40m
MASTERLIST
MORPHEUS/DREAM OF THE ENDLESS
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MASTERLIST
MORPHEUS/DREAM OF THE ENDLESS
TELL ME
Chapter 1.1
Chapter 1.2
TELL ME
Morpheus x Immortal!OC
Second-person POV · semi-reader-insert · OC protagonist
Part I: Chapter 1.1
Chapter 1.2:
The settlement was larger than any place you had lived in. Not a city—not yet—but large enough that the paths between houses had become proper streets, and large enough that people had begun building walls around things that mattered.
There were storehouses. Workshops. Courtyards. Mud-brick houses packed closely together.
People carrying baskets. Children running between them.
Donkeys complaining somewhere nearby.
The air smelled of smoke, clay, animals, river water, and food.
You stopped in the middle of the road. Death nearly walked into you.
“What?”
You looked around.
“People.”
“Yes.”
“So many.”
“You have been here before.”
“Once.” You tried to remember when.
You had been younger then. Perhaps twelve. You had come with someone from your settlement to trade what little you had.
You remembered the noise. You remembered staring at the walls.
You remembered thinking that people who lived here must be incredibly rich simply because there were so many of them.
You turned to Death.
“Are we allowed to steal?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“You would not steal.”
“I might.”
“You would not.”
“You don't know me very well.”
Death regarded you.
“I know you well enough.”
You smiled. “That's unfortunate.”
She continued walking. You followed.
For the first time, Death looked slightly inconvenienced by having to keep up with you.
You decided you liked that.
The garden was beyond the settlement, fed by a narrow irrigation channel. It was still green. Not abundantly green. Not like the gardens in your dreams. The failed harvest had touched this place too. Some plants were thin. Some trees carried very little fruit.
The earth was dry in places where it should have been dark and damp. But there was water. There were date palms. There were herbs growing beside the channels. There were figs.
And there were flowers.
You stopped.
Death looked back at you. “What?”
You pointed. There.
Growing along the damp edge of the garden. Samûra. Dozens of them.
You forgot, for a moment, that you were supposed to be angry with Death. You hurried toward them.
“Careful.” You ignored her.
You crouched beside the nearest plant.
The samûra was exactly as you remembered it. Dark green leaves spreading low across the earth. Several smaller blooms gathered around one enormous central bud. The flowers were deep crimson, their outer petals darkening toward wine and violet-black at the tips. Some were fully open. Some were only beginning. The largest bloom caught the afternoon light and seemed almost impossibly red.
You reached out but stopped before touching it.
“Don't.” You looked over your shoulder.
Death stood with her arms folded.
“Why?”
“It will bruise.” You looked back at the flower.
Then at her.
“How do you know that?”
“I have watched mortals handle flowers.”
“You've watched them?”
“Yes.”
“You've watched people pick flowers?”
“Yes.”
“And you know they bruise?”
“Yes.” You smiled slowly.
“Death.” She waited.
“You've never touched one, have you?”
A pause.
“No.”
You laughed. Actually laughed.
Death looked at you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are laughing at me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you're Death.”
“Yes.”
“And you've never touched a flower.”
“I have had other things to attend to.”
“That might be the saddest thing I've ever heard.”
“I doubt that.”
You turned back to the samûra. Very carefully, you touched one of the smaller petals.
It was smooth beneath your fingers. “It's my favourite.”
Death crouched beside you. “Why?”
You shrugged “I don't know.”
That wasn't entirely true.
You did know.
You remembered being little again and sitting beside one of these plants, counting the smaller flowers around the great central bloom. You had decided they were its children. You had been furious when someone stepped on one.
You had loved the way the flowers changed in the evening. The crimson deepening. The dark edges becoming almost black. The scent growing warmer as the sun disappeared. They reminded you of the gardens you dreamed about. Not because they were magical. Because they were real. Small enough to touch.
You looked at Death.
“They're pretty.”
Death considered the flowers. “They are.
You blinked. “That was easy.”
“What?”
“Agreeing with me.”
“I do it when you are correct.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I don't think I like mortal Death very much.”
She gave you a look. You grinned.
The day passed strangely. You had expected something grand. Instead, you discovered that being alive was made almost entirely of small things.
You ate.
At first, Death watched you. Then she tried the fruit herself. You watched her bite into a fig. She chewed thoughtfully.
“Well?”
“It is sweet.”
You stared at her. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You've never eaten one before.”
“No.”
“You've watched people eat them.”
“Yes.”
“That isn't the same.”
Death looked at the fig in her hand.
“No.”
You smiled. “See?”
She looked at you. “What?”
“You said it yourself.”
“I did.”
“You're learning.”
“I am beginning to understand why mortals find conversation exhausting.” You laughed.
“You're terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Being mortal.”
“I have been mortal for several hours.”
“Exactly.”
You gave her another fig. “Try this one.”
She accepted it. “This is the same fruit.”
“It isn't.”
“It is.”
“You have to taste it properly.”
She looked faintly suspicious.
You demonstrated. “Eat it.”
She did.
“Now?”
“Now chew.”
“I am chewing.”
“Not like that.” Death stopped.
“You are instructing me on how to eat.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently someone has to.” For the first time, she laughed.
It was quiet. Almost surprised.
You stared at her.
Death's expression changed. “What?”
“You laughed.”
“Yes.”
“You actually laughed.”
“Yes.” You smiled.
“Išera,” she said carefully, “do not make this unbearable.”
You laughed harder.
Later, you walked through the settlement. Death discovered dust. She discovered heat. She discovered hunger. She discovered how heavy a basket felt after carrying it for too long.
You discovered that she was surprisingly bad at bargaining.
“You're being cheated,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“Then why are you letting him?”
“I am observing.”
“You're paying twice what it's worth.”
“I know.”
You stared at her. “You are the worst mortal I've ever met.”
“I have existed for a very long time.”
“And somehow no one taught you how to buy bread.”
“I have never needed bread.”
You shook your head. “You really don't know anything.”
Death looked at you. “No.”
The answer was quieter this time.
You stopped walking.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the settlement continued around you. Children shouted somewhere nearby. Someone was pounding grain. A woman called to another from across a courtyard.
Life continued.
You looked at Death. “You meant it.”
“Yes.”
“You really don't know.”
“I know what mortals do.”
“But not why.”
She considered that. “No.”
You smiled faintly.
“Then I suppose the wager wasn't entirely foolish.”
“You think this proves your point?”
“I think you eating a fig proves something.”
“What?”
“That you're not as wise as you pretend to be.” She looked almost offended.
You laughed. And for a while, that was enough.
By late afternoon, you returned to the garden.
The heat had softened. The irrigation channels reflected the sky. You sat beneath a tree with your back against the trunk. Death sat beside you. Neither of you spoke for some time. You watched the water move.
“You know,” you said eventually, “I thought being alive would feel bigger.”
Death turned toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I thought if I ever got another day, I'd know exactly what to do with it.”
You looked around the garden.
“Instead, I ate fruit, insulted Death, and spent half the day looking at my favourite flowers.”
Death glanced toward the samûra.
“You seemed pleased.”
“I was.”
You smiled. “I suppose that's enough.”
Death looked at you for a long moment. She was beginning to understand something she had never needed to understand before. Mortals did not need eternity to make a day matter. They needed only the knowledge that it would end.
Perhaps that was why you had laughed so easily. Perhaps that was why you had eaten until you were full. Perhaps that was why you had stopped to touch a flower when you knew you had so little time.
Death had spent eternity watching mortals cling to life. She had never understood why.
Now, sitting beneath a tree with fruit still sweet on her tongue, she thought she might finally be beginning to.
Then something moved in the grass. You noticed it first. A flash of patterned scales.
“Death.”
She looked at you.
The viper struck. It happened too quickly. Teeth sank into her ankle. She jerked backward. The snake vanished beneath the plants.
You were on your feet immediately.
Death looked down. There were two small punctures.
“I believe I have been bitten.” Your stomach dropped.
Your face went white. “No.”
Death looked at you.
“What?”
“No, no, no.”
You dropped beside her.
“Stay awake.”
“I am awake.”
“Stay awake.”
“Išera.”
“You're dying.”
She looked almost curious.
“Yes.”
The word hit you harder than it should have.
“You can't.”
Death's breathing had begun to change. “I appear to be able to.”
You stared at her. “You're Death.”
“Yes.”
“You can't die.”
A faint smile touched her face.
“I am beginning to suspect that was the point of the wager.”
“Don't joke.”
“I am not.”
You grabbed her hand. It was warm. Too warm. Her skin had begun to sweat. You had seen dying people before. You knew what it looked like. You hated knowing.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate. No calm explanation. No distance. Just—yes.
You swallowed. “How?”
Death closed her eyes briefly. “Everything is becoming difficult.”
Her breathing grew shallower. You held her tighter.
“You said you wanted to understand.”
“I do.”
“Then understand this.”
You were crying now. You hated that you were crying.
“You don't get to leave me alone after making me live for a day.”
Death opened her eyes. For once, she looked completely human. Afraid. Not of death. Of dying.
“Išera.”
“What?”
“I think I understand.”
Your throat tightened. “What?”
She glanced toward the garden. At the green leaves. At the water. At the flowers.
“At last,” she whispered.
Then her eyes closed. You stayed beside her. You waited. You did not know how long. The garden had gone very quiet.
Death's mortal body no longer breathed. And for the first time, you understood something terrible. You had spent your entire life believing Death could not know what it meant to lose someone. Now you were the one who had lost her.
You sat beside her body until the sun began to lower. You didn't know what mortals were supposed to do with Death when Death herself was dead.
There was no ritual for this. No instruction. No answer. So you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You walked back to the samûra. You chose two flowers. Not the great central bloom. Two smaller ones.
You carried them back carefully. Then you knelt beside her. One flower over each eye. Crimson against her still face. You brushed a stray petal from her cheek.
“You wanted to know what it was like,” you whispered.
Your voice broke. “Now you know.”
You sat beside her for a little longer. And when the wind moved through the garden, carrying the scent of the samûra with it, you looked at the flowers over Death's eyes.
•••
For a while, nothing happened. You remained beside her.
The garden had grown quiet around you. The light was fading, turning the water in the irrigation channel gold. The samûra flowers were beginning to close with the coming evening, their crimson petals darkening toward wine.
You kept looking at the two flowers over Death's eyes. You wondered whether she would have liked them. The thought was absurd. You almost laughed.
Then the air changed. You felt it before you saw her.
The garden seemed to draw a breath. You lifted your head. Death was standing a few paces away.
Not the woman who had spent the day beside you. Not the mortal woman who had eaten figs and complained about the heat and discovered that walking everywhere was considerably less pleasant than simply appearing wherever she pleased.
This was Death.
She looked exactly as she had before. And yet you could see the difference. Something had settled back into place. Something vast. Something that had never belonged to this world in the first place.
You looked from her to the body lying in the grass. Then back to her. She followed your gaze.
Her eyes rested on the mortal body. On the flowers. For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then Death looked at you. “You did that.”
You glanced at the flowers. “You were dead.”
“I noticed.” You stared at her.
Then, despite everything, a laugh escaped you. It came out shaky.
“You're impossible.”
“I have been told that.”
“You died.”
“Yes.”
“And then you just—” You gestured helplessly at her. “Came back.”
“Yes.”
