Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 9)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
GIF: Originally posted by @elvenlords
Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader
Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)
Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Language. Nightmares.
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: Hello there! Long time no update! Thank you for your patience and for all the lovely comments, likes and reblogs that have been coming in since S2 dropped. What a series. It has both simultaneously fired up my imagination and destroyed my emotions in equal measure.
As always, I hope you enjoy and would be very happy to hear your thoughts, especially after all this time between chapters. All my love, Saskia xx
Sandman Masterlist
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"Open. Open. Come on. Just fu -"
You break off with an exasperated huff. You have been at this for a while now. Palm flush with the wood of the door, trying to somehow channel the power within your soul to get out of the cage that Morpheus so effectively persuaded you into.
Moving closer, you lay your right cheek against the lacquered surface.
"Let me out of here," you whisper. "Please. Just let me out without him knowing. It can be our little secret."
It's not lost on you at how unhinged you sound - talking to an inanimate object, hoping to coax it into obedience but no other feasible course of action springs to mind. Not with the pressure of his return looming over you. There is no telling how long you have and the words he had spoken hadn't exactly given you faith that he was going to yield.
Escape is your sole option.
To get out of the palace and into whatever lies beyond its walls. There's no guarantee that you will find a way back to home but in the very least you will have space to think. A change of scenery usually brought benefits to mental clarity when you felt restricted, though your bindings were always non-physical.
The dire thought lets slip a humourless cackle. Being kidnapped wasn't exactly a consequence you had considered in accepting Morpheus' affections. Then again, do the majority think things will end badly when starting any kind of relationship? Not if the blindfold of lust had any say in the matter, you suppose, and you have no grounds whatsoever to say that your case is any different.
This also isn't an ending, you remind yourself. The end comes when all options have been exhausted and you haven't even begun to try.
You close your eyes and focus all effort onto mapping out the energy housed in your chest. Endeavouring to picture it. Opulent blue intertwining with the natural luminescence, showing your attachment to him and the potential for goodness knows what else.
His abilities could be limitless. Mind influencing. World altering. Universe conquering. But for now you just need simple. You hone in on that word, devoting every ounce of concentration to picturing one, single eventuality. The door no longer being in your path.
The threads of his power tremble as your manifestation sets in stone, in turn reaching out with the likeness of a handshake, nudging you to trust them with your getaway.
They whisper promises with their gentle touches, echoing your want, reaching out out out beyond the confines of your chest.
Let me through.
Your hand passes through the wood.
You stumble at the sudden boundary change, forearm following up to your elbow joint, breath hitching with an audible click as the fascinating realisation hits. The door is still there - for you can see it when you look down but its molecules have become as dense as vapour. All it takes is one large step and you're all the way through.
The hallway beyond is just as dark as you pictured, eerie even, but it doesn't deter you from throwing yourself into its gloomy unknown. A short landing gives way to a torch-lit stone staircase; you descend them at the briskest pace you can achieve without it feeling unsafe.
The sections wrap back and forth on each other, blocking everything more than a minute in front of you, fuelling your fear of interception even further. It's some time before you reach the bottom. There's no door; you simply walk out into a corridor. This confuses you. It seems too easy. You can't take it for granted though for you must keep moving.
You head for a window positioned about ten paces away from where you emerged. It's a shame that you are unable to appreciate the view for anything more than the 30 seconds you assign to finding your bearings. You're quite a way from the ground floor of the building, and also from the bridge that traverses a lake. It's clear that you need to move left and down.
You start with the first direction, creeping down the corridor, allowing yourself a bit of bandwidth to notice the details around you. The décor is gorgeous; with the intricately patterned wallpapers, the sunlight refracting prettily through the crystals of chandeliers, and the cabinets and credenzas laden with artefacts and trinkets - it's a world away from the horror that Morpheus had implied when discouraging your curiosity.
Every time you reach an intersection, you pause and listen - for footsteps, voices, any signs of life before launching hastily into the next stretch. Finding none is confusing for the size of the palace.
Surely there had to be someone else here?
