Summary: Centuries together. It feels like so little time to an endless. Convinced of eternity, only for the universe to show you otherwise. \
WARNINGS: ANGST, ANGSt, ANGST, mentions of death
Word Count : 1389
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The rain fell in thick, relentless sheets, hammering against the once-vibrant meadows with a persistent rhythm that seemed almost mournful, each droplet striking like a tiny, accusing finger against the fragile remnants of her joy. The sky, an endless expanse of slate gray, pressed down with oppressive weight, making the air heavy and difficult to breathe. Every flower that had once gleamed with impossible, radiant colors now sagged, petals blackened and curling as though attempting to shield themselves from the grief-laden air. The creatures that had once flitted about her world—bright-eyed companions of laughter, of mischief, of impossible joy—stumbled now with a vacant, shuffling hunger, their movements jerky, unnatural, the glimmer of life extinguished from their eyes. Even the streams, once crystalline and gurgling, ran thick and sluggish, carrying with them shadows of despair that pooled in every hollow. The wind carried the scent of wet earth, of decaying petals, of lost moments; it pressed against the heart with a persistent insistence, echoing the grief that weighed upon her soul. It was a reflection, a mirror, a landscape twisted not by chance but by the raw, unyielding shadow of sorrow and refusal.
He had lingered at the edge of this fallen world longer than any mortal—or immortal—should, his gaze sweeping the expanse with the patience of centuries. Each raindrop seemed to mark the passing of time itself, each shiver of the wind whispering the inevitability of what must come. Death—or the end of this particular existence—loomed with a precision that sent shivers through even him, an Eternal who had walked through every age and witnessed every conclusion. How does one speak to someone whose heart has known centuries beside your own, someone whose soul has been entwined with yours, knowing that the form in which you will return will be strange, altered, unfamiliar? How does one restore the brilliance of a world when the hand that shaped it with care is slipping away, leaving only shadow and echo behind?
He stepped forward at last, his presence parting the rain like a ripple through thick mist. She did not notice. She sat by the fractured fountain at the center of what had once been a luminous garden, knees drawn to her chest, hands loosely resting upon them, shoulders stooped under the invisible weight of endless years. The candies she had adored—frozen grapes, spun sugar delights, the inventions of her ceaseless industry—lay scattered, untouched, as if they had lost their very purpose. The factory she had constructed to supply these delights stood idle, its machinery groaning and creaking like a wounded animal, refusing to fulfill its joyful function, each unmade treat a monument to her despair. The wind picked up, stirring the ruins, lifting petals and leaves in slow, sorrowful spirals that made the garden seem alive with mourning. Even the birds had abandoned the sky, leaving only hollow silence where song had once thrummed.
“I have come,” he said quietly, voice nearly lost amid the storm, though he poured all the weight of centuries into it.
She did not look up.
His voice remained calm, measured, though within him a storm churned, roiling against the composure of the Endless. “I see what has become of this place. I see it as you do.”
A subtle tremor ran through the air. One of her zombified companions lifted its head, eyes vacant, before returning to aimless wandering. He did not flinch. He had seen countless dreams decay, yet hers bore a sting uniquely intimate, a reflection of his own undoing.
“I will not be here forever,” he whispered, softer now, a thread of melancholy woven into each word. “I will change. You must know that. It is the order of things, the turning of all wheels. You must accept it, though I do not expect it to come easily.”
She did not respond. Not a glance, not a murmur. Rain clung to her hair, veiling her face, hiding any expression he longed to see. And yet he waited, silently, respectfully, the patience of eons etched into every line of his being. Grief could not be rushed, even by the Endless.
He advanced slowly, the earth beneath him soft, soaked, yielding. Even the flowers seemed to shrink from him, curling further inward. He extended a hand, hovering just above her shoulder. “You need not endure this alone,” he said, voice fragile, almost breaking. He was not prone to fracture, yet centuries had carved vulnerabilities, subtle and deep, into him. Her sorrow gnawed at him, and he had no remedy that could truly suffice.
A faint tremor passed through her fingers—not yet a signal of returning life, but enough to acknowledge him, perhaps.
“I will not leave entirely,” he murmured, “even if the world demands it. Even if I must take a new form, I will remain.”
The rain intensified, as though the dream itself wept, washing away the vestiges of brightness into muddy rivulets. He knew he could not compel her back into light; all he could do was remain a sentinel within the storm, speaking truths she needed to hear, however bitter.
When he departed at last, it was with a sorrowful grace. She remained, left with her mourning, the ruined flowers, the idle factory, the listless companions. He passed from that dream, from that life, and the cosmos shifted. The Endless continued their eternal march, and death claimed what it must.
He returned, not as Morpheus, but as Daniel. The rebirth was neither joyous nor terrible—it simply was. He gazed upon the chaotic, fractured realms he now tended with a pang of unanticipated sorrow. Threads of forgotten dreams unraveled, fragile and shadowed, awaiting his careful tending. And among them, one remained frayed, one thread almost beyond repair: hers.
He approached it with meticulous care, guided by the experience of walking through all time, all grief, and all joy. The gates to her world were twisted, locked tight by grief, yet he entered as a gentle observer, knowing the patience required.
The rain still fell, heavy, persistent. Dead flowers drooped with resignation. Companions moved listlessly, hollow, bereft of vitality. She sat at the center, knees drawn, head bowed, shoulders hunched beneath the burden of centuries. And she did not look at him.
Daniel knelt at a careful distance. He did not touch, did not demand attention. He spoke softly, letting words drift through the storm. “I have returned. I am still me, though my shape has changed. I am here. I have not gone.”
Her fingers twitched—perhaps acknowledgment, or merely a flinch from the wind. He remained patient, silent in vigil, offering the endurance of centuries.
“I cannot restore all that has been lost,” he admitted, voice nearly consumed by the storm. “I cannot revive the flowers, the laughter, the light… not yet. But I can remain. I will remain, in whatever form is needed.”
A subtle shudder moved through her. A sigh, almost absorbed by the rain, escaped her lips. She did not look—could not yet. Grief, loss, the inevitability of what was and what would come, held her fast at the heart of ruin.
Daniel remained. He spoke little, allowing silence to weave around them, companionable yet aching. The connection endured, fragile but unbroken. Perhaps she would never smile again, perhaps she would never tend her candies, perhaps she would never walk among the vivid blooms of her old dream. But she was not gone. And he would wait. Always.
Rain fell relentlessly. Companions shuffled, flowers sagged, and yet, beneath layers of loss and shadow, a slender thread of light persisted. One day, it might bloom. One day, the dream might awaken.
For now, he sat. Watching. Waiting. Speaking softly when needed, Morpheus’ voice echoing through Daniel. The weight of eternity, the sorrow of endings, the stubborn, agonizing beauty of enduring love—he bore it all, for her, with patience older than any living being. The dream, though dead to most eyes, had not claimed her entirely.