“That is extremely unfair.”
Death's mouth curved faintly.
“You knew the terms.”
“I did not know you were going to cheat.”
“I did not.”
“You died.”
“That was not cheating.”
“It felt like cheating.”
Death looked at the flowers again. “You put them there.”
You followed her gaze.
“They're my favourite.”
“I know.” You looked at her sharply.
“How?”
“I spent the day with you.”
“Oh.”
You looked down at the mortal body. For some reason, seeing it now felt stranger than seeing Death herself standing there. It was her face. Her hands. The body that had laughed with you that afternoon. The body that had tasted fruit for the first time. The body that had been bitten by a snake and had slowly, helplessly, begun to die.
And now Death was standing beside it as though the body were only something she had borrowed.
You swallowed. “Did it hurt?”
Death was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”
You waited. She did not elaborate. Perhaps she didn't need to.
You remembered the way her breathing had changed. The sweat on her skin. The uncertainty in her eyes.
You remembered holding her hand. You remembered being afraid.
“So you understand now.” Death looked at you.
“I understand more.”
You frowned. “More?”
“I am still Death.”
You almost smiled. “Unfortunately.”
“But I know what it is to be afraid of dying.”
That silenced you. You had spent so long trying to explain it to her.
You had told her that mortals did not know when their lives would end. That tomorrow mattered because it had not happened yet. That living was not merely the opposite of dying.
And now she had felt it. Not watched it. Not understood it as a fact. Felt it.
You looked away. “I told you.”
“Yes.”
“I told you.”
“Yes, Išera.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Then I won.”
Death regarded you. “You won.”
Your smile disappeared. “The wager?”
“Yes.”
“So I live?”
There was a pause.
“Yes.”
You searched her face for the joke. There wasn't one.
You laughed anyway. Not because it was funny. Because you had forgotten what else a person was supposed to do when someone told her she would live.
“For how long?”
Death looked at you.
“As long as you wish.”
You blinked. “What?”
“As long as you wish.”
You studied her face, waiting for the qualification.
There wasn't one.
“So... forever?”
“If that is what you want.”
You frowned. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It is not.”
“You're Death.”
“Yes.”
“You don't usually let people choose.”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
Death was quiet for a moment. Because she had learned something today. Not everything. Not enough to understand mortals completely. Perhaps she never would. But enough.
Enough to know that a life could not be measured simply by the moment it ended. Enough to know why someone would plant a tree whose fruit they would never taste. Enough to understand why you had fought so desperately for one more night when you had nothing left to gain from it.
She looked at you. “Because you asked.”
You almost laughed. “That is a terrible reason.”
“It is the reason I have.”
You looked toward the garden.
The light was beginning to change. Evening was settling over the trees, turning the water gold between the reeds. You thought of how many times you had wished for another morning.
Another harvest. Another meal. Another year.
You had spent your entire life measuring time in things that ran out.
Dates on a branch. Grain in a jar. Water in a canal. Days until the next harvest. Days until there was nothing left.
And now Death was offering you something you could barely understand.
Not another year. Not another ten years.
A choice.
“And when I'm ready?”
Death's expression softened.
“When you are ready, I will come.”
Something in your chest tightened. Not fear. Not quite.
You had spent so long begging Death not to come that you had never considered what it might feel like to know she would wait.
“You mean I decide?”
“Yes.”
“And if I change my mind?”
“Then you continue.”
You stared at her seriously.
“That is absurd.”
“Why?”
“Because you're Death.”
“I am aware.”
You shook your head, and despite everything, a smile began to pull at your mouth.
“You're very strange.”
“So I've been told.”
You laughed. A real laugh this time. It hurt a little. You immediately pressed a hand to your ribs.
“You are still injured.”
“Yes, thank you. I had noticed.”
“You should rest.”
“You are very demanding for someone who just promised me freedom.”
“I did not promise you freedom.”
You raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I promised you time.”
You considered that. Then smiled.
“I think that's better.”
Death said nothing.
You looked down at your hands. They were still your hands.
Still scarred. Still dirty. Still human.
Nothing about you looked different.
You touched your chest. Your heart was beating. Steady. Alive.
You breathed deeply. There was no pain.
You looked at Death.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I chose not to take you.”
It was such a simple answer. And perhaps that was what frightened you.
There had been no spell. No transformation. No light from the heavens. No great force descending upon the garden.
Death had simply made a decision. You were dying. She had come for you. And now she had decided that she would not.
You looked down at yourself again.
“What happens now?”
“You live.”
“And when I am hurt?”
“You heal.”
“And when I get sick?”
“You recover.”
You thought about that.
“What if I fall off a roof?”
“You will regret it.”
You snorted.
“That wasn't my question.”
“It was the answer.”
You looked at her for a moment. Then you laughed again.
Death watched you, and something unfamiliar stirred in her.
She had seen mortals laugh while dying. She had seen them laugh through grief, through pain, sometimes even in the moments before she took them.
But she had never understood why. Perhaps now she understood a little. You laughed because you could. Because you were still here. Because there was suddenly a tomorrow. And tomorrow, for once, belonged to you.
Then another thought occurred to you. You looked at her suspiciously.
“Do I really still need to feel pain?”
“Yes.”
You sighed. “That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
A small smile touched Death's face.
“You complained about pain while dying.”
“I was hoping you would fix that part.”
“I cannot.”
You folded your arms as much as your injured body allowed.
“Then what exactly did I win?”
Death looked at you.
“You won your life.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
There was no clever answer to that. You looked away.
Your life.
Not a perfect life. Not a painless one. Not a life in which everyone you loved would remain beside you.
Just yours.
You had spent so much of the night fighting for another breath that the idea of having all the breaths after it felt almost too large to understand.
You looked toward the samûra.
The flowers were beginning to close with the coming dusk.
You remembered being a child and watching them do that, wondering where the colour went when the petals folded inward.
You reached toward them. Death stopped you.
“Leave them.”
You looked at her.
“Why?”
She glanced down at her mortal face, then back at the flowers.
“Because you chose them.”
Your hand fell.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The scent of the samûra drifted through the garden as evening settled over the trees.
You thought of the flowers you had loved as a child. The gardens you had dreamed about. The shore. The people waiting for a harvest that might still come. The life you had been certain you would never see.
And for the first time since the night began, you allowed yourself to imagine tomorrow. Not because you knew there would be one. But because now—there would be.
You smiled. Death watched you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
You looked toward the darkening sky.
“I have tomorrow.”
Death said nothing. But she understood.
And perhaps, for the first time, so did you. Mortals were not precious because they lasted. They were precious because they didn't. Every meal had an end. Every harvest. Every summer. Every childhood. Every person you loved.
The flowers in the garden would close tonight. One day, the trees would die. One day, the settlement would change. One day, even the memory of this place might disappear. But that did not make any of it less real. It made it matter.
You looked at Death.
“So,” you said, “what happens to you now?”
Death's expression became faintly amused.
“I continue.”
You smiled. “Unfortunately.”
She held out her hand. You took it.
Together, you walked away from the garden, leaving the mortal body beneath the samûra.
You did not know then that you would remember that garden for thousands of years. You did not know that the flowers over Death’s eyes would be the first of many.
You did not know that, millennia later, other mortals would place coins there instead, until the coins became a familiar thing.
When Death took her mortal day without you, there might be no flowers nearby. Then, perhaps, coins would do.
But whenever you were there, whenever you could find something growing in the earth, you would look for flowers first. Because that was how you had said goodbye the first time. And because Death had once been mortal enough to understand why.
•••
Lord Morpheus had not forgotten you. He had tried.
There had been no particular reason to remember her. Mortals came and went through the Dreaming every night. They dreamed of things they feared, things they desired, things they regretted. They wandered through places that belonged to no waking world and spoke to people who had never existed. Most of them passed through his realm without ever coming to his attention.
You should have been no different. And yet he remembered you.
He remembered the blood on your clothes. The way you had stood upon the shore as though you had stumbled into a place you did not understand. He remembered how confused you had seemed to find him there, and how strangely calm you had been despite the pain you were in.
Most of all, he remembered that something about you had been wrong.
Not wrong in the manner of a nightmare. Not a creature of the Dreaming wearing a mortal shape. Not a dead thing pretending to live.
You had been mortal. He was certain of that.
And yet, for the brief time you had stood upon his shore, he had been unable to perceive you as he perceived other dreamers. There had been no familiar thread leading back through the Dreaming, no simple sense of where you belonged.
It had been as though someone had taken a page from a book and left only the shape of the missing page behind.
Morpheus did not like things that had no explanation.
So, after some time had passed, he went to the library.
Lucienne was seated at her desk when he entered. She looked up from the volume before her and immediately knew, from his expression, that he had not come for a book he already knew the name of.
“My lord.”
“I am looking for someone.”
Lucienne waited.
“That narrows it down considerably.”
“A woman.”
She paused.
“Ah.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne maintained a perfectly innocent expression.
“A mortal woman,” he clarified.
“Ah.”
“She came to the shore.” Lucienne closed her book.
“You have been allowing mortals onto your shore?”
“That is not the matter.”
“It is somewhat the matter.”
“She was dying.”
That made Lucienne's amusement fade.
“Dying?”
“Yes.”
“And you wish to find her?”
Morpheus was silent for a moment. He considered saying no. He had no desire to explain why you had remained in his thoughts. He could not explain it even to himself. Curiosity was an insufficient word, though it was the closest one had.
“I wish to know who she was.”
Lucienne studied him.
“Do you know her name?”
“No.”
Of course not, Lucienne thought.
Her lord had come to the library looking for a mortal woman whose name he did not know. She suspected this was going to be one of those afternoons.
“What do you know?”
“She was young.”
“How young?”
“Perhaps five-and-twenty.”
Lucienne reached for a ledger.
“Dark hair?”
“Yes.”
“Eyes?”
Morpheus frowned slightly. He remembered them.
He remembered the exhaustion in them. The confusion. The anger. The stubbornness. The strange determination with which you had looked at him despite barely being able to remain conscious. Then that little delight in your eyes when he noticed you.
He gave Lucienne the description.
She began searching.
“She was injured?”
“Yes.”
“Badly?”
“Yes.”
“Was she dreaming?”
Morpheus hesitated. “I do not know.”
Lucienne looked up. “You do not know?”
“She was upon my shore.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“No.”
Lucienne returned to the ledger. Morpheus watched her work.
He had expected the search to be simple. Every mortal who dreamed left some trace within the Dreaming. A story. A memory. A book. Something.
You should have been there.
Lucienne searched the records of mortals who had entered the Dreaming. She searched by the description he had given her. She searched by the place where he had encountered the woman.
Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing.
Morpheus felt a quiet unease settle over him.
“She should be here.”
Lucienne glanced toward him.
“Should she?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she was there.”
Lucienne's eyes narrowed slightly.
“My lord, that is not necessarily how the library works.”
“She was mortal.”
“There are rather a lot of those.”
“She dreamed.”
“Do you know that?”
“No.”
Lucienne set down the ledger.
Morpheus looked at her.
She said carefully, “Perhaps she was not a dreamer.”
“She was upon my shore.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe she could have entered the Dreaming without dreaming?”
“I believe,” Lucienne said, “that if you cannot tell me whether she was dreaming, whether she was asleep, or even what her name was, we may have to consider that possibility.”