You don't let the thought deter your progress. In fact, it becomes even brisker when you find a spiral staircase that takes you down into the belly of the castle. The speed of your heart rate makes you feel unsteady as you jog down for there is no where to hide in between the landings; each offshoot you clear without incident is a small victory.
Soon enough, according to a panoramic window you find in an airy antechamber, you are within touching distance of the ground floor and it's tough not to throw caution to the wind by ditching your hypervigilant measures. It is only the firmness of your inner voice that prevents you from ploughing ahead, and you are rewarded by the grand entrance hall.
The skeleton hanging from the ceiling makes your eyes widen. Manta ray like in form, its shadow flickers in the light cast by numerous candles and torches. Warmth thrown from those same flames bring a flush to your exposed skin as you sneak past the open archways leading off into other parts of the palace, and go for what can only be the front door.
It is the first one you have seen since you left Morpheus' chambers - an infinitely larger and grander one yet you don't let it intimidate you. Confidence sparks in your nerves as you approach and lift you hand. You don't even have to make contact for it to dissolve into translucency.
The change in air pressure sets all the mini fires behind you guttering violently. Golden light pours in. The windows set into the ceiling of the entrance hall had hinted at the strength of the sunlight outside, however you are wholly unprepared for the fortitude of the output from the winter sun that hangs low in the sky. It makes you squint, throwing a hand up to protect against its glorious glare as you register an unsettling noise in the distance. Like hardened keratin across a slate or the banshee cries of foxes, the notes of the sound cause chills to erupt all down your back. Everything about it indicates that something is wrong.
Perhaps it is the reason for which Morpheus was forced to leave. Concern niggles your conscience; was it a serious matter?
The thought is fleeting - you are going to use whatever it is to your advantage. You cross the threshold and take yet more steps down to the bridge.
It would be impossible to miss just how exposed you are going to be for the next part of your journey. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to go if you are noticed by someone, except for jumping into the lake below. And while it looks perfectly placid, you are quite adverse to trying. The stillest of waters can often run the most dangerous.
You can't turn back now though. Not when you've got so far. Plus, come to think of it, would the adrenaline-spiking act really pose a risk to you? You are immortal after all.
Immortality. It's a horrific notion, one that you really don't want to accept as your truth, causing a quiver to permeate your body juddering all the way through to the bone. The very thing that defined your humanity had been taken. Snatched from you without forewarning and covered up by the person who had behaved towards you with such passion and tenderness. Apparently his affection didn't stretch that far though.
Your teeth clench in a show of anger. It's the secrecy of it all that stokes the fierce emotion. You cannot abide his deception, nor his disregard for your sanity. Going home is the only thing you want - to be among the people you love, those who don't lie and manipulate and coddle.
But even then, if you did manage to find a way back to your waking life, would you still have a place there with the immortality? It's not exactly something that people would overlook; their growing old while you remain frozen in time. All your relationships and interactions would be temporary, fleeting.
So caught up in your morbid thoughts, you are taken aback when your feet make contact with a surface other than stone.
Grass. The greenest you've ever seen, made dewy by the winds coming off of the water - you feel the mist clinging to your skin too.
With a curious gaze, you take in the village and the fishing boats to the right of you. The stillness here is not as profound as it was by the castle; an indication that there are likely people within the houses.
You pick your way along the path that runs adjacent to the village, enjoying the sink of your heels into the compacted peaty soil - though not quite enough to stop you from anxiously fiddling with the ring on your finger. The stakes feel infinitely higher now and you have to really stop yourself from squeaking when you hear a dulcet, gravelly voice coming from the house you have just walked by.
"Do you think it's over yet?"
Unable to control yourself, you pause in walking to curiously listen in. You've not heard another person except Morpheus since you got here.
A second voice answers, this one equally soothing. "From the lack of dreamers, I'm pretty sure the answer is still no."
"But I'm bored."
"I am more than aware, my dear."
The unmistakable noise of pacing footsteps starts up.
"Why can't we just go across to the pocket dimension that he sent the dreamers to?"