In that stillness, in that quiet torment, they remained—bound by centuries, by love, by the unspoken certainty that neither death, change, nor despair could wholly sever them.
The storm raged on. The rain never ceased. And still, he waited, the new form of an ancient god, faithful to the last, fragile light of her heart, even if she could not yet look upon him.
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Dream of the Endless x F!Reader
Word Count: 16.2k
Warnings: Cursing, mentions of death and pain.
Notes:
I *know* that I'm uploading this later than I said I would, but to be fair, I thought I'd only have to edit 4k words since this chapter was originally only 4k.
The word count ended up being 16k.
I poured my heart and soul into this one, and it's the longest I've ever written for a single chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did while writing! As always, please tell me what you think!
Summary:
Y/N has had a very long day.
Morpheus, too.
But what's important is, by the end of it, they're both where they needed to be. Even if it means that Y/N gets a headache or two.
"Alex Burgess is dead."
Johanna’s voice pierced through the phone's speaker, clear as day even in the midst of the bustling inn.
The New Inn had always been a popular place in town, and yet Y/N rarely saw it become so busy so fast. Customers flooded in quickly; there were a lot of familiar faces, but also a number of new ones.
Their dissonant voices pestered her.
She had attempted to tune them out, but her phone’s sharp ringing had made her jump in her seat, breaking through the mental barrier she set between herself and the loud voices of the strangers around her.
However, as Johanna delivered the news, she was finally able to deafen the noise, her ears suddenly feeling like it was stuffed with cotton.
The air became thick, and time seemed sluggish as the clock hanging on the wall ticked unnaturally slow. Y/N’s thoughts began to blur and all she could hear was her shallow breathing as her heart began to beat faster.
Ever since she could remember, a low, quiet humming would appear in the back of her mind at seemingly random times.
But there were moments like these where the peculiar sound was at its peak, buzzing in her head like bees stuck in their hive.
The phone began to slip from her hand, making Y/N flinch as she fumbled to get a proper grip before it landed on the table. She was able to catch it mid-air, the adrenaline waking her up from her daze.
“Do you want me to check it out?”
“Uh, n-no.” Y/N sat straighter, running a hand down her face. “There’s no need for that,” she scrambled. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your job.”
“This is my job, Y/N.”
“And I’m not your client,” she replied, more stern this time. “Besides, it seems a bit insensitive to investigate the house of the recently deceased.”
"Y/N I—”
"—have to go now, I'm with Amelia," Y/N interrupted before ending the call.
After more than two decades, she was content to leave the dream be, and investigating the Burgesses would be doing the opposite.
She was finally able to help the caged man, changing the trajectory of the nightmare he was in. It felt foolish of her to ever fear doing so earlier in her life.
Of course, it was not like she never wanted to, she was simply unable to.
It was her childhood nightmare, haunting her for the longest time, and it would certainly be difficult to face.
The dream was only a story, one that was over because Amelia had asked her to make it so.
The story was over . It was done.
There was nothing more to dwell on.
Amelia had been sitting next to Y/N when Johanna called, and she was left picking at her food since, waiting for their conversation to end.
She only wanted to see her favourite babysitter again, and after compromising with Maurice to bring her along as she went to work at the Inn, Amelia looked forward to spending time with Y/N.
She was not yet finished with her school assignments, and so she was only allowed to go on the condition that she would finish them there, while being able to talk to Y/N during her breaks.
Amelia was restless, a small frown on her face, disappointed that what was left of her break was taken over by a phone call. She tapped her fork on her plate, her legs bouncing up and down, sighing.
Next to her, Y/N smiled pitifully, knowing how much the little girl looked forward to her trip at The New Inn. “Thanks, Amy.” She leaned towards her, giving Amy a genuine grin.
Y/N propped her elbow up on the table, resting her chin on her hand as she took a sip of her tea, a silent apology twinkling in her eyes, hoping that Amelia would understand.
Amelia whipped her head towards her, gleaming now that she finally had her attention. She cringed when Y/N ruffled her hair.
“Thank you for helping me save him,” Y/N said proudly, compelled to express her gratitude regardless of her struggles with grasping recent events.
Y/N was grateful and considered herself indebted to Amelia, if not for helping her free the man, then for changing the course of a long-time nightmare that, until then, had not ceased to loom over her sleeping and waking hours.
She had chased the man for most of her life in search of the reason for his frequent appearances in her dreams; however, no matter how desperate her longing was for understanding his existence, there were never any answers, because she had always been helpless, only being allowed to see his anguish rather than break the circle and the glass—something she had been wanting to do for years.
Amelia had changed that, though.
But she has yet to understand how.
The little girl squealed, jumping off of her seat to hug her, but not quite reaching due to the height difference of the stool Y/N sat on. "You saved him!" She cheered. "I knew it!"
Y/N stood from her seat, crouching down to Amelia’s level and opening her arms for the welcomed embrace.
“Is that him?” the redhead asked, pointing at something over Y/N’s shoulder.
There was a moment of silence. Y/N knew what Amelia was referring to, she felt its presence everywhere like a pair of eyes following her around, especially now that it was at the Inn.
It was the painting she hung hours ago. Many stopped to view it, most of them taking pictures of the new decor.
And for a moment, one fleeting moment, their irises seemed to twinkle with the stars that covered the night sky, entering a quiet haze of admiration.
Not for its beauty, but for its muse.
Y/N cleared her throat, pulling away and offering her hand to Amelia. “Yes, that’s him.”
Amelia gladly took her hand, and they walked until they stopped in front of the painting. She was lifted up into Y/N’s arms, now getting an eye-level view of the man that she had only heard the story of.
She awed, enthralled by the image, her eyes shining with delight.
Y/N finished the painting the night she returned from her visit to Johanna’s, immersing herself within it until just hours later, she was making her way to the Inn at the brink of dusk, holding the wrapped canvas protectively.
Though it was barely morning, she had invited her father, wanting him to be the first to see. He had only ever heard of her dreams and it would be the first time he would see it through the eyes of his daughter.
He had seen her work before, as many had as well. She illustrated hers and others’ books; many of her readers could pick out her art from a mile away.
When the dreams became unrelenting, however, it stunted Y/N’s work. He could no longer consult her for new decor at the Inn, and he stopped seeing her sketch the little things that sparked her interest.
Though none ever saw the light of day, if he knew of them, he would be awed at the heaps of half-finished paintings kept within the confines of her room. They only ever gathered dust, covered in spare cloth or blankets.
For one particular painting, though, the one she carried to the Inn at the brink of daylight, there was no doubt in Y/N’s mind that she wanted her father to see it.
After all, it was painted for the Inn. It would find its home there—with the approval of her father, of course.