Morpheus did not answer.
He remembered you standing before him.
Bleeding. Confused. Alive, though barely.
And yet there had been something else beneath all of it. Something he had not understood then.
He had seen mortals in every condition imaginable. He had seen them dying in their beds, on battlefields, beneath collapsing buildings, alone and surrounded by those who loved them.
But you had felt different. Not important. Not chosen. Simply... misplaced. As though you had somehow fallen between two worlds.
“Search again,” he said.
Lucienne gave him a long look.
She knew better than to point out that she had already done so.
She searched.
The shelves shifted around them. Books appeared and disappeared in the distance. Pages turned without hands touching them. Somewhere far beyond the library, an entire section rearranged itself in response to her search.
Nothing.
Lucienne frowned. “There is no record matching her.”
Morpheus's expression hardened.
“There should be.”
“I agree.”
That made him look at her. Lucienne gestured toward the endless shelves.
“The library has a great many faults, my lord. A lack of books is rarely one of them.”
Morpheus looked toward the shelves. He could remember your face perfectly. That disturbed him more than the missing book.
He remembered the way you had spoken to him. The way you had looked at the sea. The peculiar familiarity with which you had regarded the shore, as though you had been there before.
Perhaps you had. Perhaps that was the answer. Perhaps you had dreamed of the shore for years and had never known whose shore it was.
But if that were true, there should have been a book.
“There is no record,” Lucienne repeated.
Morpheus remained silent.
Then he said, “She asked me a question.”
Lucienne looked at him.
“What question?”
Morpheus's gaze moved toward the shelves.
“Whether I could see her.”
Lucienne was quiet for a moment.
“And could you?”
“Yes.”
There was something about that answer that stayed with him.
He had seen you. He was certain of it.
But now, standing in his library, surrounded by the records of countless mortal lives, he could not find you.
He did not like that.
“Perhaps she wished to be remembered,” Lucienne said.
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne immediately lifted one hand.
“I am only suggesting possibilities.”
He turned back toward the shelves.
“She did not give me her name.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“That would have been useful.”
Morpheus gave her a look.
She returned to her book.
“Yes,” she said mildly. “I imagine you are discovering that now.”
He ignored this.
There were many things Morpheus understood about mortals. He understood their dreams. Their fears. Their stories. He understood the peculiar ways in which they transformed small things into symbols and carried memories long after the people who had made them were gone.
But he did not understand why he continued to think about one woman whose name he did not know.
Perhaps it was because you had appeared on his shore while dying. Perhaps it was because he had never discovered what became of you.
Or perhaps it was simply that, for once, the Dreaming had presented him with something he could not immediately explain.
Morpheus turned away from the shelves.“Continue searching.”
Lucienne looked up.
“My lord—”
“Continue.”
She sighed softly.
“As you wish.”
Morpheus left the library. Lucienne watched him go.
A mortal woman with no name, no record, and no apparent place in the Dreaming. She had to admit, privately, that it was intriguing.
She was also quite certain that this was going to become her problem.
Again.
•••
That night, you went to sleep expecting the gardens.
You had been thinking about them before you closed your eyes: the green trees, the running water, the flowers beneath unfamiliar stars, and fruit hanging so heavily from the branches that you never had to wonder whether there would be enough. You could almost taste the lithar already.
But when you woke the next morning, there was nothing you could remember.
You lay there for a while, trying to catch the dream before it disappeared completely. Perhaps there had been trees. Or water. You weren’t sure. It was probably nothing. Dreams came and went.
The next night, you decided you would go to the shore instead.
You were almost offended by the thought. Fine. If the gardens were being difficult, then you would go somewhere else.
You closed your eyes and thought deliberately of the dark sea, the cool sand beneath your feet, and the gloomy stranger standing at the water's edge with the same miserable expression he always wore.
There.
You waited for sleep to take you.
When you woke, the sun was already coming through the doorway.
You stared at the ceiling.
No shore.
You frowned.
Perhaps you had simply been too tired.
The following night, you tried again. Then again.
You thought of the gardens until you could see every tree. You thought of the shore until you could almost hear the water. You even tried thinking of the stranger's face before you fell asleep, as though that might somehow help.
Nothing.
After a while, you stopped trying.
You missed the gardens more than you expected. But it was the shore that bothered you. You had never known why you loved that place so much. It had simply always been there, waiting whenever you closed your eyes.
Now you could close them as tightly as you liked.
And nothing was there.
Tag: @onlysturridgx
TELL ME
Morpheus x Immortal!OC
Second-person POV · semi-reader-insert · OC protagonist
what’s it about: a mortal human was born approximately 7500 years ago (just a random period/date, nothing important. i think). said mortal human experiences the horrid sections of life, eventually encountering death. but mortal human gained immortality for some reason (it was death of the endless, obviously). now immortal, she meets death’s brooding brother. said brother and her become terribly close for millennia. someone falls in love (it’s her), someone marries a muse (it’s him). someone coughs blood, and then blood with petals, and now bloodied flowers with thorns—more than enough to supply several weddings if they wanted a red motif and the wedding day was halloween. oh yes, everything goes terribly wrong. he still marries the muse though.
note: idk how to write is my first excuse. english isn't my first language is the second. this is my first time writing (seriously) is the last. and if this is terrible (it really is though), i wash my hands of it. you can ignore this altogether also.
Chapter 1.1:
You had first come here when you were very young. You could no longer remember the first night. Perhaps you had been six. Perhaps younger. It had always been the way with dreams.
You only remembered waking from a difficult day, closing your eyes, and finding yourself there. After the hardest days. After quarrels. After nights when you missed your parents. After days when you had cried so hard your face hurt.
Somehow, the shore was always waiting. And so was he.
The gloomy stranger stood where he always stood. At the edge of the water. He was tall, pale, dark-haired. And, for reasons you couldn’t understand, perpetually miserable. You had never seen him smile. You had never seen him do anything, in fact, except stare at the sea as though it personally offended him.
When you were little, you had decided that someone must have been unkind to him. Later, you decided he had lost something. Later still, you wondered whether he was simply born unhappy. Once, when you were perhaps ten, you decided that he had probably put on his clothes incorrectly.
You had never worked up the courage to ask.
You also once decided that perhaps he had put his loincloth in a knot. You had been eleven. It had seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation at the time.
He never spoke to you. He never approached you. He never seemed to notice you at all. Yet you had never been afraid of him. Well, perhaps you had been at first. But as the time went on, you decided he was probably lonely. You had known the feeling.
Somehow, when the waking world became too loud, it comforted you to see someone standing else there. Someone who belonged to the silence.
You did not know his name. You did not know exactly where you were. You only knew that you were not alone. Especially on the nights when you needed that most, it was enough.
You looked down at your hands. They were trembling as blood ran between your fingers. For a moment you could not remember where it had come from.
Then you smelled smoke.
You pressed your hand to you ribs. It hurt. Dreams were not supposed to hurt like this.
You looked toward the gloomy stranger.
He was no longer looking at the sea. He was looking at you. For the first time in all the years you had known him, the gloomy stranger noticed you.
He had seen countless dreamers upon his shores. They came and went. Most were barely worth noticing. He did not know why this one had caught his attention.
This one had been no different. Until now.
You were bleeding. He looked for the thread that should have told him who you were. There was none.
There should be something there. He searched instinctively.
Nothing.
No familiar dream-pattern. No ordinary connection. There was no name attached to you. No history. No thread by which he might place you. You were there, yet in some strange fashion, you were also absent.
It should have unsettled him. Somehow, it did.
You were dying. He could see it.
Yet you stood upon his shore as though you had been there all your life.
“Tell me, do you see me?” Your voice rasped through dry lips.
“I do.” You stared at him, startled.
For twenty-five years, he had never noticed you. You had wondered whether you were invisible. Apparently, you were not.
You stared at him. He was beautiful. Somehow, more so than he had ever seemed before. Alabaster skin. Dark hair. His eyes were blue. You thought they were blue, at least. There were stars in them, you were certain of that.
“Good.”
You smiled. It was barely a smile at all.
“Will you remember me?” He opened his mouth.
The answer never came.
The dream tore you away. One moment, you were standing before him, bloodied and trembling. The next, there was nothing.
Only the sea.
•••
By twenty-five, you had learned how to carry two jars of water at once without spilling either of them. You had also learned that people became strangely quiet when the harvest failed.
The first year, everyone complained. The second, they prayed. By the third, they had begun looking at one another as though someone must be responsible.
You did not think it was anyone's fault. The fields had been generous before. Perhaps they were simply tired. You had seen tired people. You knew what they looked like.
Perhaps the earth was the same.
What you did notice was that people had begun visiting the shrine after sunset.
More often than before.
They carried baskets of grain. Jars of dates. Bowls of oil. Flowers. Sometimes animals.
You liked dates. You always had.
The fruits of the Dreaming were better, of course. There were gardens there that seemed to have no end, filled with fruits that did not exist in the waking world. You had a particular fondness for lithar, small translucent things that grew from flowers and tasted of something you had never been able to name. You could eat as much as you wanted there. You never grew sick. You never grew full.
But dates were still dates. You liked them.
Your parents had died when you were six. Your neighbours had taken you in afterward. They were not your parents. You knew that.
But for many years, they were family enough.
They fed you. They scolded you. They mended your clothes. They knew which dates you liked.
“The good ones,” you would say.
“There are no good ones,” your mother would answer.
“Then the least disappointing ones.”
She would sigh and point toward the second jar.
You had always thought that was proof of her wisdom.
So when she came to wash you that evening, you did not think anything of it at first.
The water was cold.
It smelled faintly of crushed leaves and oil.
She washed your face. Your arms. Your hair. Her hands were trembling.
“Mother?” She did not answer.
You looked at her.
“Why are you washing me?”
She dipped the cloth into the bowl again.
“It has to be done.”
Something in your stomach tightened.
“What does?”
She pressed the cloth to your cheek.
“We had no choice.”
You stared at her.
“No choice about what?” Her eyes filled.
You stopped breathing.
“No.”
She looked away.
“Mother.”
“Išera—”
“No.”
You pulled away from her.
She caught your wrist.
For a moment, you were six again.
Small enough to be carried. Small enough to believe that if you were frightened, she would make the frightening thing disappear.
You looked at her now.
She was crying. And she still did not let you go.
You remembered the shrine in pieces.
Firelight. Smoke.
The smell of burning animal fat. Fish roasting somewhere beyond the circle. Incense thick enough to make your eyes water. Flowers crushed into the mud. Jars of oil. Baskets of grain.
Dates. Always the dates.
There were people everywhere. Too many. Some you knew, which was the worst part. The man who lived beside the eastern field. The woman who had once mended your sleeve. The old woman who used to give you scraps of bread when you were little. Your mother was among them.
You could not understand why they were all looking at you.
Then you noticed the rope. It had been wound around your wrists. You pulled. The fibres bit into your skin.
You pulled again. Nothing.
“Please.”
Someone was chanting. You could not make out the words.
You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down.
“Please!”
The smoke burned your throat. Your head throbbed. For a moment, you forgot where you were.
Then the rope pulled tight against your wrists and you remembered.
You were on the ground. You were surrounded. Your mother was watching.
You looked at her. “Mother.”
She covered her mouth.
You tried again. “Please.”
She turned away. Something inside you broke.
The first cut was not deep. That frightened you more than it should have.