"I imagine because it is safer that they remain separate to everything made in the Dreaming, and because Lord Morpheus has bigger things to worry about than your boredom levels."
A couple of seconds of silence ensue.
"I guess you're right."
You hear the scrape of a chair's legs on floorboards.
"Would it help if we went on a walk together to pass the time?"
You don't wait to hear a reply; the risk of interception becoming a shade more realistic for your liking. You run, grateful for the muffling ground underfoot, silent as a deer. There are trees up ahead - they can be your cover.
Even when you reach them, you do not let your guard drop, choosing a much less straightforward route than perhaps is necessary, keeping to the grassy verges over the lone marked path; the crunch of frosty gravel too risky after such unimpeded progress.
That unsettling noise from before is dampened by the denseness of the trees; cedars and pines and firs standing strong in the winter air - and many other deciduous species that are hard for you to identify with the absence of their leaves. The mix of tree types is not particularly reflective of real world biomes but, as you remind yourself: this is a place of dreams. There are no fixed rules. It's a beautiful environment to be surrounded by, one that contributes to the slight calming of your heart rate.
The elevation of the terrain to the left of your vision field is sharply inclining leaving you with a choice: go up what you assume is a hill, or stay on your current course. The climb will no doubt slow you down but the lure of a lookout point is tempting. If only you had a coin to toss.
You opt for left and with every ascending step you take, you are prompted to wonder if it is adrenaline or immortality that's stopping your legs and feet from hurting. Whatever it is, it's no match for the horrible sound; it gets louder as the trees shrink in size and you are wincing from exposure by the time you reach the comprehensive vantage point at the crest of the hill.
You shield your eyes once more and survey the landscape. A snow smothered mountain range giving rise to the lifeblood of the region; spring to stream to river. A valley cut in half by that passage of water. Copses, glades, meadows. A gate.
That really piques your interest. A gate maybe meant further passage was attainable. You dial into your power once more and ask the question: Can I get home through there?
The warm flutter in your chest is all the answer you need. Even better, it appears that the route is straightforward - find the river and follow it almost to the mountain on its flank. You set off in search of it, using the ever-intensifying sound of the running water as your guide.
The river is as clear as freshly polished glass. Shards of ice bob in the gentle current, their slow passage a stark contrast to the erratic flight patterns of the small birds that forage for food in the now desiccated thistles and bulrushes.
Some of their wings feature patterns and colours that you know cannot be found in ones from Earth. Dream birds. Ones that he must have created.
How you wish that Morpheus could be here beside you in this moment. He should have been showing you all this stark beauty.
The thoughts are hurtful ones, pricking at your eyes, trying to tease out tears. You tilt your head back with an inhale, like you could somehow coax them back into your tear ducts with gravity.
You cannot afford to cry. Not when your sense of hearing is still so impacted by the hideous tone; your eyesight needs to be in tact for perceiving potential threats. You pick up your pace again, building to a run. The width of the river gets narrower as you close the distance to its source.
Your stamina holds well, as does your speed. It's impossible to quantify without the necessary tools or equations however the blur of the scenery implies you are fast.
The feat would be exhilarating if it wasn't so tragic - you are quite literally running for your life. Your waking life.
It's feels within reach, until the hair-raising noise stops.
You stop short, gulping in breaths, knowing all too well that things were likely to take a turn with the fortuitous distraction gone. There is no way of circumventing the eventuality that your soulmate was about to discover your fleeing. And you have no idea how far you are from reaching the gate.
You take in a slow and steady abdominal breath and close your eyes to re-centre yourself. Repeatedly counting to four as you employ box breathing. Your brain calms.
What you find upon opening your eyes sends you back the other way.
A figure. Humanoid - to a point, for there are wings sprouting from their back; the winter sun catches on the electric pink and aquamarine colouring as well as the intermittent snowflakes that have begun to fall around them. Distressingly, you are in the scope of their vision.
Or at least you would be if not for the good fortune that they are currently facing away from you. That changes quickly, doubtless caused by your once more panicky breathing.