It would undoubtedly be easy to acquire, as he had always wanted to display one of her paintings in the Inn. He hid behind the excuse that it would be good for business, as Y/N was a household name when it came to children’s books—he would never admit that it was solely so he could show off his daughter.
When Y/N showed him the painting, his eyes brightened, so much so that she swore it contested the brightest star in the galaxy.
He was overjoyed to see that his daughter was once again making art, and he took a moment to himself to take in each brush stroke, going over the intricacies and each minute detail.
And upon further observation, it was clear to him that he found it incredibly familiar. There was something about it that reminded him of something— someone.
But he shook it off. Y/N had simply told him too much of her dream, he knew the details all too well after years of hearing it be told; it could very well be his dream, too.
For her comfort, though, he would never say that deep within his mind, the part of it that held his memories from the centuries he had lived, something told him to look closer .
This was about his daughter, he could wait to assess the painting later when she was gone.
“Amelia!”
Y/N was snapped out of her thoughts by Maurice, calling her daughter from the back room.
“Break’s over, darling, you need to finish your homework.”
Maurice approached them with open arms, gesturing for Y/N to pass Amelia over to her.
“Thank you for taking care of her as always, Y/N,” Maurice said, carrying her daughter in her arms as she smiled warmly, looking over to the little study corner they had set up for Amelia. "Thank you for giving her a place to study as well."
“But I want to talk to Y/N more!” Amelia whined, crossing her arms as she faced her mother, pouting. She gave her best puppy eyes, but Maurice stood firm, not wanting for her to develop a habit of extending break times.
Amelia wrapped her arms around her mother, placing her chin on her shoulder in defeat.
Y/N rubbed a hand up and down Amelia’s back to console her. "If you finish all your homework today, I promise I'll tell you the most fantastic bedtime story when I get the chance, okay?" She offered, feeling a pang in her heart at Amelia’s displeasure. After all, had she not been on the phone with Johanna, they would have gotten more time to talk, which was what Amelia came there for in the first place.
Begrudgingly, Amelia kept silent, only nodding her head and nuzzling her face in the crook of Maurice’s shoulder. Maurice cooed, rocking her daughter gently as Amelia sniffled.
She gave Y/N an apologetic smile, mouthing a small ‘thank you’ before going back to their table.
Y/N took another glance at her painting, delighted that she no longer feared what it represented—but an inexplicable feeling lingered.
Since her return from the Dreaming, she had been feeling out of touch. Her mind would wander to places she had only been to in her dreams, causing her to make small mistakes throughout the day.
Though she no longer worried about nightmares that came during her slumber, it was quite unexpected for her to drift off in the morning, getting stuck in her own daydreams at the most inconvenient times.
And there was no doubt that others felt the same when viewing the painting. Most would pass by with lingering stares, some would look from afar.
But for whatever reason, even the most distracted person passing by the Inn, if ever the painting would catch their eye, they would enter only to admire it.
Y/N decided that she would no longer keep parts of him locked up; deep down, she and everyone who took even a single glance at him inside of that painting knew that Lord Morpheus had come back.
And so have their dreams.
In a place so dark and solitary, the Dream Lord would never be alone; everyone who entered the Inn would know of the torment he was put through, most would understand that it was not his fault—nor was it his decision—to leave them.
Through one of the windows, Y/N noticed the leaves falling from the nearby trees. Her eyes strained, trying to ascertain why she was suddenly drawn to them.
Her brows furrowed—the leaves were falling slowly.
It was quite windy that day; the trees should have been shaking in the breeze instead of the unnatural swaying that Y/N had noticed. The bushes below did not rustle, and instead danced sluggishly back and forth as if someone had taken a video and played it in slow motion.
She walked closer to the door, raising one of her hands to pinch her arm.
This only happened in her dreams, and though she usually knew when she was not in the waking world, she hoped that this was an exception.
She looked around, observing the people around the Inn—had they noticed what was going on outside?
Y/N quickly found that the answer was no, as they were all behaving as normally as they had before she peered through the windows.
The employees were serving meals, some preparing drinks. Amelia was determined to finish her homework, speedily scribbling through the pages of her textbook with Maurice right next to her, ready to help her should she need it.
No one noticed Y/N's puzzled expression, and she wondered if it was all somehow part of an elaborate, hyper-realistic dream.
Driven to find some answers, she approached the door, cautiously opening it and stepping through to the other side to search for the cause of the disturbance.
Instead of trees and grass, she saw pillars and the tall, familiar set of stairs that lead to a throne; one she knew very well.
The palace was no longer broken, not a single piece of stone out of place. The cracks on the walls that she had come to know in her many visits to the Dreaming had disappeared.
But regardless of its beauty, the light that shone through the windows was not as bright, and the colours that gave the room life—even in its worn-down form—were faded.
It reminded her of a photograph, capturing only the mere image of something but never quite encapsulating the essence and the spirit of its subject.
Though Y/N marveled, captivated by the mended palace she had only hoped to see, it was unsuccessful in deceiving her.
The Dreaming was her second home, and she knew whenever she stepped into its warm embrace.
"Y/N Gadling" A woman spoke.
Y/N tore her gaze away from the palace, her eyes landing on the woman standing a few feet ahead of her.
She had brown skin, curly black hair and dark, piercing eyes. She was not malicious, no, Y/N could tell, but the air around her was unsettling, enclosing you in its hold, warning you to tread lightly.
She was not alone, however. She stood between two other women, one that looked older, and another one—the oldest one—who had wavy, salt and pepper hair.
The Fates eyed her, assessing the girl before them, their curious eyes wielding more power than any human could comprehend. They knew, of course they knew, and it was up to her to raise three important questions—three that would have everlasting effects upon the events that would take place in the near future.
“The Daydream,” the Mother added, keeping the same regal stature as her sister-selves.
Y/N looked at them carefully; Greek mythology was something she had taken an interest in as a writer, and she had an inkling of who they might be. One would certainly remember The Three, as they held a crucial role in the entire sequence of the universe.
“His regent,” the Crone called.
She adjusted her bearing, squaring her shoulders as she held her hands behind her back, holding her head high. “The Fates. I’ve heard of you—stories, mostly.”
The Three smirked, giving each other knowing looks at Y/N’s commanding posture; she no longer looked inferior to them, and held herself with pride rather than the child-like curiosity that lingered in her gaze when she stepped into the faux throne room.
Y/N knew the falseness of the ground she stood upon, and though she had not entered the Dreaming, any place that looked as such she would stand on with the utmost respect.
The Fates were, in fact, more powerful than she could ever imagine. However, fake or not, they would fail to look down upon her in her own home.
“It has begun,” The Maiden spoke.
Y/N’s eyebrows gave the slightest twitch, looking at the other two beings and waiting for their turn to speak.
“Careful where you tread, our dear Daydream,” The Crone said, her voice dark and low, vibrating through the air—though in the form of an ordinary elderly woman, her warning could turn the heads of the most powerful beings.