You whimpered.
Someone muttered that the sacrifice would be swift. You wondered why they sounded uncertain.
The chanting grew louder. Or perhaps your hearing was failing.
You could hear the fire. The crackle of reeds. Someone breathing beside you. Your own heart.
You smelled blood. You looked down. It was yours. For a moment, you simply stared at it.
Then you pulled against the rope again. Harder. The fibres tore into your skin.
“Do not resist,” the priest said. As though you had any intention of doing otherwise.
You screamed. Someone shouted. The chanting faltered. You kicked and it struck someone's leg. They swore. You kicked again. A hand caught your ankle. You twisted violently. The rope around your wrists scraped against the ground.
Your shoulder struck something. The bowl shattered. Oil spilled across the earth. The fire caught and everything happened at once.
Someone screamed as the flames raced through the spilled oil. Smoke billowed upward. People stumbled backward. The chanting stopped.
You did not think. You pulled and something gave. The rope loosened, so you tore your hands free. You scrambled to your feet as someone grabbed at you. You wrenched away.
You ran.
You did not know where. Only away. Away from the fire. Away from the shrine. Away from the people shouting your name.
You ran barefoot through the mud. Branches struck your arms. Reeds whipped across your face.
Your lungs burned. Behind you, the shrine was becoming a wall of orange light. You heard people shouting.
Your foot struck something hard. You fell forward. A jar rolled through the mud beside you.
You stared at it. Dates.
For one ridiculous moment, everything else disappeared.
You reached for the jar. You pulled it against your chest and held it tightly. As though your life depended on it. Perhaps it did.
The jar was heavy. You did not care. You clutched it with both arms and stumbled through the darkness, breathing hard, blood drying on your wrists.
You kept running.
The fields stretched black beneath the moon. Where the crops should have been thick, there were only broken stalks and dry earth. The canals caught the firelight in trembling strips of red. Reeds whispered beside the water.
Then your foot caught on something beneath the mud.
You fell.
The jar flew from your hands. It struck the ground. The lid came loose and the dates spilled across the wet earth.
You pushed yourself upright. For a moment, you could only stare. They lay scattered in the mud.
The good ones. The least disappointing ones.
You hurriedly gathered them with both hands. You took a bite. Then another. Soon you were eating them faster than you could swallow, crying so hard you could barely breathe.
“It was the good jar,” you sobbed.
You laughed. Then you started bawling all over again.
•••
You did not know how long you had been lying there. The fire had disappeared behind the reeds. The shouting had faded. There was only the night now, and the soft movement of water somewhere nearby.
You were cold. Not the ordinary cold of night. This was deeper. It had settled beneath your skin, and no amount of curling around the jar could drive it away.
You curled around the empty jar anyway, holding it against your chest. There were no dates left. You had eaten every one. The good ones.
Your wrists hurt. Your wounds hurt. Everything hurt.
You pressed your cheek against the jar and closed your eyes. For a little while, you thought about the gardens.
They were always green. There was always water. There was always fruit. There was always more.
You could walk beneath the trees and find something new waiting for you. You could eat until your hands were sticky with juice and your stomach ached, and still there would be more growing overhead.
You liked that. You liked that nothing ran out.
You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that waking life could be like that.
One more green field. One more garden. One more night in which there was enough for everyone.
Your eyes burned. You were so tired. There was only one thing you wanted.
You closed your eyes. Nothing happened.
You waited.
The night remained the night.
You tightened your arms around the empty jar. Your breathing had become shallow. Each breath seemed to take more effort than the last. You tried to move your fingers. They barely answered.
You looked toward the sky. There were stars there. You had seen them before. You wondered, distantly, whether you would see them again.
Your eyes began to close. You fought it.
Not yet.
You wanted to dream. Just once more. Just one more garden. One more night where there was enough. One more—
“Išera.” The voice was quiet.
You opened your eyes.
A woman stood a short distance away. You stared at her.
She was not frightening, but neither was she particularly comforting. There was simply something about her that made you understand, without knowing how, that she had not come here by accident.
“How do you know my name?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I know the names of those who are dying.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “I don't want to die.”
“No one does.”
You tightened your arms around the empty jar. “Then don't take me.”
“That is not how this works.” You frowned at her.
“Then your work is cruel.”
The woman looked at you.
You had expected something. Anger, perhaps. Or some terrible expression that would confirm what you already suspected—that Death was not a person at all, but something cold and ancient wearing the shape of one.
Instead, she only watched you.
“It is not my work to be cruel.”
You stared at her.
Of course she did not think herself cruel. Why would she?
To her, this was probably simple. You were alive. You were dying. She had come because that was what she did. There was no betrayal in it. No injustice. No mother turning away while her daughter begged for mercy.
Just a fact. You hated facts.
“You’re a cunt.”
Death blinked. “What is a cunt?”
For a moment, you forgot about the pain.
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you call me one?” You frowned.
“It seemed appropriate.”
Death regarded you with the same calm expression.
“That word does not exist.”
You were silent. “What?”
“It has not been invented yet.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed.
“You're Death.”
“Yes.”
“And you know that?”
“Yes.”
You looked at her.
Then, with the last scraps of dignity available to a woman lying half-dead in the mud, you said,
“Then I suppose I shall have to invent another insult.”
Death said nothing.
You waited.
Nothing.
“You could at least pretend to be offended.”
“I am not offended.”
“That is irritating.”
“I know.”
You stared at her. She stared back.
For the first time that night, you wondered if Death might actually be capable of being annoyed.
You almost smiled.
Then the pain returned, and the brief amusement disappeared.
“They're afraid of you,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“They beg you not to take them.”
“Yes.”
“And you take them anyway.”
“I do.”
There was no shame in her voice. No pride, either. She spoke as though she were telling you that the sun rose in the east.
“How can you bear it?”
“Bear what?”
“This.” You gestured weakly toward yourself.
The blood. The torn clothes. The mud beneath your body. The life slipping away from you one breath at a time.
Death regarded you. “You are dying.”
“I know.”
“You cannot remain here.”
“Then don't take me.”
“That is not how this works.” There it was again.
That is how this works.
You had heard words like that all your life. People used them whenever they wanted you to accept something you could not change.
The harvest failed. That was how the world worked.
Children went hungry. That was how the world worked.
Your parents died. That was how the world worked.
Now you were dying. That was how the world worked.
You had never understood why a thing being natural was supposed to make it hurt less.
When you opened your eyes, Death was still standing there.
“You don't understand.”
“I understand mortality.”
“No.” The word came more sharply than you intended.
You turned back to her.
“You understand death.”
For the first time, she was silent.
“You know when it comes,” you continued. “You know what happens after. You know when a life ends.”
Your breath caught.
“But you don't understand living.”
Death regarded you with the same strange calm. You wondered if you had finally said something she did not know how to answer.
Living.
You had never thought much about what the word meant. It had simply been something you did.
You woke when the sun came up. You worked. You ate when there was food. You slept when you were tired. You laughed when something amused you and cried when something hurt.
You knew the difference between good dates and disappointing ones. You knew how warm sunlight felt after a cold night. You knew what it was like to hear someone you loved breathing beside you.
You knew what it was to miss someone. Perhaps that was what living was.
Missing things that were gone and wanting things that were not. Wanting another meal. Another harvest. Another year. Another morning. Another chance to make something right.
You looked at Death. “We don't know when it ends.
“You know that it will.”
“Yes.”
“Then why does the uncertainty matter?”
You looked at her again.
Because it did.
The answer was so obvious that you almost did not know how to explain it.
“Because tomorrow hasn't happened yet.” Death said nothing.
You breathed carefully through the pain.
“You don't know what it is like to wake up and wonder whether there will be another morning.”
“I have seen mortals do it.”
“You have watched them.”
“Yes.”
“That isn't the same.”
Death's gaze remained fixed upon you.
You thought of all the people you had known.
Your mother. The woman who had taken you in when you were six. The old woman who had once given you bread. The children who had grown up beside you.
People who had made plans for harvests they never saw. People who had planted trees whose fruit they would never taste. People who had married knowing, somewhere in the back of their minds, that one day one of them would stand alone.
They knew. And still they did it. Still they loved. Still they planted. Still they hoped for rain.
“You think we are foolish,” you said.
“I did not say that.”
“You don't have to.”
A pause.
“Perhaps you are.”
You blinked.
It took you a moment to realise she was not entirely disagreeing.
A weak laugh escaped you. It became a cough almost immediately. You pressed a hand against your ribs and waited for the pain to subside.
When it did, you were more tired than before.
You looked toward the sky. The stars had begun to blur. There was something else you wanted.
You had known it for a long time. Perhaps you had known it since childhood.
“I want to dream.”
Death looked at you. “Dream?”
You nodded.
“When I was little.” For a moment, you were somewhere else.
The shore was waiting. The sea stretched endlessly beneath a dark sky. The water was quiet. The sand was cool beneath your feet.
And there he was. The gloomy stranger. Always standing at the edge of the water.
You had never known why seeing him made you feel safe. You had only known that whenever the waking world became too loud, the shore was there. And so was he.
“I used to dream of gardens,” you said.
“What kind of gardens?”
“Green ones.” You smiled despite yourself.
“Always green.”
You could see them now.
Trees heavy with fruit. Water flowing through narrow channels. Flowers you had never seen in waking life opening beneath unfamiliar stars.
“There were figs,” you whispered. “And dates.”
“The good ones?”
You opened your eyes. Death was looking at you.
For the first time, you wondered whether she had been listening to everything you said.
“The good ones,” you confirmed.
Something almost like amusement passed across her face.
You smiled.
“There was always water. Enough for the trees. Enough for the fields.”
Your smile faded.
“Enough for everyone.”
Death said nothing.
You looked down at your hands. “That was my favourite part.”
“Why?”
“Because no one was hungry.”
Your throat tightened.
“In those gardens, there was always enough.”
You remembered being six years old and discovering that you could eat until your stomach hurt and still find more fruit growing above your head. You remembered lying beneath trees while water moved nearby. You remembered thinking that perhaps the world was supposed to be like that.
Perhaps people were supposed to have enough. Perhaps children were supposed to grow up without learning what hunger felt like. Perhaps no one was supposed to choose which person would eat and which person would go without.
“I used to think that if I dreamed it often enough,” you said, “perhaps one day it would be true.”
Death watched you.
“I want to go back.”
“To the gardens?”
You nodded.
“And the shore.”
You could see it in your mind already. The dark water. The endless sand. The gloomy stranger standing where he always stood, staring out at the sea as though it had personally offended him.
You had never known his name. You had never asked where you were. You had simply known that, whenever the waking world became too loud, that place would be waiting for you.
It had always been there.
You wanted to believe it would be there again.
“I want to dream,” you whispered.
“Just once more.”
Death regarded you.
You waited for her to say something. She did not.
Perhaps there was nothing to say.
You looked away, suddenly embarrassed by how badly you wanted it.
“I don't want anything else,” you said. “I don't want riches. I don't want a long life. I don't even want to go home.”
Your voice trembled.
“I just want one more night.”
You closed your eyes. The memories of the gardens came easily.
Green trees. Running water. Flowers beneath the stars. Fruits hanging heavy from the branches. Enough for everyone. You could almost smell the earth after rain.
Almost.
“I want to go there again.”
For a while, Death said nothing.