With the lack of nearby foliage it's near certain that they will see you, bringing the risk of game over to probable odds, for you deduce that they are a dream that has been allowed back to their work.
Only one thing crosses your mind as the entity begins to turn.
Don't see me. Please don't see me.
And fortuitously they do not.
Instead they look right through you. There is no interpreting it as anything else. Their expression is perplexed, gleaming eyes focused right where your nose should be, searching for a sign that their auditory sense hadn't been inventing stimuli.
You take an exploratory sidestep, praying that the illusion holds and rejoicing when the dream flies away humming a beautiful song.
As soon as they're out of sight, you're swiftly back to running all the while repeating your mantra. Don't see me. It works for the handful of other beings you pass by. It's thrilling; you begin to truly believe that you'll get out. A dangerous spark of hope to have, however the reappearance of the warm rumble in your chest makes it hard to quash.
You must be close.
The terrain changes with the river becoming a stream that curves away. You are so preoccupied with chasing it that you fail to clock an oncoming blip in the green.
In fact, it appears to be an absence of light entirely. A space shrouded by a swirling fog; a double of the void-filled box that had featured in your recent nightmare. You don't have enough time to stop yourself before you are hurtling into it.
The effects of the space are instant. Clammy skin and goosebumps and trembles; not unmanageable but nonetheless unpleasant.
Even though you cannot see past the fog, your intuition tells you that the gate is just beyond the clearing. It's not as if you have a choice anymore other than to press on. You can barely tell up from down, let alone backwards. You force your feet to take a couple of steps, trying to push the feelings away but all this achieves is provocation.
An icy breath caresses the nape of your neck. You startle, muscles engaging to get you away. Yet you cannot move.
There's little time to process this paralysed state before claw tipped fingers are stroking over the shell of you ears, velvet coated whispers crowding, delving, permeating.
"You can't leave."
"You've only just got here."
"Stay with us."
Had you been able to shriek you would have done with fervour. Alas your mind has left your body. It thrashes, desperate to regain control - you are instead forced to watch from the third person. Your ashen face, pupils gaping holes seeing too much and not enough.
The concentric rings of gravestones surround you like ominous sentinels. A statue of an angel watches on in pity. Ironic - for there is no prospect for miracles here, that you are certain of. Right in the middle of a widow's web, the nightmare has you suspended in weightlessness.
You wonder if this is for Morpheus' benefit? Does he know that you have fled? Has he put out a plea to find you? Are you being punished, or worse trapped in another prison?
Ultimately, anything was better than being confined to that room. You have been so achingly alone. At least you were able to fucking feel something here.
A hand finds purchase on your own.
"It's okay. We've got you," the echoed whispers raspingly console.
The sensation of the nightmare's cool skin, the charges of preternatural energy snaking up your limb to your most vulnerable centre; it comforts you despite the melancholia, feels good to brush up alongside your soul. Perhaps a small piece of it decides to take root. Or you let it. Maybe if you had to stay in the Dreaming you could exist here. Your soul is at peace in this darkness. You can see yourself smiling now.
But then comes a downward plummet. You are knocked from the curious reverie by a great tremor that rips through the Dreaming. The sun is blotted out and an almighty storm is unleashed.
Though dazed and reeling, you are lucid enough to know the period of grace is over. You swear you can hear the notes of his desirous temper threaded among the curls of wind that cut against your cheeks.
The draw inside you to reach the gate transforms to acute and with no time to waste and adrenaline spiking, you pick your way through the neglected gravestones, nearly slipping on the mud that the deluge so effortlessly fabricated.
The instant you see the gates up close triggers a visceral reaction. The energy coming off the stone pulsates with such intensity that you feel you might puke. It is how you imagine a nuclear reactor might feel. Volatile and incomprehensible. Capable of wiping out all matter, tangible or not.
For the second time in a few minutes you feel kinship to the power on show. It is archaic. A parallel to your soul bond. You are one and the same.
A sharp caw punctuates the storm, startling your concentration, drawing your attention up. Right to the blade-sharp beak that the ominous sound came from. An imposingly large corvid glides atop the slip streams. So large that it could only be a raven, its feathers beautifully glossy as it fixes its beady gaze right on you.
