Once Upon a Dream _ Part four
summary: After the attack at the tent, Cecily awakens where she has never been before, the Dreaming. Morpheus is the one who must tell her the truth.
Cecily’s eyes snap open, her mouth grasping for breath like someone who has stayed underwater too long and needs air before their lungs collapse. Those cold eyes and the grinding of teeth are so vivid, as though the creature were standing right before her. Cecily tries to rise abruptly, only to be stopped by a sharp pain in her abdomen and by gentle yet firm hands holding her shoulders.
“Calm down. Everything is alright.”
Cecy grabs the wrists of the one restraining her, her heart racing so fiercely she can almost hear it pounding. It takes a few seconds before her vision focuses on the bald, dark-skinned woman with pointed ears, round glasses, and a gentle smile.
“Who are you?” Her voice is a painful whisper.
“My name is Lucienne,” she replies with a subtle smile. “You will be safe here.”
It takes Cecily a few moments to calm herself, still confused. As her breathing steadies, the unfamiliar woman slowly releases her shoulders.
“Where is here?”
Looking around, she realizes she is in a room that is obviously not hers.
“The Dreaming, the realm where dreams and nightmares live.”
The Dreaming… the Dreaming. Ah, of course. The Dreaming. The realm ruled by Dream of the Endless.
When Cecily tries to sit up, her entire body protests against any movement, as if the tips of a thousand daggers were pressing into her. She fails to hide the expression of pain that crosses her face, pure pain. Carefully, Lucienne moves closer to help her sit and quickly adjusts the pillows behind her back.
In Cecily’s childhood memories there is one woman in particular, always with a gentle smile during the visits she made. They were rare, but she never failed to bring a pink peony, which over the years became the little girl’s favorite flower.
Although that woman always claimed to be merely a family friend, Cecy could feel the warm embrace carried by her presence, something that, no matter how many months or years passed between visits, always made it feel as though she had known her all her life.
There were no signs of aging or any change. So, after doing her own research in diaries and old books, the young girl concluded that the woman could only be a witch, or, more boldly, a vampire. The way the woman laughed when she heard Cecily’s theories had been strangely comforting, finding it adorable how the girl’s mind seemed to work. Only after much insistence did the mysterious woman reveal the truth, which sounded even more absurd. She was Death of the Endless.
“Did Death bring me here?”
“I believe you have questions, miss, whose answers it is not my place to give,” Lucienne says carefully, keeping her hands folded in perfect posture. “If you will excuse me, I shall inform my lord that you have awakened. Are you hungry? I can ask for something to be prepared and…”
“No, thank you.” Cecy’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. With a small smile that does not reach her eyes, she looks up at Lucienne, who simply nods before leaving, an understanding expression on her oval face.
As she turns to leave, Cecily notices the strange uniform she wears, curious about the clothes that, until now, she had believed strictly meant for men.
Once alone, feeling as though her shoulders were chained to a heavy invisible weight, the young woman’s posture collapses forward. The walls seem to echo those screams. A coldness embraces her from within, and when she squeezes her eyes shut she still sees the blood.
So much blood.
There is a knot burning in her throat that makes her want to scream at the top of her lungs. But what would be the point?
With tremendous effort she inhales as deeply as she can. One, two, three… letting the air slip through her trembling lips.
Be brave…
The phrase echoes in her mind in a fading voice.
Who says that only to die right after?
The sound of the door unlocking is inaudible, but the change in the air does not go unnoticed.
He enters the room and the entire space seems to adjust itself around his presence. Though he resembles a man, the presence he carries reveals something more, something different yet not distant, unfamiliar yet strangely familiar. Dark and luminous, a cold presence that carries a hidden warmth. His skin is pale and flawless, framed by long black hair as dark as the cloak that falls from his shoulders to his feet.
“Lady Mindsor.”
Dream inclines his head slightly. His voice sounds unlike any Cecily has ever heard, hoarse and gentle, wrapped in velvet.
“How are you feeling?”
He remains where the door closed behind him, caught in an internal struggle he dislikes between approaching her or remaining where he stands. The woman before him is real, not a vision or projection. She is here, and he, Dream of the Endless, has no idea how to behave or where to begin speaking.
“Can you understand what is happening?”
Between one heartbeat and the next, the weight of the King of Dreams’ gaze makes the girl look down, focusing on tracing the rim of the cup still in her hand. Not that she is truly concentrating on the cup.
More flashes pass before her eyes, even while they remain open.
“They are all dead, aren’t they? My father and…” Cecy interrupt herself with a disbelieving sigh. Finishing the sentence would sound absurd even to her own ears.
Morpheus does not immediately grasp the fragility within a question already answered. Taking a few seconds simply to observe her, he notices her shoulders drawn inward as though carrying the weight of something unseen but heavy in the air.
With his jaw tightening and a slight adjustment to his already perfect posture, he answers.
“Yes.”
“And how… why am I still alive?” Her voice is broken, thick with restrained, raw pain.
Dream allows himself to approach slowly, one step after another, while Cecily’s mind struggles to cling to something that makes sense. She saw what those claws did to her father. She feels the burning in her own flesh. So how?
“What was that thing?”
She raises her eyes to him as she senses him closer, a pleading request for answers shining through the layer of unshed tears. Something inside the King of Dreams shifts at the sight.
“A Specter”
Morpheus answers simply, as if that were explanation enough, almost as though he had forgotten how new this part of reality is to Cecily. She looks at him with furrowed brows and clear confusion. The weight of the word lingers in the air like something that should be forgotten and never spoken.
“You are aware that there are things beyond human belief, such as my elder sister, myself, and the rest of our family. Specters are ancient creatures whose essence comes from the darkest and most savage parts of the human heart. Their existence in form and strength became possible through a combination of dark magic and demon blood.”