Then:
“Why?”
You opened your eyes.
“Because it was the only place that was mine.”
That seemed to make Death pause.
You didn't know why. You were too tired to care. You simply closed your eyes again and held onto the gardens as tightly as you could.
For a moment, you could almost feel the water beneath your feet. Then the thought came, sudden and painful.
What if there was no next time?
“Will I dream again?”
Death did not answer immediately.
You watched her face.
There was no cruelty there. No pity, either. Only that same terrible certainty.
“Will I?”
“No.”
The word was quiet. You stared at her.
“What?”
“You will not.”
You searched her face for some sign that she had misunderstood you.
“You mean tonight?”
“No.”
The cold beneath your skin seemed to deepen.
You swallowed. “But I always dream.”
“I know.”
“Then why?” Death said nothing.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow. Pain tore through your side, but you barely noticed it.
“Why can't I?”
“You cannot.” That was all.
Something inside you snapped.
“You keep saying that.”
Death remained still.
“You are dying. You cannot stay. You cannot remain. You cannot—” Your voice broke. “What can I do, then?”
“You can die.”
For one terrible moment, you could not breathe. Then the anger came. Hotter than the fever. Hotter than the pain.
“You're telling me to die?”
“I am telling you what is happening.”
“No.” You shook your head. “No, you are telling me to accept it.”
“It cannot be changed.”
“Everything can be changed.”
“Not this.”
“Then what good are you?”
Death went very still.
You were crying now. You did not care.
“You come when people are afraid. You tell them it is natural. You tell them it is time. You take them and call it the order of things.”
Your voice shook.
“And when they beg you to stop, you say you cannot.”
“I cannot.”
“Then what are you for?”
Death looked at you. “I take the dead.”
“You take the living.”
“Only when their lives are ending.”
“That is the same thing!”
“No.”
Her answer was so calm that it made you angrier.
“You don't understand,” you said again.
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
You dragged yourself upright, ignoring the pain.
“You have never had anything to lose.”
For the first time, something changed in Death's face.
Only slightly. You saw it.
“You have never had to wonder whether you will see tomorrow,” you said. “You have never had to love something knowing it can be taken from you. You have never been hungry and wondered if there would be food. You have never watched someone you love grow old. You have never had a life.”
Death said nothing.
You were breathing hard now.
“If mortality is so simple to you, then live it.”
Her eyes remained on yours.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of what you were about to say.
Perhaps you were delirious. Perhaps dying had finally made you foolish.
You said it anyway. “Become mortal.”
Silence.
Death tilted her head.
“You want me to become mortal?”
“For one day.”
“Why?”
“So you can tell me it is easy.”
Something in her expression shifted.
Not anger. Interest.
You pressed on before you could lose your nerve.
“Live as we do. Eat when you are hungry. Hurt when you are hurt. Get tired. Be afraid. Want something you cannot keep.”
Your voice broke.
“Then come back and tell me that our lives are nothing because they end.”
Death studied you.
“And what do you wager?”
You almost smiled.
There was very little left of you now. Very little to offer. So you gave her the only thing you had.
“My life.”
Death's expression changed.
“You have already lost it.”
“Then you have nothing to lose.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
The water moved softly beyond the reeds. You could hear your own breathing.
Then Death looked at you with something you had not seen in her before.
Not pity. Not anger. Something closer to curiosity.
“Very well.” You frowned.
“What?”
“I accept.” You studied her face.
And for the first time that night, Death looked almost uncertain.
Not because she did not know what would happen to you.
She did.
But because, for the first time in all her existence, she had agreed to find out what it meant to be the one who did not know.
She held out her hand.
You looked at it.“That's it?”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don't know. Thunder.”
You looked up at the sky. Nothing.
“Disappointing.”
“You wanted thunder?”
“If I'm going to make a wager with Death, yes.”
“You have made the wager.”
“And now?”
“Now you come with me.”
You looked at her hand again.
“Where?”
“Somewhere else.”
“That's very reassuring.”
“Išera.”
“What?”
“Take my hand.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is it the place where I die?”
Death looked at you. You glanced down at yourself.
“Right. Terrible question.”
Something almost like amusement touched her face. “Very.”
“I'm dying. You'd think I'd be better at this by now.”
“You have had very little practice.” You gave her a look.
“I've been dying all night.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Feels pretty similar.” Death's mouth twitched.
You noticed. “Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“It was.”
“I suggest you stop talking.”
“Why?”
“Because you are making me reconsider the wager.”
You grinned.
“Too late.”
You took her hand. The moment your fingers closed around hers, the world changed.
Not dramatically.
There was no flash of light. No thunder. No great sound announcing that something impossible had happened.
You simply—breathed. Deeply. Without pain.
Your eyes flew open. You pulled your hand away and stared at your chest.
You breathed again.
Nothing caught. Nothing tore.
Your ribs did not protest. Your wrists did not throb. The exhaustion that had been sitting inside your bones for so long was simply gone.
You touched your side. Whole.
You looked at your hands. The wounds were gone.
You flexed your fingers. They answered immediately.
For several seconds, you said nothing.
Then you looked at Death.
“What did you do?”
“For today, you are not dying.”
You stared at her.
“For today?”
“Yes.” You considered this.
“So tomorrow I go back to being miserable?”
“Yes.”
You sighed. “Wonderful.”
Something shifted in Death's expression.
You pointed at her. “Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look amused.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I assure you—”
“You are absolutely amused.”
Death looked away.
You smiled.
It was the first real smile you had managed in a very long time. And perhaps that was the first thing that surprised her.
[Part II: Chapter 1.2 — continuation]
Tag: @onlysturridgx
more string of fate (by @7-wonders) art from yesterday while i fail to understand color theory for actual fanart
i predict that due to rendering, i will inevitably abandon the thing i'm working on right now as i do with anything that requires rendering, hope is leaving my body by the second
🐦⬛ Falling Stardust: Chapter Seven
Falling Stardust: You, an innocent and naive fallen star, tumble out of Morpheus’s cloak and get wrapped up in his possessive and dark love.
Warnings: Morpheus Manipulation, Naive Reader, Gaslighting.
To Note: Dark!Morpheus x FemStar!Reader (Reader is Named Astra).
Word Count: ~2.0k
Masterlist
You appear in The Dreaming in a violent swirl of sand, and Morpheus immediately directs you through the palace. He is angry. You can tell that much. Your feet scramble to keep up with his long strides as he pulls you through hallway after hallway, the walls twisting and curving in a shifting labyrinth until you have no idea where you are. The frequency of dreams and handmaidens you pass decreases until the halls are empty. It is just you and Morpheus.
"Mor— Morpheus," you rasp out, adrenaline and fear still coursing through your body. "Where are we going?" The Endless doesn’t answer you, his thoughts consuming his full attention. You are getting curious, too curious for his liking, and with the ability to transport yourself to the Waking World, your freedom is a liability to Morpheus. If he lets this continue any longer, he will lose you to others. No one is going to take you away from him, not even yourself. Ever. So Morpheus has made up his mind.
He has tiptoed around you for months, letting you become accustomed to The Dreaming. Letting you get used to your new body, used to living in a physical body. It has taken great restraint on Morpheus’s part to not sweep you into his arms and steal you away from the eyes of his people. He longs for intimacy and the arms of a lover, and you are just perfect for the job. As a fallen star, a fallen star from his own coat, no one is more perfect to be Morpheus's queen and wife. You are beautiful, kind, his people already love you… and your youth means that Morpheus needs to protect you. What better way to do that than by making you his queen?
"Morpheus!" you cry out, tears slipping from the edges of your lashes. He pauses in step at your distressed cry and swirls around, taking your other hand and pulling you against him. His bright eyes, almost entirely silver now, bore down into yours. Your lip trembles as you struggle to find words. Without your precious coat that Morpheus made just for you, you feel overwhelmed, cold, and without a security blanket. "I— why am I feeling so scared right now? It won’t go away," you quiver, trembling in place and rubbing your arms. You can still feel the touches scratching at your skin. "Off," you whisper, your eyes dropping to your arms as you start scratching at your flesh. "I want their touch off."
Morpheus grasps your wrists, halting your attempts to claw at your skin. Surely you would hurt yourself, but he isn’t going to leave you feeling so defiled. Even if he had been the one to influence the mortal men.
“Astra, my star, do not cause ruin to such delicate flesh,” Morpheus softly warns you, his hold on your wrists tightening as your hands jerk within his grasp. Your eyes, now filled with panic, raise to his.
“Then make it go away!” you nearly shout back, tears slipping free from your lashes and dripping down your face. They fall to the marble floor below with soft clinks. “They took my coat and now I don’t—” you break off with a soft sob, heartbroken that you have lost such a precious gift, something that sheltered you when you needed it most. Something flickers within Morpheus’s eyes, and moments later he is sweeping you off your feet, resuming his fast pace through the palace. In all his attempts at calming you down, he has overlooked the fact that the mortals had ripped your jacket from your body and torn your silver tunic. Their hands had soiled your clothing, and he wants it off you as soon as possible. He also needs to cleanse your skin of their touch.
That nasty feeling that you want to claw from your skin persists as Morpheus carries you through unknown halls and rooms. It all swirls together after a few dizzying moments. Your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. Is that normal? Certainly not since it makes you feel very uptight and uncomfortable. You just want these strange feelings to stop and to feel comfort again. When you whimper softly, Morpheus’s grasp on your body tightens in repugnance. That will be the last time any mortal has the opportunity to put their hands on you, let alone their physical eyes. You are carried into a lavish bathhouse, and Morpheus allows your feet to drop to the bathhouse floor.
Wobbling and tripping over your feet, you fall into Morpheus’s chest with a small gasp. Before you even have the chance to look up into his face, he is ripping at your clothing. Your tunic is all too easily torn from your body and flung far from you, and the moment Morpheus’s hands touch your jeans, they evaporate. You squeal as cold air hits your skin.
“Morpheus,” you whimper, your mind wondering what he is doing. His eyes glow with mercury rage as he settles a hand on your hip and cups your cheek with the other.
“It is my fault that you have been poisoned by mortal man,” Morpheus growls, his hands tearing your final clothing from your body, leaving you bare and shivering. “I must expunge all that might taint you, my star, until you no longer feel any touch but mine.”
You flinch and hug yourself, guilt filling your body.
“I am the one at fault, Morpheus,” you softly protest, your lip wobbling as you huddle in place. “You told me not to go there, but I did anyway. I didn’t listen to you.” Tears are now dripping from your eyes, and you reach up to push your palm against your eyes. “You told me of the dangers and I ignored you.”
Your words please Morpheus, but he is still very unhappy that the mortal men’s touch lingers upon your skin. As precious as humankind is, they do not deserve the pleasure of touching a star, let alone you. So whisking his clothing away, Morpheus wraps his arms around your body and lifts your naked form into his embrace.