"The power you hold does not go unnoticed. Many will seek you now," The Mother continued. Her voice was warmer, but nevertheless vehement.
The Hecate talked in riddles, most of which hard to decipher; Y/N would have to make the most out of her three questions if she wanted to understand.
“For me to have received such a visit, I would have to be something other than the person I think myself to be,” Y/N replied, The Three listening intently, seemingly waiting for a slip of the tongue.
“I know not what I am, but you refer to me as his regent. Who might that be?” Y/N asked, her voice unwavering despite her internal disarray. She kept her mouth shut as an active effort to try and keep the questions at bay.
She held no control over the circumstance The Fates had forced her into. However, as long as she remained cautious of each word she spoke, it would influence the answers she would get.
Decrypting them would be the challenge, but she could already think of one Johanna Constantine to help her with that.
Behind her back, Y/N’s hands were balled into fists. Her composure did not falter, but in the back of her mind was a tsunami of questions she would not be ready for in the waking world.
She hid her nerves quite nicely from The Three, and to a great extent, to herself as well.
"He is not a person, my dear. He is the monarch of the realm you have sought shelter in for many years," The Maiden responded.
"He is the ruler of dreams," The Mother continued. "But you have known him to be your dream."
Y/N remembered flashes of the man in the sphere. Were they referring to him? Had she been dreaming of the King of Dreams for a long time? Was it really the Sandman?
The oldest stepped forward. "And the one that came long before you."
Much to Y/N’s displeasure, with only a few words, The Crone had muddled the clues she was piecing together. They spoke of the man she knew from her sleep, surely—at least, from what she could gather, The Three should have been referring to him.
However, she knew not of his past. The Sandman would have existed aeons before herself, and though it should be overt information, The Fates felt it important to let her know in person.
Why? In what world would their fates be attached to one another? What did his past have to do with her present?
"You call me ‘daydream’, as my father does. What is the significance of this?" Y/N asked, hoping to have asked the right question to gain further knowledge. She fiddled with her fingers behind her back, anxious that she might have wasted one of her chances.
"There is no more significance, my dear," The Mother replied.
Y/N held her breath.
"There is only power," The Maiden continued.
Y/N’s hands shook, balled tightly behind her back, her nails digging into her palms. Her face began to show disdain, her eyebrows shaping into an obvious frown as their cryptic ways began to frustrate her.
She only searched for answers, and though she had not expected The Fates to be of much help, it still upset her that they only seemed to aggravate her questions.
"And there is only you." The Crone added.
Y/N exhaled, releasing the breath she did not realise she was holding, and relaxed her hands, clasping them together gently—still behind her back—instead of squeezing so tight that she reduced bloodflow.
"You are an intelligent one, dear. Your words have not been wasted,” The Crone reassured, though she kept her words simple and esoteric.
"Certainly better than her predecessor," The Maiden quipped as the other two repressed their laughter, only allowing their snickers to be heard. Regardless of their quiet amusement, their voices still seemed to echo inside of the palace replica.
Y/N smirked, however bemused by their antics. "One does not get a visit from The Three often. It would be a shame to squander the questions I have been gifted."
Though the Hecate had their purpose, it seemed as though they were not one to deny small conversations, and Y/N hoped to take advantage as she was only left with her final question.
"You speak of gifts. Very fitting for one of your kind," The Mother commented.
"When dreams despair, the sleeping shall receive a daydream as a gift from Death,” The Crone spoke, each word purposeful and carefully crafted into a phrase that lingered in the air—one whose meaning was obvious to all but the person it was intended for.
"And they have.” The Mother looked at her other self, sending a knowing glance, their eyes speaking a million different things that they may never say aloud.
"But what is a gift, if not wanted?" The youngest asked.
“And what becomes of it when it is not?" The eldest finished.
Y/N lowered her chin slightly, her eyes pointed, stern and peremptory towards The Three. There was a low rumbling that shook the ground below them, one that challenged the pillars that held the palace up proudly.
A smirk graced their faces, indifferent to the trembling stones and structures that surrounded them.
Y/N had many questions, and yet she only had one left to ask.
She inhaled, closing her eyes and lifting her chin, then opened her eyes once more and exhaled, staring at the Hecate with volition that bled into the atmosphere around them.
The shaking stopped.
It was not her home, and yet the false palace remained obedient under her mere presence.
“What has begun?” She asked, keeping her composure steady and her words clear; she dug her nails into her palm once again.
Light flashed through the windows, thunder roaring all around them. The Three did not waver, but their smirks turned into grins, glancing at the windows for a moment before returning their gaze onto Y/N.
Their eyes darkened as they all held their hands together in front of them, tilting their chin up proudly; The Three’s power grew, the air growing thick as they replied.
“The end,” they yelled, their voices echoing and tonitruous before the entire palace turned to one great flash of light, momentarily blinding Y/N.
She shielded her eyes with her arm, then it was over, when the blinding light had gone, she put her arm back down, finding that the view in front of her was different.
“Excuse me?”
Y/N flinched, quickly turning around to face whoever had tapped her shoulder. It was a woman, shorter than her, looking curiously as Y/N regained her composure.
She wiped the baffled expression off of her face, replacing it with an apprehensive smile, waiting for the woman to continue speaking.
“Are you okay? You’ve been standing there a while,” she asked, concerned, before chuckling shyly. “And you’re, uhm, kind of blocking the door.”
Y/N laughed, nervous, clearing her throat and blinking rapidly, trying to get rid of the haze and the feeling of dust in her eyes.
“I-I’m fine. It’s just been a weird day. Thank you for asking, though,” she replied, grateful for the kindness the woman had shown. If she was blocking the door, the stranger could have easily pushed her to the side.
The woman, though, was now preoccupied with something else. She was looking directly into Y/N’s eyes, studying them carefully. Y/N awkwardly shuffled her feet to try and get away from the prying gaze.
“I…I think there’s something in your eyes, miss…” the woman trailed off, mesmerized by the lights that twinkled within Y/N’s irises.
Y/N looked at the ground, tearing herself away from her curious stare as she waved her off. “It’s, uhm, I have allergies,” she sniffled, quite forcefully, rubbing her nose and her eyes, the skin appearing red from the irritation. “I’ll be fine.”
Before the woman could voice more of her concerns, Y/N had already given her thanks, walking away briskly while muttering something about allergens being in the drinks. The stranger watched her leave, reluctantly telling her to get help if she gets sicker.
* * *
Y/N’s knee bounced up and down as she sat alone on a park bench, tightly clutching her phone in her hands. She had long lost track of time, pondering over the strange circumstances that she seemed unable to escape.
She spent a while trying to decipher what The Fates had said to her, which was surely the hardest to do seeing as she was only given pieces of information she did not know how to connect.
