound that leaves a body hollowed out.
She does not know how long she stays there, sobbing into her palms. Time has no meaning in the Dreaming, but here in her chambers, it seems to stretch on endlessly, every breath harder than the last.
She wants to close her eyes and fall back into the dream, to fling herself at Morpheus and beg him to hold her again. But even now she can feel the barrier between them, solid and unrelenting. That dream is gone. If she dares to dream again, he will not be there. Her heart feels as though it is splintering.
A knock sounds faintly at the door. Nuala flinches, dragging her hands from her face to press them against her damp cheeks. She tries to swallow the sobs, tries to compose herself, but the effort is useless. “My lady?”
It is the new Dream’s voice, soft and tentative. Nuala’s lips tremble. She cannot answer at first. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms tightly around them, the position making her feel small, like a child. “Come in,” she forces out, though her voice cracks on the words.
The door opens with a whisper of sound, and the new Dream steps inside. He is as pale as his predecessor, his eyes wide and luminous in the dim light, but there is a youthfulness to him that only deepens the ache in her chest.
He hesitates at the sight of her, taking in the tear-stained face, the tremor in her limbs. “You… you woke,” he says softly.
Nuala nods, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat. “Did you…” He falters, stepping closer. “Did it help at all?”
She laughs, a sharp, broken sound that startles even her. “Help?” she repeats, her voice trembling with bitterness. “It feels like I’ve lost him all over again.”
The new Dream lowers himself to sit at the edge of the bed, though he leaves a careful space between them. “I am sorry,” he says quietly.
Nuala turns her face away, pressing her cheek to her knees. “I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate that it was only a dream.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “No,” she says, lifting her head abruptly. Her eyes, red and raw, meet his. “You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to hold someone you’ve lost and feel them kiss you, feel them look at you like you matter, and then… wake up.”
The new Dream’s gaze softens. He bows his head. “You are right,” he says quietly. “I do not know.” Nuala stares at him, her breath shaking. “He was so kind to me,” she whispers. “More than he ever was in life. He called me precious. He kissed me like…” Her voice breaks again. “Like he loved me.”
The new Dream closes his eyes briefly, as if the weight of her words is too much. “I do not know if I can bear this,” Nuala admits, her voice no louder than a breath.
He looks at her then, and there is something old in his gaze despite the youth of his face. “You can,” he says softly. “Because you must.”
Nuala lets out another sob, curling in on herself. She feels his hand, tentative and light, rest on her shoulder. It is not the same. It will never be the same.
She stays like that long after he leaves, the emptiness in the room pressing in on her like a tide. She can still feel Morpheus’ hands on her, still hear the low murmur of his voice in her ear, still remember the way he kissed her palm as though it was sacred.
And she knows with a terrible certainty that she would endure this pain a thousand times over if it meant one more night in his arms. But the dream is gone, and she is alone.