“Worry not, my star, I shall purge their touch from your flesh.” You don’t know what to think as you are carried into the grand and spacious bath, but his assurance that he will help you is what your mind chooses to focus on, and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Morpheus enters the bath and settles you on a ledge, conjuring a cloth to gently scrub away the lingering touch of mortal man. You huddle against him as he vigorously cleanses your body. While Morpheus is determined to rid you of their touch, he is nothing but gentle with you. Biting your lip, you look down at your silver-lined skin.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fresh tears gathering at your lashes. Morpheus glances up at you, continuing to scrub your precious skin free of the Waking World. He can see the wisps of mortal touch upon your beautiful body. You are on the verge of bursting into tears with watery eyes and wobbling lips. Morpheus can even see the trembles in your muscles beneath your beautiful skin. He hates that you are in such distress but secretly wishes to indulge in your fear because it means that you will seek him for comfort. That need for him is like a drug that Morpheus can never have enough of. He lifts a hand and caresses your jaw.
“Don’t apologize, my star,” Morpheus tells you, reassurance in his eyes. You still feel guilty. “I told you of the danger but did not give an example or reason. Allow me to apologize, Astra.” Your eyelashes flutter in confusion, for why does he of all creatures need to apologize for what you have done? But you don’t have a chance to reconcile your confusion, for it only grows when Morpheus’s hand slips behind your neck. He pulls your face to his and presses his lips upon yours once more. You freeze and let out a small noise of surprise. “Forgive me,” Morpheus utters against your lips. He presses his lips against yours once more, “Forgive me.” This continues with his lips pressing against yours over and over, each one deeper than the last. “Forgive me, my beautiful Astra.”
You are quickly overwhelmed by what you feel, by how your lips tingle and twitch. Certainly, from the way Morpheus is pressing his lips against yours and teasing your mouth to part. One shuddering breath from you gives Morpheus the chance to slip his way past your parted lips. One of your palms ends up pressing against his shoulder as his tongue presses against yours. This is different from when he first kissed you. This is far more intimate, and you still don’t understand why he is doing such a thing to you.
His mouth parts yours with a little nip to your lower lip that causes your breath to hitch in your throat. Then Morpheus begins pressing his lips at the corner of your mouth, along your jaw, even on the tender skin beneath the sharp bone that carves your face just right. You let out a soft moan, surprising yourself with the noise and jerking in place with a gasp. Morpheus stills your jerk, maintaining the closeness of your naked bodies. He hushes you and brushes damp hair away from your face.
“Morpheus, I don’t understand—” You are cut off by him pressing his thumb against your lower lip. “I don’t understand what this means or why you place your lips on mine.” Morpheus finds your complete and utter innocence adorable and only spurs his desire for you. His fingers run over your hair and then down your bare back.
"I only wish to bestow upon you the reverence and ardor I hold for you, my star," Morpheus purrs against your neck. "I feel for you with my entirety and it is my only wish that you should stay by my side where I can protect you from those that wish you harm. Do you not care for me?"
"What? Of course I care for you are—" You are cut off once more when Morpheus places his lips upon yours again. It is only briefly, but he keeps them close.
"Then why do you push me away, my star? Your efforts wound me terribly." Your eyes widen and Morpheus, knowing full well that you would be upset by his words, watches in appeasement as you scramble to reassure him that you didn’t mean to hurt him.
"I would never wish to hurt you, Morpheus," you tell him, raising a hand to press your palm against his face. "Tell me what I must do to alleviate your pain and hurt."
"Stay with me, promise me that you will never leave my side, that you will never run from me. I will be inconsolable should anything ever happen to you," Morpheus murmurs to you, his eyes shining with what you think to be sadness or despair. You don't like seeing that within his eyes and press forward, wrapping your arms around him and hugging the Endless. Morpheus is quick to return your embrace, basking in the feeling of your body pressed against his. Perhaps it is cruel of him to prey upon your innocence and ignorance of his intentions... but Morpheus is determined to keep you safe and he will do anything to have your love and adoration, your kisses and physical body. To have unconditional love that would never stray from his side.
"I won’t go anywhere," you promise, having no idea what you are promising to him in that moment. "I— I won’t leave you, Morpheus. I promise." The muscles beneath your arms relax and Morpheus nuzzles his face into your neck. It makes you happy to know that Morpheus is happier now. Fingers brush through your stardust hair and trail down the silver lines from your shoulders to your arms.
"I wish I could spend eternity with you, my Astra, but I must return to my duties," Morpheus softly admits, repeatedly stroking your arm. "I won’t be but a few hours, you and I have much to discuss and it is time that I fulfilled my promise to you." You want to whimper at his words, but you know that whatever he wishes to converse with you, is inevitable. So with great reluctance at departing from his comforting embrace, and secretly his as well, you detach yourself from Morpheus and wrap your arms around your knees instead. Morpheus detests leaving you, it is clear that you are still upset, but he has other business to attend to… then he will finally indulge in what he desires.
Date Published: 3/1/23
Last Edit: 5/30/24
Masterlist
🐦⬛ Falling Stardust: Chapter Six
Falling Stardust: You, an innocent and naive fallen star, tumble out of Morpheus’s cloak and get wrapped up in his possessive and dark love.
Warnings: Harassment, Non-Consensual Touching, Mind Fuckery.
To Note: Dark!Morpheus x FemStar!Reader (Reader is Named Astra).
Word Count: ~2.0k
Masterlist
A maid changes the bandage on your hand as you sit in your room, staring off into space. Of course, Morpheus found out about your outing to the florist. He felt your pain the moment the thorn gouged into your skin, confusing him immensely. You are always watched closely and directed away from any task or danger that might cause you harm. For what reason would you be in physical pain? That had given Rose enough time to properly bandage your wound before Morpheus appeared in a storm of sand and worry. He was on you instantly the moment he saw the shimmering blood on the table and smearing your skin. To his great displeasure, you both discovered that his sand could not heal your wound, thus confining you to your room until your hand healed.
It’s only a flesh wound—why the need for such rigorous confinement?
It’s incredibly boring, even with you playing around with the night sky on your ceiling. You don’t understand why Morpheus is being so cautious with one little gouge. It’s not like your palm is openly bleeding, but the Dream Lord is determined to keep you sheltered until there isn’t even a blemish on your skin. The handmaiden presses a gold metal piece on top of your hand to keep the bandage wrapped tight before quietly excusing herself, leaving you alone once more. You hate being alone; it’s almost as bad as the silence of your sisters.
Looking down at your hand, you wiggle your fingers about, testing your pain. It’s bearable, hardly a blip in what you feel within your physical manifestation. Humming to yourself, you rise from your seat and stride to where your jacket hangs. Morpheus does not wish for you to roam while injured? Too bad. You were not made to be confined to a room. He is just being overly cautious because you are so young, you tell yourself. Yes, this is an overreaction on his part. Sweeping your coat around your shoulders, you walk to the doors that lead to the balcony. You step out and stare down at the ground far below.
Morpheus made your bedroom high in the palace, keeping you closer to your true home. You might not be able to leave through the door, but you are still a star at heart. Pressing your fingers over where your heart lies, you take a deep breath. You feel your inner power surging within you, and with a mere trickle of stardust, you find yourself surging from The Dreaming and through the in-between. For a few precious moments, you feel like you are back in your cradle, enveloped by the cosmic embrace in which you were born. Then, with a ripple of energy you have never felt before, your feet stumble across the ground.
You catch yourself before you fall and press your hands against your thighs. You have to catch your breath for a moment, feeling almost overwhelmed by the flow of life forces around you and the sounds. There are so many unfamiliar sounds that you almost want to press your hands against your ears to silence them. But it is all so beautiful at the same time. You take a few shuddering breaths to calm yourself and adjust to the noise. Slowly, ever so slowly, your ears acclimate to the numerous sounds around you, and you lift your head to look around.
You are in a back alley much like one you would find in The Dreaming, only the buildings and materials here look much different. You step forward on the paved path beneath your feet, heading in the direction of the loud chatter. At first, you see a few mortals chatting away while carrying bags and little boxes in their hands. Some are even talking to the boxes. You don’t understand why they are doing that and quickly lose interest. There are little stands, exactly like the ones in the market in the village. You recognize fruits and vegetables and other goods commonly found at the market you frequent. Perhaps the Waking World isn’t that different from The Dreaming.
You follow your nose to a bakery stall with loaves upon loaves of fresh bread. But the bread isn’t what catches your attention; it’s the cookies displayed in numerous trays. Some are speckled with chocolate, others with fruit or jam. You have never seen most of the cookies in front of you, and surely your eyes are large. The woman owning the stall walks over to you and takes one of the cookies, offering it to you. Your eyes lift to hers.
“Oh, I don’t have any form of payment,” you meekly admit, feeling guilty over staring at the goods but not buying any. The woman chuckles at you and still offers it.
“You can have it anyway, love,” she says. “I haven’t seen anyone look at my baked goods with such desire and wonder in years.” You feel heat flood your cheeks and take the offered cookie. You feel it within your hands like it is a precious thing, and to you, it is.
“Thank you very much,” you whisper, your eyes glowing with happiness as you smile. The woman beams at you before hurrying to the other side of the stall to help a customer. Turning your attention back to the cookie, you bring it up to your nose and take a whiff, enjoying the way cinnamon and chocolate waft into your body. You could swear that you have never smelled a cookie as fragrant and delicious as this one. Nibbling on the edge of it, you nearly moan at the taste and happily continue your way through the market, looking at the other stalls with childlike curiosity. Everything is so familiar yet different. Why is Morpheus keeping you from this? Why does he keep you from this beautiful world?
Moving through the crowd, you eat your cookie slowly, savoring each bite and enjoying seeing the mortals interact. Why? Why does Morpheus treat this world with such ire? Surely this beautiful place is more than what he explains it to be. No, not surely; you can see it with your own eyes. The Waking World is nothing to be afraid of! The people are smiling at you so nicely, with such beaming looks, and you have zero hesitation in discerning that they are, in fact, very nice mortals.
Humming along to a nearby street musician playing what you think is a guitar, you turn down another street selling books and other artist-made objects. You take your time to appreciate the paintings you see and even spend a few minutes watching an artist draw someone’s portrait. You think, perhaps, that it is an art form you might wish to take up. Moving on, you break a large section of your cookie off and pop it into your mouth. Or perhaps you could try your hand at baking. Surely Morpheus would appreciate some of these mortal creations… and possibly Lucienne (though anything you make would have to stay strictly out of the library). You softly chuckle to yourself, imagining how Lucienne would scold any dream or nightmare who brought food or drink into the library. You are sure that not even Morpheus would be impervious to that rule.
Who exactly is in control of the great library? Surely not Morpheus…
Your wandering takes you away from the market to another area of the Waking World. It isn’t as crowded as the last, but instead of stalls, there are tables and chairs with people eating. Places where people go to consume food. Your eyes flitter around, and you smile. It is a rather nice setting, sitting down and enjoying the view while eating. Next time, because you are surely going to come back now, you will bring with you the appropriate currency to appreciate what these places have. You reach the corner of the block and pause.
The corner is an establishment called O’Conner’s Pub. Just from the sounds and smells, you know it is a place the mortals come to partake in and consume alcohol. From your basic knowledge, you know these places to be loud, rowdy, and not particularly your cup of tea, but on this night, there appears to be a live band performing. That music isn’t too bad, just loud for your sensitive ears. A few mortals, lingering at the doorway, call to you and comment on the usefulness of your mouth and make references to the usage of your other anatomical body parts. You have no idea what they are talking about, but you are very uncomfortable with the way they are looking at you. So you hurry forwards and turn the corner, hoping that getting out of their gaze will make you feel better.