There had been many moments in her life where she was left completely dumbfounded and she thought that maybe, there was nothing left in the universe that could leave her as shocked and confused and afraid.
One of those moments was finding out about her father’s long, long life, and how he would outlive her for—well, forever. She thought that it was as much as her human mind could comprehend, choosing to accept it rather than to question it.
After all, she had seen him get hurt to the point where it was considered fatal, but he would always come out of it just fine.
She guessed that, maybe, when someone has lived for centuries, they have the tendency to get quite reckless over time, something she had repeatedly scolded her father for.
Point is, her perception of human reality had long been warped. However, it was never to the extent where a supposedly mythological being found it rather important to transport her to another realm in the middle of the day—in public, no less.
Not to mention leaving her physical body blocking the door to a busy establishment, susceptible to any and all outside forces without a care in the world about the harm it could have brought her.
She stared at her feet, her hands starting to switch between picking at her phone case or relentlessly tapping the screen with fingernails she had bitten too short that her nailbeds began to sting.
It was a kind of pain that she hoped would wake her up. She was too uncertain of the world, too unsure of whether or not she was stuck in a dream.
After all, she was only human. Mortal? Possibly. But human, of course.
Y/N flinched as a soccer ball hit her knee and landed by her feet.
Curious, she picked it up, looking around and scanning the park for the owner. A young boy, no more than seven years old, came into view, jogging towards her.
“Is this yours?” Y/N asked, a warm smile gracing her face as she gestured to the ball in her hand.
The boy stopped running, standing just a few feet away from her, his eyes going wide and his mouth agape as he called out for his mother, his eyes never leaving Y/N.
Alarmed, Y/N stayed frozen in her seat, resting the ball on her lap as she watched his mother run towards them both. She stammered, trying to explain that she did not mean any harm to her child, but the boy beat her to it.
“She’s the girl from my dream! The one with the rocketship!” he beamed as he excitedly pointed to Y/N. “She’s real! She’s real!”
Of course.
Y/N began tapping her fingers on the ball, feeling her chest constrict as she heard the hum once more, creeping to the surface of her mind like an oncoming storm—the distant thunder growing louder and louder.
Raymond and the Rocketship.
Raymond Campbell.
“I’m Raymond!” The boy extended a hand for her to shake, then pulled it back. “But you know that already!” he giggled. “You remember, right?”
How could she forget?
He was the little boy in her first best-selling story book, the one she sloppily wrote down on her notebook a long time ago in the middle of the night, after yet another adventure-filled dream.
He was a beloved character brought to life by the words she typed on her laptop, illustrated on the pages of Amelia’s favourite story book—her very first one written by Y/N.
The book that sat proudly in the middle of Amelia’s bedroom shelf, ready to be reread whenever she pleased.
Raymond seemed to grow apprehensive when she gave him no response, tugging at his mother’s shirt. “She remembers me, right?” he asked, his voice losing its enthusiasm and lowering down to a shaky whimper.
Blinking away her stupor, she smiled at Raymond, hoping to create a convincing facade. “Of course I remember!”
She looked at Raymond’s mom, who looked at her apologetically and was intending to stop her son from further bothering a stranger at the park.
However, Y/N subtly shook her head to let her know that she was more than willing to play along.
The mother smiled in return, relieved to see how she was kind enough to entertain her son, blissfully unaware of the trepidation clouding Y/N’s brain.
Y/N offered her hand for Raymond to shake and he happily accepted. “I’m Y/N.” She extended the gesture to his mother as well, who gave her a grateful smile in return, silently thanking her for being kind to her son.
“I’m Amanda,” the mother replied, placing both her hands on Ray’s shoulders. “I hope he wasn’t being too bothersome.”
“Oh, he could never!” Y/N replied, kneeling down to Raymond's eye level before handing the ball over to him. “Raymond here is a good friend, aren’t you, Ray?”
The little boy nodded, taking the ball with glee, “Do you actually have a spaceship?” he asked, narrowing his eyes from suspicion.
Y/N gasped, splaying her hand over her chest, feigning offence. “Why—of course I do! Who do you take me for? An imposter?” she accused, playfully pouting at Raymond who laughed and began to jump up and down.
“I want to see it!” He turned to his mother, his eyes wide and pleading. “Can we see it, please!”
Y/N exaggerated a huff and pointed towards the sky. “The ship is up there right now, so sadly, I can’t show it to you even if I wanted to.” She smiled apologetically and placed a gentle hand on Raymond’s arm. “I lent it to a good friend of mine. I’m sorry,” she pouted.
Raymond’s shoulders slumped and his jumping seized, bowing his head in discouragement. “Aw! When can I see it, then??” he asked, hopeful.
“Hmm.” Y/N squinted, removing her arm on his shoulder to place a finger on her chin as if she was deep in thought. “Do you follow your bedtime?” She eyed Raymond carefully, who now seemed to be interested in everything around them but her, so she turned to look at Amanda who only laughed in response.
“Him?" Amanda asked. “Never.” She earned a glare from her son, but she only chuckled as she ruffled his hair. “I’m only telling the truth, honey.”
Y/N sighed, giving Raymond a stern look. “That’s not very healthy, is it?”
The little boy shuffled his feet, shaking his head no.
“Tell you what,” Y/N began. “Whenever we go to bed, we go to a place called The Dreaming. If you follow your bedtime, you’ll get there even faster; you’ll see the rocket there,” she smiled. “When it’s available, of course.”
“But it wouldn’t be real!” he argued, a deep frown on his face as he fidgeted with his fingers.
“Says who?” She defended. “If it weren’t real, then I wouldn’t be here, would I?” She raised her eyebrow at Raymond as she waved her hands around and gestured to herself. “Right?”
Raymond gasped. “Woah,” he whispered, his eyes glazing over with wonderment and curiosity when he saw the stars that seemed to twinkle within the depths of her eyes.
Only for a moment, though. They disappeared as soon as he saw them.
Thinking that he had only been reacting to her, Y/N simply laughed and stood up, placing both of her hands on her hips. “Your dreams are just as real as you, me, and your mom, right now. Never forget that.”
She clapped her hands once and sighed. “Anyway, unfortunately I do need to be somewhere, I have to prepare for that rocketship’s landing when my friend gets back. Is that okay, Ray?”
“As long as you promise that I can see it again next time?” He asked, holding out his pinky finger. “Pinky promise?”
Y/N held her hand out, hooking her pinky around his without a second thought. “Promise.”
Before Raymond could respond, he was called by his dad standing several feet away, gesturing for him to come over. He let her finger go, smiling widely and waving goodbye, running to his dad. “Bye Y/N! Remember your promise!”
She laughed, waving back. “I will!”
Y/N turned towards Raymond’s mother, who had her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a thick white coat, her hair was blonde and she had thin-rimmed glasses on. “Thank you,” Amanda said, smiling gratefully.