Each word is spoken carefully. Cecily, still confused, remains motionless, her eyes fixed on Morpheus’s as he waits for any reaction, observing the slightest sign of shock. Nothing comes, except for furrowed brows and two greenish eyes searching for something beyond what was said.
“I do not understand.” Cecy shakes her head. “How have we never heard of such things?”
“Six thousand years ago Specters terrorized and threatened the existence of humanity. God intervened, ordering the angels to forge a sword imbued with celestial grace and deliver it to a human chosen by Him. That human would be blessed as a new kind of hunter, a Spectre hunter with greater strength, agility, and longevity than any human had ever possessed.”
Dream pauses briefly. His gaze falls to her hands still holding the cup. With parted lips and eyes drifting toward some distant memory, he breathes quietly before continuing.
“It was an uneven battle in which the enemy had already caused too much damage. But with the help of one of the Endless, those abominations were exiled to an empty and lifeless world, so distant that no mortal or immortal could ever reach it, beyond a portal sealed by the hunter’s sword.”
“Apparently not distant enough,” Cecy murmurs, breaking the silence with a note of dry, painful humor as she looks at her bandaged arms.
Now it is Morpheus who frowns.
Perhaps she is drowning inside. It is clear the air around her feels heavier. Yet aside from her wounds, how does she appear so composed on the outside?
“Is there still a hunter?” she asks.
“Yes.” He pauses. Hesitates. His jaw tightens slightly as he lifts his chin. “You.”
“What?”
“You were chosen and blessed at birth to be the hunter of this era.”
Cecily scoffs in disbelief, releasing a sharp breath and an irritated look as if his words had personally offended her. Dream’s posture remains unshaken, his hands clenched into fists.
“Blessed?” she repeats with disgust. “Are you mocking me, my lord?”
It takes him a few long seconds to understand.
Blessed.
Being told she was chosen by God to hunt creatures as profane as demons had certainly shocked her. But it was calling her blessed for it, after she had lost everything she loved, that seemed to wound her personally.
Curious. He thinks. “The sword was delivered into your father’s hands by angels.”
He knew, Cecily concludes silently. Her eyes fill with tears, her lower lip trembling.
Now it makes sense. She had been no older than nine the first time she carried a blade, and it had not taken long to learn how to use it. Daggers, knives, blades, swords. The Sword.
Cecy never complained about the long training sessions. She thought it normal since her father was a general. In truth, she had even enjoyed close combat. But the reality was that all this time Henry Mindsor had been preparing her.
She remains still, her eyes lost somewhere among the sheets, her mind racing as she processes everything. Dream can almost see the knots forming within her thoughts. He gives her time, letting her breathe, waiting as long as she needs.
“Where is it?” she whispers.
“It was taken.” A pause. A restrained sigh. “These creatures are not rational. They are driven by destruction. However, this one acted with purpose. Someone was controlling it.”
“Why?”
“Whoever found a way to control the Spectres would need the sword to break the seal and release them.”
Even if he does not show it, Morpheus feels the weight of his own words, the threat of something foul and corrupt spreading across the earth again.
He notices the subtle shift in Cecily’s posture. Her eyes, once confused, now widen in alarm. In a flash she remembers the pale white eyes staring at her inside that tent. She can still feel the malice that creature radiated, and the thought of thousands of people at the mercy of such things fills her with fear.
“That cannot happen,” Cecy says, her voice firmer now, filled with dread and denial.
“I know.”
There is something in the way he looks at her. Those eyes, searching for something beyond sight.
In this room that seems born of starlight, inside the palace of a realm of dreams and nightmares ruled by Dream of the Endless, she feels as though she has fallen headfirst into the impossible, the unreal, the unimaginably painful. And that gaze is the first thing that feels real, anchoring her.
“You are safe here, Lady Mindsor. You must rest, recover, and then we will do something about it.”
“Very well.”
Wiping away a tear with her bandaged hand before it can fall, Cecily takes a deep breath and, as she exhales, allows a few of those invisible chains to slip from her shoulders.
Morpheus finds himself surprised. His thick brows knit together as she seems to understand what she must do without giving herself time to collapse in despair.
She is a hunter, after all.
She seems so calm. Perhaps there is a storm hidden within her that he cannot see, but still.
Suddenly that vision makes sense. An unstoppable wave rushing toward her while she stands there, calm.
After several silent seconds spent lost in each other’s gaze, a soft knock sounds at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opens carefully once Morpheus allows it.
“My apologies for interrupting, my lord. But Lady Mindsor must be examined by the healers, and there are matters that require your presence.”
Lucienne steps into the room, her hands folded neatly before her.
Cecy cannot help casting a curious glance at the bald woman whose clothes still seem strange to her, though not unpleasantly so.
Morpheus rises without turning toward Lucienne, whose lips curve into a faint half-smile.
“Anything you may need, you need only ask and it will be brought to you.”
“Thank you.”
Cecy bows her head slightly, offering a smile that does not reach her eyes.
The King of Dreams repeats the gesture. His footsteps echo as he walks toward the door, not revealing how strongly his body resists leaving her alone.
The air still feels heavy. Her chest still aches. The sound of muffled screams still echoes in her ears. But at least she can breathe.
Yes, there is her father, covered in blood, dead upon the dark marble floor at the very moment the King of Dreams leaves and Lucienne closes the door behind them.
Cecily shuts her eyes tightly. When she opens them again, she focuses on the still water at the bottom of the cup in her hands until whoever must come next arrives.
What if she looks up and can still see him?
And what if she looks up and cannot?
He will not come back.
She is alone, and for the first time, loneliness hurts.
@pipmer