There are more male mortals in front of you now. Tightening your grip on your jacket, you keep your eyes down as you move to stride past them. The first few men let you pass with no hindrance or word, but the next few step in your way. Eyes darting up, you shift under their disturbed gaze.
“Where ya goin’, luv?” You don’t understand why he feels the need to ask you that and try to back up.
“Oh, I—” You bump into someone and jerk forward, spinning around to stumble out an apology. You falter, seeing that you have been followed by the men who had previously called out to you. “Excuse me, I really must be going…” You try to sidestep them, but a tight grasp yanks you to the side, and you find yourself dragged into the side of the nearest building. Colliding with hard stone, you are momentarily stunned and learn what mortals mean when they say ‘seeing stars in their eyes’.
Your precious jacket keeps the cold of the stones behind you from soaking into your vulnerable body, but there is little you can do as a hand tears at your jacket and rips the hem of your tunic. You let out a cry, watching as your beloved gift is torn, and the galaxy you wear around your shoulders is ripped from your body. Violence is not in your nature, not that you even have the mind to think to hit back.
“Come on, luv, we’re only lookin’ to have a bit o’ fun,” one man leers at you. You squirm around and push back against the body that has you roughly pinned. More hands claw at your skin, harsh, digging into your flesh to the point of pain. They grope your body, trying to slither their fingers under your clothing. Some do. All the while, they speak of things they wish to do to you, things you don’t understand, things that sound wrong to do, especially from a stranger. You don’t know what they want, and you want to go home.
“Leave me alone!” you finally gasp out, wrenching yourself backward and slipping, your legs folding beneath you. Holding your arms in front of you and over your head, you start whimpering and crying. “I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home!”
The hands that have been ripping at your jacket, your tunic, dragging along your skin in clawing motions… disappear in a violent hush. Then arms are wrapping around your trembling body and pulling you to your feet. They cradle and tuck you against a body that feels familiar. No, you know this embrace. Choking on your next inhale, your hands claw at Morpheus’s shirt as you bury your face in his chest.
“Take me home, take me home please,” you sob into his shirt as Morpheus brushes his fingers over your hair and wraps you in a warm bubble of his energy. “I want to go home, I want to go home…” Through your whimpers of fear and despair, Morpheus’s eyes glow.
“Never fear, my precious Astra,” he murmurs into your crown of hair. “I shall never let anything happen to you again. I promise.”
Date Published: 2/22/23
Last Edit: 5/30/24
Masterlist
🐦⬛ Falling Stardust: Chapter Five
Falling Stardust: You, an innocent and naive fallen star, tumble out of Morpheus’s cloak and get wrapped up in his possessive and dark love.
Warnings: Blood (Injury).
To Note: Dark!Morpheus x FemStar!Reader (Reader is Named Astra).
Word Count: ~2.0k
Masterlist
You wander around the palace in a daze, not really knowing what to do at the moment. Days have passed since your failed attempt to be helpful around The Dreaming, and you have entirely forgotten about your woes of being turned away by dreams and nightmares. Instead, the only thing you can think about is the fact that Morpheus has kissed you. For what reason does he have to place his lips upon yours?
Unconsciously, your hand finds your lips and brushes against them as you walk. You can still feel his lips against yours, hungry, assertive, ravenous. You shake your head and take a deep breath, focusing yourself once more. It does you no good to focus on what you don’t understand and can’t research, so you choose to focus on something else. You could use a bath. It would be nice and relaxing, and it is a custom you find yourself enjoying with the handmaiden dreams of the palace. So you head back towards your quarters, looking forward to the heat of the bathwater and the scent of the perfume oils.
Walking down the hall that leads to your room, you work on unbuttoning your jacket and slip it from your shoulders just shy of entering your room. You place it gently across the back of your desk chair and reach up to remove the ribbon Morpheus has given you to hold back your hair from your face. You have long since learned that he does not like it when you hide your face behind a curtain of hair. You don’t want to upset him. So drawing down your ponytail, you gather your hair up into a bun and retie the ribbon.
You hum as you shed your clothes and don your bathrobe, tying it securely around your waist. Padding barefoot down the hall of the palace, you find yourself entering the women’s communal bath. Several dreams and handmaids already occupy the steamy space, milling around and whispering their gossip. Your fingers carefully unravel your robe from your body, and hanging it up, you step down into the hot bathwater. The bathhouse is a guilty pleasure for you because the steam and heat from the water remind you of the warmth your sisters used to wrap you in. It is a far cry from their infinite embrace, but it is better than nothing.
Wading over to a nice nook, you sit down and wrap your arms around your legs, trying not to let your confusion overwhelm you. You have only been sitting by yourself for perhaps a few minutes before a few handmaidens you know well and consider your friends wade over.
“Hello, Astra,” Justine purrs, her bright green eyes fluttering at you as she tilts her head. “You seem troubled.” She perches herself next to you and cocks her head. “Are you well?” You look to her and press your lips together.
“I am confused and do not understand Lord Morpheus’s actions,” you softly admit, your fingers curling into your skin. The handmaidens exchange looks.
“What is it that you do not understand?” Lily, one of the quieter handmaids, speaks up. “Does the Lord not treat you well and with reverence? Has someone treated you with ill and ire?”
You shake your head.
“No, no, it’s not that,” you murmur, your forehead scrunching up as you try to understand why your lord has done what he has done. “I do not understand why Lord Morpheus felt the need to place his lips upon mine… that is called kissing, is it not? I thought that was reserved for those who were married to each other?” The handmaids share a collective sigh. They all have explicit instructions on how they are to treat you, guide you along in your new life. They are not to get close to you. They are not to become close friends with you. No one is. Not until Lord Morpheus is satisfied that you are well and protected in his arms.
“Lord Morpheus is simply showing you his affection,” Justine murmurs, taking your hand and patting the back of it. He is showing you his affection? You don’t understand the differences in displays of affection. You care for your friends, but you don’t kiss them. “There is no cause for you to worry yourself, sweet star, everything is as it should be.”
“But I do not feel like I belong. I feel that I have no purpose,” you softly protest, holding onto Justine’s hand like a child would its mother’s. “Everyone here has their purpose, their job, and then there is me. I am nothing.”
“You are not nothing, Astra,” Justine corrects, running her finger up the silver line decorating your neck and throat, ending at the base of your lips. “You are a star of Lord Morpheus; that is all you have to be.” The other maidens nod firmly in agreement. No matter what it takes, it is their job to coax you into the arms of the Dream Lord, to prepare you to be the lady of the realm, the queen. It isn’t hard. You don’t know any better. Your innocence and lack of knowledge make it all too easy for them to bend you to the will of the Dream Lord.
Your eyes drop to the bubbling water around you, the unease and confusion you feel for Morpheus’s action still not remedied.
You fasten your jacket nice and tight this misty morning, planning on venturing back into the village to a place where you know you will at least be able to interact with creations from The Dreaming. Of course, they will just be plants, but flowers are pretty and nice, and they make you happy, so you set out for the village. It is early morning, so you slip out of the castle unseen or heard, and are happily on your way.
The great bridge connecting the palace and village shivers and tremors beneath your feet, the hands that loft it up firming their grip as if knowing that what they carry is precious. You simply think them to be stretching themselves out underfoot; after all, everything within this realm is alive in some way or form. Nearing the cobbled path that gives entry to the village, you pause and look up at the stars once more. Your sisters sparkle and shine high above you, their brilliance still quite dim. Within your chest, your heart aches with sadness. You press a hand against your bosom as that ache turns sharp, stabbing.
“Ugh,” you softly utter, your fingers digging into the black jacket you wear as your pain worsens. You feel hot tears well in your eyes. Soon crystals will fall to the cobbles beneath your feet. “Stop, stop, stop,” you whisper to yourself, not wanting to upset Morpheus any further with your distress. Surely he will not be happy should he learn that you once again shed tears of stardust. The burn in your eyes dissipates as you crouch down and collect the already crystallized tears. You stuff them into a jacket pocket; you will hide them later.
“Collect yourself, Astra,” you firmly tell yourself, hating how easily tears seem to appear in your eyes. Patting your cheeks firmly, you take a few calming breaths before continuing on your way to the florist. Out of all the dreams in the village, Rosētum, the Dream of roses, is the most welcoming to you. Rose lets you tend to the flowers with her, lets you water them, lets you prune the bushes, she even lets you de-thorn the roses cut fresh from her rose garden. No one gives you the freedom like she does. If it had been anyone else, they would have been too afraid that you would prick your skin on a thorn. Surely any dream who had let you do such a thing would face the wrath of Morpheus, but Rose has very little care for his retaliation.
So you find yourself walking up the cute little path that leads to the Florist and the Faun, the flower shop of The Dreaming. Rose is already outside the shop, a watering can in hand and humming a soft tune under her breath. At the sound of your footfalls, Rose turns her head and looks over her spectacles at you, one of her ears twitching.
“What be it this time, little star?” the old dream questions, knowing that you only visit when you are feeling frustrated or upset. You shift on your feet and look to a vine climbing up the water spout at the edge of the building. “Well? You are not a finicky one, Astra, spit it out, child.”
“I don’t belong here,” you whisper out in shame. “And no matter what I do, I cannot get close to anyone. I feel that my presence is not wanted, and I am only a hindrance.” Rose sighs and stamps her hoof on the cobbles beneath her.
“Och, Lord,” she rumbles in displeasure. “Surely you naught mean to displace the precious one so she has no one to go but to you!” You can’t discern her mutterings.
“Pardon?” you softly question, your head tilting to the side. Rose waves you off with a heavy sigh.
“Tis nothing we can do nor change, my child, go,” she speaks to you, her goat eyes peering into yours. “The flowers within the shop need watering, and I have a batch of roses that need to be de-thorned and packaged.” Shrugging your shoulders, you happily make your way into the flower shop and pick up the spare watering can. You begin watering the flowers, enjoying the way they immediately perk up in your presence. You can’t help but sprinkle a little stardust on a few of them and watch as they shiver in happiness, blooming ever more vigorously. They make you giggle, lifting your spirits.
Your stardust seems to enhance what is built from The Dreaming. Only you have to use it sparingly, for Morpheus is worried that you will overtax yourself and harm yourself. You are sure you won’t, but Morpheus has strictly forbidden you from using your stardust… but it isn’t like using a little will do much harm… right? It isn’t like he’ll find out. So you happily sprinkle your dust and giggle further when vines, stems, and flowers curl and tug on your fingers.
You finish watering the plants and even spend a few minutes playing with some young spider vines eager to have the attention of a being whose core sparkles with the embers of a star above. Returning the watering can to its spot, you unbutton your coat and carefully hang it from the coat rack before heading to the back room where a plethora of roses awaits de-thorning. You pick up the little paring knife Rose uses to cut the thorns from the stems and get to work.
Cutting the thorns from the stems becomes mindless work for you, and unfortunately, your mind starts to wander. Those vicious feelings of not belonging fill you. The feeling that those you consider friends are keeping you at arm's length for some reason. They are inescapable. Your hands whittle at the rose stems faster. Yes, you do not belong here, and no matter how hard you search, you cannot find your place among the dreams and nightmares. You do not belong. Not even Nox, the keeper of stars, can prevent your displacement because he has been kept so busy you rarely see him these days.