She waved her off. “It’s no problem, he seems like a good kid.”
“Still, it was kind of you to play along like that.” The mother laughed. “He genuinely thinks you look like someone from his dream. Lucky coincidence, don’t you think? It made him really happy.”
Y/N cleared her throat, smiling as she tried to hide her nerves. “Yeah, it is. I go here a lot, though, so if you’ve been here before, maybe he’s seen me around and his brain just imagined someone who looks like me?”
Though it was not a lie—she did often visit the park—Y/N could not help but feel a pang of guilt for having lied to Amanda.
Raymond could very well never see that rocket ship again, and his mother would have to explain that the kind lady he thought was the same one in his dream was only being nice, playing along to make him happy.
Y/N, however, would have to keep the truth to herself, having no choice but to hide it from Amanda. After all, how could one describe The Dreaming? How could she ever explain it to her without seeming quite delusional?
Her dreams, no matter how frequent, could never truly be called her own. Some were, but she would eventually venture outside of its barriers, unknowingly travelling from one person’s sleeping mind to the next, accompanying them in their own little adventures, helping them grow and even defeat their own nightmares—nightmares she had come to know and love, sometimes seeing them around the Dreaming, too, if they ever decided to come visit.
They were only characters to her, though. She would write them down in some of her books, never knowing that those were indeed the physical forms of nightmares that she had come across and even befriended.
One simply becomes accustomed to their own creativity…most of the time. In Y/N’s case, however, a major component of accepting her “vivid imagination” was an unimaginable amount of denial.
She had to turn away from the truth in favor of lying to herself that her mind was merely creating vivid fantasies.
“This is our first time here, actually,” Amanda responded, keeping an eye on Raymond, who was joyfully playing soccer with his father. Her expression held fondness for the two, cherishing their happy faces as they relished in their game.
“Oh, I guess it is quite the coincidence, then,” Y/N chuckled, internally cursing herself for her presumption. “Anyway, I really do have to go, miss.” She held out her hand once more. “It was nice meeting you!”
Amanda held her hand in both of hers, smiling warmly. “Likewise, Y/N. You were so lovely with Ray.”
They said their goodbyes, and once again, Y/N was alone, walking aimlessly away from the park. She rubbed her eyes once, annoyed by the dust she could feel in her eyes.
There was no moment of rest for her—the park only made her all the more confused. It took her a mere moment to decide that she needed help, as she would never be able to settle these strange affairs on her own.
While meeting Raymond had not gone as badly as she would have expected, it was not supposed to happen in the first place. Not when he was only supposed to be a fictional character.
She groaned in irritation, swiftly unlocking her phone to dial Johanna’s number while trying to blink the itchiness in her eyes away.
The phone rang, and Y/N picked at the fabric of her shirt, grinding her teeth as she silently cursed Johanna for failing to answer the phone immediately.
She rubbed the back of her neck, her chest tightening as she swallowed the lump that began to form in her throat.
“Hello?”
“Jo!” She shouted. “I spoke with The Three—as in, The Three. The Hecate, The Kindly Ones—
“Wait, wait, hold on—”
“No! Jo, I saw The Fates—” She gulped, lowering her voice down to a whisper. “And I saw Raymond.”
“Who’s Raymond?”
“Raymond and the Rocketship.”
Y/N kept walking, her eyes to the floor and distracted by her thoughts.
“Come over. Let’s talk about it over some tea, yeah? Make sure to keep your eyes open for anything strange; call me if you're in any sort of danger. Got it?”
Y/N nodded to herself, thanking Johanna before she gladly took the offer and hung up, looking forward to a warm drink to calm her slightly shaking hands.
Johanna had never been the most sociable, let alone hospitable, keeping her distance from most to avoid having them in the way, for better or for worse.
And Y/N had known to be cautious, especially around people who provoked the supernatural. Her father had enough stories, and he was intent that she learned from them.
However, she somehow managed to remain friends with the demon hunter, visiting from time to time just to check in or talk at least once a month, even if only through a phone call.
It never went unnoticed by the occultist, developing a soft spot for Y/N as time went on.
Johanna Constantine had never been the best at friendship—or any kind of relationship, really—but if there was anything she could assist Y/N with, it was surely the kind that involved otherworldly affairs.
Y/N pocketed her phone, eyes scanning the crowd of people in the streets. It was a nice reminder from Johanna; assuming that her day would continue the way it had been going, there was a high probability that she may encounter something else—or someone else—as unexpected as her last four—two?—visitors.
Ironically for her, the day was nice—the sun wasn’t too hot and the wind blew just enough for the temperature to be comfortable. The streets were bustling with people, some hurried off to work, some were ready to head on home, and some were simply taking a stroll out to take advantage of the weather.
“I want some chips.”
Y/N jumped, anxiously looking around her with a hand up to the side of her head. The voice sounded as though it was right against her ear, loud and high-pitched like the voice of a child.
She spotted a little girl, dressed in a bright pink coat and dark jeans, holding her mother’s hand as she jumped up with glee, pointing to a bag of chips displayed on the top shelf of a shop window.
“Mum look! Can I have some?” The little girl asked.
Y/N frowned. The girl had the same voice as the one she just heard, only this time, she could actually see who was speaking.
“Please let her say yes.”
“Shit,” Y/N cursed, flinching as she covered both of her ears out of instinct when she heard another voice. The volume had not been the problem, but it was the proximity. Was there actually a person talking to her? She would have felt their breath against her skin from how close it sounded.
“I wonder what I’ll get for my birthday.”
Y/N turned around, her eyes rapidly scanning the people that passed by. She chewed the inside of her cheek and focused on her breathing, closing her eyes for a few seconds, waiting to hear more voices.
But there were none, and she exhaled in relief, letting go of her ears as she gathered herself before continuing her walk to Johanna’s house.
“Fuck, the deadline’s tomorrow.”
“One more day, just one more day.”
“Why isn’t he here yet?”
“Would they like this? No, probably not.”
Y/N’s head began to spin and her eyes began to water. The voices were getting louder, overlapping as they increased in numbers. She stopped walking, holding her head in her hands, crouching down and groaning in pain.
Though she was outside, she could feel walls beginning to close around her, the air stale and unmoving.
Y/N searched the crowd, desperate to find who the voices belonged to, but there was no one. Most were not talking, minding their own business as they passed by. Some conversed with others; however, she could no longer make out what the voices were saying, there were too many, and they were all equally as loud.
She wiped the tears that fell down her face, balling her hands into fists as she stood up, ignoring the nausea and reaching for her phone to call Johanna.
That was, until she bumped into someone; she fell backwards and dropped her phone on the ground, hearing a small shatter. She cursed, immediately looking for her phone without checking to see who she had run into.
“Are you alright, miss?”