Whether due to the nightmare or the bird's call, you are no longer invisible - the bird's course correction tells you as much. Your dread is plutonium; another jolt of adrenaline somehow overcomes the weight of it.
Senses sharpened, you can hear the sound of waves lapping, smell the scent of salt. Is there an ocean past the gate? You make the final few strides towards your escape, ready to slam your hand onto the stone when...
Morpheus appears at your side.
Your soul leaps. That traitorous fragment of you that threatens to override your logic - all achieved by one look at his perfect face. You would hate yourself for it if you had the cognition; between the gate's energy and the desire to be in his arms, you are losing your rationality.
"You left," Morpheus states. He blinks slowly taking a reading of the probably unanticipated situation, head tilting, a showcase of his intrigue. "How?"
"The room let me leave," you say with as much neutrality as possible, head turning back to the immense structure before you.
He comes into your peripheral vision with startling speed, his tone just as urgent. "What do you mean by that?"
To answer him would be to delay your escape even longer. You focus instead on the green growing on the walls. Mosses, lichens. The tightly twisting ivy that mirrors the hold he has on you. You are having trouble tuning into your power with his proximity.
"Y/N." He coaxes gently, searching your drawn features with unblinking, trepidatious eyes.
It scares you that you notice this. You cannot remember making the decision to look at him. Perhaps it is the sibling of the involuntary impulse that makes you answer him.
"I asked for help in leaving and the door dissolved."
His lips part in surprise. "You manipulated the fabric of the Dreaming." He sounds impressed.
You huff sardonically, muttering, "Another side effect of the soul bond, I guess." Then reaching towards the stone gate with a flattened palm.
"What do you think you are doing?" Morpheus' question is authoritative however you can detect a note of fearfulness in the mix. It gives you courage that your journey here was not for nothing.
"I'm going to do the same with this gate as I did with the doors. I'm going home."
"I cannot allow you to do that." Morpheus moves into a wary stance, as if you have just transformed into a scorpion and he is trying to avoid your sting. "It is dangerous to wield such power when inexperienced."
Your soul burns astringently as you dismiss him. "It's been serving me well so far."
The rain lessens a fraction, a little too late for you are both soaked through. Morpheus does not seem to notice - he is unfalteringly focused on you.
"Y/N, I implore you to listen to me. There is a significant risk you would find yourself in the space between realms. Or somewhere considerably worse."
A flare of rage manifests at the ease of which he can still be so vague with his threats.
"How do I know you're not just saying that!? You told me that it was unsafe to leave that room and yet I got here without any problems."
Not entirely truthful; you purposefully neglect to tell him about the absolute terror the graveyard initially caused, the information does not serve you at present.
You take a step away from him and internally root for the power to get you through the gate. Morpheus zeroes in on your chest, clearly feeling you engage with it.
The rain turns back to torrential and his eyes darken as you hear his commanding voice inside your head. "Stop this now."
"No, you fucking stop!" You explode. "I am done listening to your lies, and I am done with your fucked up fantasy. I don't care what fate intended or what is in my soul. I am leaving you and if you have any sense at all you will leave me the fuck alone!"
Your words are so full of vitriol that it is clear that no amount of pleas can be made to sway your decision. It pushes Morpheus to sheer, instinctual desperation as he finally tries to snag your hand with his, and with the residual anger inside it's all the encouragement you need to press your outstretched one to the gate.
The energy recoil is punishing. It takes everything within you to stand your ground. Morpheus is speaking - the precise words are lost to pressure change in your ears.
Let me go home. You assert to the gate.
The stone becomes translucent and then you are falling.
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Without Morpheus there to steady you, your passage is far less smooth. For a moment you fear that his talk of ending up in limbo was rooted in accuracy. Yet you make it unscathed. And you're right back where it all started. The same rain washed street outside the function hall, the same flyers up by the entrance begging the question: could you have been returned on the same day that you left?