Something stabs into your palm, and you gasp, jerking back and dropping the flower you have been tending to. In your mindless work and worry, you have missed one of the thorns, and it has viciously dug into your palm. Red liquid wells against your skin and muddles the silver lines that end short of your fingers. You are held captivated by the crimson flow that slips around your skin and drips onto the work table. How can such a little wound bleed so much?
There is a rough gasp behind you, and Rose blusters her way into the room, seizing your hand and reaching for a clean rag. She presses it into your palm with force and wraps your hand firmly, rattling off about being careful with thorns. Fretting about your insignificant injury, Rose tuts about how Morpheus will not be happy.
“How easily stars bleed,” you murmur absentmindedly, noticing the shimmers within your rapidly cooling blood.
Date Published: 2/15/23
Last Edit: 5/30/24
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🐦⬛ Falling Stardust: Chapter Four
Falling Stardust: You, an innocent and naive fallen star, tumble out of Morpheus’s cloak and get wrapped up in his possessive and dark love.
Warnings: Morpheus Manipulation, Gaslighting.
To Note: Dark!Morpheus x FemStar!Reader (Reader is Named Astra).
Word Count: ~2.3k
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Your new home is wonderful. Morpheus gives you free reign of the palace, village, and lands, and you are experiencing sights, sensations, and events like never before. The people are welcoming to your presence. There is simply nothing you have to complain about… but a deep melancholy has taken root in your new body. No, that melancholy has wormed its way into the creation of your physical form. You are born with it, and oh, how it wears you down. The loss and longing for your family is almost agony for you.
Staring down at the book in your hand, your eyes gloss over the passage you have been reading, or at least trying to. Your mind will not let you read, instead, making you relive the pain of losing your family over and over. Your eyes prickle with tears, and you push your fingers against them.
“Why must you do this to me?” you softly speak, hating your new being once more. Why do you have to repeatedly suffer from this agony? Why does something within your chest have to constantly ache!? Is it not enough that you have to be ripped from your cradle once? That suffocating panic builds within your chest, and you feel like you can’t breathe. Abandoning the book, you abruptly jerk yourself to your feet and bolt from where you have been sitting for the last half hour. You rush out of the library and fly across the smooth marble to the nearest exit.
You scramble from the palace while a noxious storm brews within your mind, muddling it and giving you tunnel vision. You only panic more, not understanding what is going on. But you can’t cause a problem for Morpheus! Gritting your teeth, you force what you are feeling to churn and build within you, where you can protect Morpheus from feeling it. Crashing your way into one of the many gardens, you collapse against a nearby bench and press your hand against your chest, feeling that ache thrumming away beneath your palm.
It is an uncomfortable feeling, and you don’t understand why it is happening. Looking down at your hand, you see that it is trembling against your breast. Confusion fills you at your bodily reaction, and pulling your hand away from your tunic, you stare at your shaking hand. There is a lot you don’t understand. Dropping your hand, you shift on the bench, taking a seat and staring off at a nearby bush. It is flowering and quite pretty. You squeeze your eyes shut and wrap your star-lined coat around your body.
While everyone is nice to you, it is to a certain point. Yes, they are nice, but at the same time, they also are standoffish with you and always seem to be too busy to make small talk. You have offered to assist them so they weren’t too busy, but then their following reaction of revulsion. Like your very offer of assistance is insulting, or at least illegal. Is it against the rules for you to help? Or maybe you are just seen as a hindrance, or perhaps a pest. Or maybe they just don’t like you. Your lip wobbles at the thought.
You are trying so hard to be good and useful within this realm. Just like how you had a part to play within your old home. You are young, but not useless or a hindrance. Perhaps you just need to try again. Yes, that’s what you will do. Maybe they are just busy that day and don’t have time to tell you what to do. Wiping your face, you take a deep breath and straighten up. You are going to try again.
Leaving the gardens, your face dons a determined one as you stride for the bridge connecting the palace to the village. You pass several of the palace workers who all bow to you and murmur their respective greetings, but you hardly pay them any mind. Your determination to be useful and make true friends within this realm is all you can think about. Crossing the bridge is quick and easy, and you find yourself venturing into the village soon enough.
First, you decide to stop by Clovis’s shop to see if he needs any help with cataloging the numerous dream scripts that are always in production. No, you know he will need help; the poor dream is always behind, and his pile of unsorted dream scripts is always growing, no matter how hard he works. Surely he can’t refuse your offer of help when he needs it so desperately. Turning down the cobbled road to Clovis’s haphazard archive, you hum to yourself as you enjoy the fresh village air.
There is something about the palace and the palace grounds that has a regal and heavy atmosphere. Like you have to be and act perfect at all times. Or perhaps the decorum is simply so rigid that you feel like you could do something wrong unintentionally. But not in the village. Here, you feel relaxed, free, normal even… which is strange because you have no reason to not feel like that when at the palace, under the watchful eye of Morpheus.
Opening the door to the dream script archive, you come face to face with stacks of scripts haphazardly leaning everywhere. Some are half-open, others have a thick layer of dust, and you could have sworn that Clovis is even using a few stacks as a place to put several goblets and food trays. Your lips twitch. Clovis definitely needs help.
“Clovis?” you call out, looking around the high stacks of dream scripts in search of the Dream of Scripts. He is nowhere to be found. Sighing, you delve further into the chaos of scripts, weaving around haphazard stacks and avoiding precious piles that appear to be moments from toppling over. You find the dream in question sleeping at his desk, a trail of drool running down his chin as he softly snores. Is it really a good idea for Clovis to have been made to be so sleepy? Well, it is not your place to question Morpheus’s creations. You shake his shoulder. “Clovis,” you call, blinking at the dream as he rouses in place and yawns.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” Clovis sighs out, reaching up to rub his eye. He blinks several more times before seeming to fall back asleep. You don’t let him and shake his shoulder harder.
“Clovis, you aren’t supposed to be sleeping on the job, remember?” you chide the dream. He grumbles underneath his breath and straightens up in his seat, wiping his chin and mouth with the back of his hand.
“‘M up, ‘m up,” he repeats, yawning once more. Clovis’s doe-like eyes blink at you, and his head cocks to the side. “Oh, hello Astra, do you need something? Does Lord Morpheus need a dream script drawn from the archives?”
“Ah, no,” you admit, looking down at your hands twisted together. “No, I am not here on official business,” you further explain. “I know you are very busy and was wondering if I could help you? Surely you could use at least a little assistance given the great wealth of dream scripts that still require cataloging and shelving…” It takes a few moments for Clovis to realize what you are asking, and the dream shifts uncomfortably.
“Oh, about that…” Clovis mutters, his eyes darting around nervously. You look at him, hopeful and eager, and the guilt that surges within Clovis is hard to beat back. But he knows what will happen if he says yes, and risking the wrath of Morpheus is the last thing he wants. “I don’t need your help.” You try to beat back the bitter hurt and disappointment that fill your body.
“I see,” you whisper, drooping in place. There are other dreams you can ask to help; you’ll try them. Leaving behind Clovis’s archives, you walk through the village to the bakery. The dreams that run it are always struggling to keep up with the demand for their goods around this time. But even the kind bakers turn you away, hastily pushing you away from their work with simple excuses. How could we sully your hands with work? Surely one such as you is above such common practice… A star is far too precious. Why does it matter that you are a star, albeit a fallen one? No matter how many dreams you go to, their answer is the same, and you are feeling even more useless than when you started.
Feeling hurt and frustrated, you walk back across the bridge while trying to fight the tears that blister your eyes. By the time your feet touch palace marble, a few tears have fled your eyelashes and fallen to the stone path, solidifying into crystal. You sniff and angrily swipe at your face, hating yourself. You must have done something to make everyone not like you. Ending up in the gardens once more, you follow the path that leads to the deepest part of the endless garden, unknowingly leaving a trail of crystallized tears behind you.
You end up standing in front of a fountain with shimmering water, your tears dropping into the gurgling water and solidifying before gently coming to rest on the fountain bottom with little shimmers. Reaching into the bubbling fountain, you pluck a few of the crystalline drops and hold them in your fingers. Why does such prettiness have to be born from your sadness? You whimper softly and reach up to push the tears still gathering at your lashes away from your skin.
You hate how out of place you feel here.
From behind you comes a swirl of darkness and anger, and turning around in confusion, you see Morpheus striding towards you. His eyes are a storm of darkness just barely brightened by stars. Your sorrow and woes are forgotten in an instant as you wonder what could have upset Morpheus so much. Before you have a chance to question the mood of your lord, he is upon you, taking your face in hand and brushing away the wet tear tracks.
“For what egregious reason does my star have to weep with such gravity?” Morpheus all but growls down at you, his eyes searching yours for the cause of your tears. It isn’t hard to find you the moment he feels your sadness; you have left a trail of crystallized tears in your wake. Lips trembling, you look down, not wanting to be ungrateful for what you have been given. Morpheus can see your hesitancy. He does not like that and presses further, his eyes glowing softly. “Astra, what causes you to be in such despair?”
“I don’t belong here, and I am useless,” you whisper. “What use do I have being here if I cannot aid the dreams? No one will let me help because apparently stars are too precious, and I feel like no one wants to be my friend.”
So his dreams have followed his explicit instructions on how they are to treat you. Of course, they are to be polite and give you the respect that you deserve, but under no circumstances are they to allow you to become attached to anyone save for him. No friendships shall be made until you are well and truly protected within Morpheus’s arms. Even then, he still wishes for your complete and total attention. Morpheus strokes your face and leans down, his eyes boring into yours in captivating comfort.
“My precious star, my dreams and nightmares simply wish to ensure that you are not overwhelmed or hurt while partaking in their work.” You start to frown, not understanding how you could be hurt by some of the tasks you offered your aid to. Morpheus is quick to continue, brushing the hair from your face and catching a lingering tear that threatens to fall. “It is our job to protect you,” Morpheus gently coaxes. “Or do you not wish for our hospitality?”
You shake your head. Of course, you are grateful for their hospitality, more than happy.
“Of course not, I—“ Morpheus takes your chin and presses his thumb against your lips.
“Do you seek to segregate yourself from us, Astra?” Morpheus presses, seeing the fight within you wilt with each passing second. “Are we such a poor substitute for family that you long for another?” Now you feel ever so guilty for leading Morpheus and the others to believe that.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Morpheus shushes you, his face hovering close to yours. You press your wobbly lips together. “I feel like I don’t belong here,” you whisper.
“Of course you belong within my realm,” Morpheus instantly replies, drinking in the soft heat that emits from your skin. Having you so close once more, you are far too irresistible, and Morpheus has given you more than enough time and space to adjust to your new home. He does not want to wait any longer. “You fell from my coat; you are my star, Astra. Your place is here, by my side. Are you not the closest to your sisters here?”
Your lips part to respond to him, but your lips are intercepted before you have a chance to speak. Morpheus’s lips press against yours, hungry and filled with possession. Surprise fills you, and you have no idea what to do. So you raise your hands and dig your fingers into the very jacket you have fallen from.
Teeth catch your lower lip, and you softly gasp, the parting of your lips allowing Morpheus to kiss you deeper. His tongue curls around yours and coaxes you to kiss back, to respond to his demands, and you do, not knowing what else to do. Morpheus continues to kiss you until it is all you can think about, and then kisses you some more. Your lips are sweet and innocent, and Morpheus knows that he will never tire of them.
Date Published: 2/8/23
Last Edit: 5/30/24
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