Y/N whipped her head around, looking up to see a woman who offered a helping hand. When she did not respond, only stared, the woman crouched down and retrieved her phone, examining it before returning it to her.
“The screen’s a little cracked, but other than that, I think it’s okay.”
Apprehensively, she took the phone from the woman’s hand, checking to see the damage. There was a big crack from the top corner of the screen all the way to the bottom with small lines branching off of it. Fortunately for her, only the screen protector had been broken, and it would work as normal—she could still call Johanna.
“How about you?” The woman asked, standing up and offering her hand once more. “Are you okay?”
Y/N took her hand this time, holding it tightly before pulling herself up; she found her footing and dusted herself off. She opened her mouth to say her thanks, but it was then that she noticed the silence.
The voices had gone, and so did the pain.
She could feel the air moving again and inhaled deeply, relishing in the relief her lungs felt as the heaviness in her chest vanished.
Patient as ever, the stranger only observed her with a kind smile, one that Y/N awkwardly returned as she let go of her hand.
The woman wore an all-black attire, her black, curly hair complementing her dark skin. She wore a tank top with thin straps and a necklace that Y/N recognized as an ankh .
“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she lied, then clenched her jaw tightly, her eyes looking everywhere as if waiting for something else to happen—mainly, for the voices to return.
Though she felt calmer, her brain still ran a hundred miles per hour, wondering what had even caused her to stop hearing voices in her head. Was it the woman? Will she turn out to be another strange encounter for her to tell Johanna? Or was it something else?
Her body was stiff, shoulders tense and breathing still shallow. She cleared her throat, about to excuse herself—
“You don’t look alright.” Death, though many think of her as an entity to be feared, gently placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, hoping to ease some of the tension. It was rather blunt to say that to someone who, in her eyes, certainly was not alright, but she managed to say so without a hint of condescension.
Humans were strange; she understood their need to hide true feelings, especially to a stranger—but she was not really a stranger, was she?
Death was a familiar concept to everyone who ever lived, and thus, every one knew who was waiting at the end of their Earthly lives. At one point or another, a human will encounter Death, whether it is their time or the loss of a loved one—she will always be there, and she always has.
But she was not only Death—she was also Life. She only sought to help a human in need, to ease their life’s stressors if only for a little bit.
However, it would be wrong of her to deny that the woman she faced piqued her interest from the moment she bumped into her.
Although she did it quite often, she had not meant to be visible to anyone. She was merely fulfilling her purpose, when she ran into a woman who was not even supposed to see her.
Of course she meant to ask, maybe she was not human—but as she learned during her interminable existence, especially while on Earth, there was a time and a place.
“It’s been…an eventful day,” Y/N sighed, her voice wavering. The tension on her shoulders eased and she was able to breathe deeply again.
“It happens to the best of us, don’t worry about it,” Death sympathised, her eyes warm and understanding, looking at Y/N without a hint of judgement.
The woman’s expression faltered for a moment, then turned into confusion. “Pardon me for asking—but you aren’t dead, are you?”
Y/N froze, her eyes widened and flickered to the ankh. “No, I’m not dead,” she answered, gulping. “Pardon me for asking, but are you ?”
A part of her felt ridiculous for asking such a question, but assuming her day would go on as it had been for the past few hours, it would not be an impossible concept.
She almost wished that the woman would say yes—maybe it would convince her that she had finally gone mad, because if so, she could find some semblance of sanity. It would be easier to accept that she was merely insane than to force her mind into believing things such as other realms and the existence of The Fates.
The dark-haired woman squinted her eyes as if deep in thought, before going back to her normal, kind smile. “No, I’m just joking with you,” she laughed, positioning herself beside Y/N and looping her arm around hers, giving her a moment to pull away if she wanted.
Instead, Y/N seemed to relax at her touch.
“Walk with me?” Death asked, and Y/N cleared her throat in response before nodding silently, looking straight ahead, refusing to look at the woman beside her.
Death was a very perceptive being—she considered it a requirement as her job was to accompany people to the Sunless Lands. She was curious to know more about the clearly anxious woman who she—quite impossibly—ran into.
However, similarly to when she would show herself to the recently deceased, precautions had to be taken.
She would not want to distress anyone who had just passed, but especially not someone who was still alive. Whatever Death would tell her, she would carry with her for the rest of her life until they meet again at the end of it.
“So, where are you off to?”
“A friend’s” Y/N answered stiffly. Still busying herself with watching her surroundings, and she made sure to cover as much area as she could. As Johanna had told her, she was to keep an eye out for any possible danger—who was she to ignore the expert?
Death hummed, seeing that Y/N’s attention was being given to everything else but their conversation. “You can talk to me.” She shrugged, waiting for Y/N to look her way. “I’m a complete stranger to you. You won’t lose anything.”
The Endless wanted to know more about her, curious as to how she could perceive beings such as herself, when humans are not inherently capable of doing so.
Y/N chuckled, looking at the floor as they continued to walk aimlessly. “I don’t think you have much time for that.”
The stranger had been kind to her so far, and there was truly no harm in telling her about the day she had, but there was always a chance she would be labelled as a liar, or completely out of her wits.
It was certainly the least of her worries, though.
Death nodded, “You’re right, I do have somewhere to be.” She thought for a moment, wanting to say the right words to make use of the little time she had to get sufficient information. “Tell me the important bits, then. The most ridiculous part of your day.” She grinned; although she hoped to get some answers, she was also genuinely interested in her well-being.
She might not be able to offer any solutions to her problems, but she could always lend a hand here and there in the form of comfort and reassurance. Death had learned that sometimes, all you need is the right person at the right time, ready to listen and accompany you, if only for a little while.
Y/N chewed her bottom lip, thinking of how she could possibly recapitulate her recent experiences without sounding completely insane. Though she thought it unlikely for her to get ridiculed—since the stranger had been understanding so far—she did not want to bother the poor woman with her bizarre and unbelievable stories.
“Well…” She trailed off. “I met three women today—technically three—and they told me some rather peculiar things. They had been incredibly cryptic, and I’m still trying to figure out what they meant.”
She paused for a moment, picking at her fingernails as she pondered over what she would say next. “Then I met this little boy—he said he saw me in his dream. When he described it, I remember having the same one. He was in it, too. And then I began to hear voices in my head—but they stopped when you came. My dad’s immortal, too, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with today. Maybe. I wouldn’t be surprised if it did,” she rambled, nervously laughing at the end. She tore her gaze away from the pavement and to the stranger beside her, trying to gauge her reaction.
She considered telling her about the man but quickly decided against it. He has not been a part of her day—not completely—but he has always been the most peculiar part of her life.
It would take a while to explain, and she did not want to take more of the woman’s time, nor did she want to take her kindness for granted.
Death looked away for a moment, a frown growing on her face. There was something deeply familiar with her stories, and she was disappointed to have only obtained more questions instead of answers.