You nudge the door to see if the venue is still open. It is, so you slip inside. You reason that being around other people is the safest thing for you should you have been followed the Dreaming's king. The warmth of the central heating is tempting too for you are still saturated from the storm.
The squeak of your boots on the wooden floor draws attention. You hear a chorus of assuaged exhales, see a blur of movement.
Danisha. She's in your personal space within seconds, a justifiable mixture of fury and relief sparking in her big brown eyes. "Oh my god, where were you? I was so worried."
Your other colleagues stand nearby at the front desk, and you overhear them trying to tell the staff that everything was okay. That you weren't missing after all. What trouble you've caused.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper, throat thick with guilt and tears. "Something urgent came up."
"Urgent enough to go missing for over an hour without telling anyone?"
Only an hour? It felt like a week had passed in the Dreaming. The adage that time passed differently in dreams carried some weight.
You twist the ring on your finger as you tell your half-truths. "It was an emergency. Everything happened so fast. I know how it must have looked."
"Damn right. I got the venue staff to check the CCTV outside but the memory was corrupted. I was so close to calling the police."
"What stopped you?"
She pauses, contemplating how to phrase her reply.
"I don't know. I had this weird feeling that you would come back if I stayed here..." Danisha smiles for the first time since you were reunited. "And you did, thank the universe."
You can't help but wonder if divine intervention stepped in for you both.
"I'm really sorry I worried you."
She nudges your shoulder playfully.
"Yeah, me too. I had to make that speech you promised me you'd give."
Your mouth drops open. "We won?"
"Hell yes we did," She says feistily. "And thank fuck you left your shout-out list on the table 'cause I'd have been absolutely screwed without it."
Your chest swells with pride. "I'm so proud of you, D."
Her nose crinkles endearingly.
"Don't pass judgement just yet. I'm fairly certain that Tomas recorded it, the little shit." She turns around and shoots your colleague a joking death glare. Tomas clutches his chest in mock pain and all three of you laugh.
"We're still going to The Bridge like we planned?"
Danisha hands your bag and phone over. "Yeah. You need a drink?
You laugh dryly. "You have no idea."
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Danisha refrains from asking more questions about your AWOL moment as you traverse the damp streets to your team's favourite bar - a fact that you are infinitely grateful for because it would be much more challenging to disguise your unease.
Naturally, you are relieved to be back in familiarity with your beloved friends but every movement out the corner of your eye or snippet of conversation in a deep voice is a jump scare.
How could it not be? Morpheus made his disposition clear; he wants full possession of you, which is why it is surprising that he has not followed you thus far. Not that it would serve him well; you would scream bloody murder if he came near you.
The feeling of shedding your sodden coat when inside the warm bar is luxurious, as is the first sip of the espresso martini you ordered - chosen for its sleep repelling caffeine content.
Friday night means the establishment is packed and the hours slip by in relative delight. Full of celebration and throwing caution to the wind.
The award is passed around with the realisation that you'll need to get a bigger shelf installed in the office. You crowd round Tomas' phone to watch the video of Danisha's speech, which is promptly deleted after she wrestles it out of his hand, claiming that: 'no one else ever needs to be subjected to her sweaty face'. The whole tussle had been immensely comical and you laughed so much that your stomach went into spasm.
With happy tears in your eyes, you get the attention of the middle-aged bartender and order yourself another drink. There's a group of students to the right of you, living it up with the exuberance of those who are still too young to know the meaning of debilitating hangovers.
One of them begins to fake whispers excitedly. "Don't look now but a 'sunglasses indoors' just walked in the door. And they're seriously hot."
The whole group look in unison and you are ashamed to admit that you do the same - not because you want to gauge their attractiveness for yourself but rather to check if they were famous. Who else would wear sunglasses inside at night?
The instant you spot him, you notice a disconcerting tightness settle in your chest.
You feel like you know him.
And from the beaming smile he is directing towards you, it seems like he feels the same way.
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"Cause they watch us in sleep. And the language that we speak. And the secrets that we keep to ourselves in our dreams, in our dreams."