She had a purpose to fulfill and people to attend to, she knew that the answers she sought would have to wait. If the girl beside her was something more than human, their paths would surely cross again.
Her eldest brother had a plan, as he did for most, and she would not interfere. She would not expose her true nature, not when she felt it was the wrong time.
Maybe she could pay him a visit next, though she was certain that she would not get very far if she were to question him.
“Humans are so strange,” Death spoke, unlinking their arms, stopping their pace beneath the shade of a nearby tree. “You will go through some of the strangest things and carry it with such strength and elegance.”
“Humans?” Y/N asked. “You refer to humans as if you aren’t one yourself,” she chuckled. There was something so otherworldly about the strange woman, she stared at her with such kind eyes—an attribute she could not recall seeing on anyone else except for one.
Whenever she looked into her eyes, it brought her back to when she looked into the man’s eyes.
Hers were welcoming, holding unconditional warmth for all those she would encounter, while his were filled with sorrow.
They were vastly different, yet they both gave the same feeling of something ethereal and incomprehensible.
The closest person she knew who had similar eyes was her father, but his were distinct. Unlike the other two, she could describe what she saw in the depth of her father’s irises.
They were old—the eyes of a man who had lived longer than he should have. His eyes were wise and full of memories she would never truly know, and he may never truly speak of.
Death gently took one of Y/N’s hands and held it in both of her own. “Whatever had happened to you, I’m sure it means something. My brother isn’t so careless, and neither are The Three.” She glanced at someone behind Y/N, seeing the soul she was to visit next, and concluded that her time with Y/N was up.
Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed, looking over her shoulder to see what the woman was looking at.
“I wish you the best in your adventures, Y/N—hopefully we bump into each other again soon.”
Alarmed by the sudden farewell, Y/N turned her head back to the woman, but she was no longer there.
Her hand remained extended, as if someone was still holding it, but there was nothing there. The woman had disappeared, and her heart sank, ready to hear the voices once more.
But her mind stayed quiet as she looked around, trying to find where the kind stranger had gone off to.
She brought her hand back down, and a part of her sought a reason to panic. She was certain that she had been with someone, their arms were even looped together as they were walking.
There was no unease, though, and she continued to stroll through the familiar streets of her town as if it was a normal day.
And thankfully, she was not very far from Johanna’s house.
Y/N’s hand—the one that the strange woman held—opened and closed at her side. She fidgeted with her fingers, rubbing it on her pants or holding her hands together, trying to get rid of the tingly feeling.
Eventually, the sensation crawled up her wrist, to her elbow, and then to her shoulder until she was subtly scratching her entire arm.
Her eyes were distant, and her mind was clouded and blurry. Due to this, her arm was merely a nuisance to her instead of being a source of concern, nor did she notice that the sensation started after the woman held her hand.
In her haze, Y/N also failed to recall her name leaving Death’s lips before she vanished. She held an empty expression, not having felt so in tune yet so out of touch with reality.
She missed most of the glances that went her way, the people taking a second look just to see her eyes again as they sparkled under the sun, conspicuous even in the daylight. The children that would nudge their companions, pointing at her reflection as she passed by store windows, went unnoticed as well.
On every reflective surface, she appeared the same; she wore a dark coat, one that billowed unnaturally in the wind, moving in a slow but elegant dance as she walked by. Whenever her coat would move a certain way, one could catch a glimpse of the galaxy it held within the inner layer of the fabric. Everything about her attire was black, her feet clad in the same Doc Marten boots she wore in her dreams.
Yet those were only in her reflections; she did not own a single piece of that outfit.
Eventually, the weird static she could feel on her arm dissipated.
Unbeknownst to her, there were small, almost unnoticeable white lines that developed on her fingers, crawling up her palm like cracks on damaged pavement.
The light was bright, but exposed only enough for them to show a subtle glow, much like the sand in Amelia’s room.
Y/N’s grasp on reality seemed to have been warped, as if she was swimming in deep waters. The atmosphere felt thick but not suffocating, her vision tinted by some form of film that made her incapable of fully grasping the realm she walked on. She could feel the wind along her skin and every wisp of hair that touched her forehead, moving ever so gently in the soft breeze; she could hear every breath she took and how the oxygen entered her lungs like taking your first few breaths after you have just gotten out of the water.
Before she knew it, she was knocking on Johanna’s door, waiting to be let in. Johanna’s muffled voice could be heard, rushed, yelling for Y/N to give her a moment.
* * *
“Hey.” Johanna poked her head out of the door, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, change of plans. I’m kind of in the middle of something, so if you could just give me a moment—”
Her eyes grew wide but she caught herself, forcing her composure to return. Her eyes narrowed, studying the obvious difference in the way Y/N held herself.
It was the eyes again, though, that had caught her attention.
Because Y/N’s eyes had actually changed. Johanna was seeing her friend stand in front of her with glowing eyes that contained the depth of space instead of seeing it in her reflection.
“Nevermind,” Johanna mumbled. “Get inside, but don’t go near the living room. You’ll know why when you see it.” She decided that for the sake of them both, because of Y/N’s strange demeanor, she would bring her into the safety of her home.
It might not be as safe as the average household, especially with what her living room contained, but it was better than leaving Y/N exposed outside.
But whether or not she was in danger or was the danger, Johanna was yet to decide.
Y/N nodded silently before walking into the house, offering Johanna only a slight smile before frowning.
She had been to her house before, she was accustomed to all of the strange objects littered around it, but as she entered, there was an immediate shift in the air—one that felt familiar and strange at the same time.
Usually, the artifacts that Johanna would take home had an effect on the general feeling of the house. Sometimes there was a dark cloud looming around the rooms or—as most people would be—she would become anxious when in the presence of something demonic and supernatural.
Out of respect, Y/N generally never asked about the artifacts and she was normally none the wiser about the happenings inside of the Constantine household.
If it involved Johanna’s work, she left the subject alone, knowing that it was much preferred by the occultist to be that way.
The Constantines had their fair share of tragic stories. Getting involved with any of them was a risk on its own, and Y/N did not want to be in the way of Johanna in fear that it might result in calamity.
Johanna Constantine has suffered great loss. Y/N was not interested in being one of them.
Not only for her sake, but largely for Johanna’s.
Cautiously, Y/N walked into the house, keeping herself alert for any unusual creatures or objects. There was an itch at the back of her mind that called to her, but she could not quite get a hold of the thought.
Something was inside of Johanna’s home, something she knew of but could not quite recall.
But as she reached the living room, her eyes immediately landed on a very familiar binding circle drawn onto the floor.
It was smaller, less intricate than the one she saw in her dreams, and the symbols were different
What interested her the most, though, was the humanoid shadow trapped inside of the circle.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her grip on reality loosen. She inhaled deeply, hoping to regain some semblance of control when her mind seemingly drifted away from—
“It’s a demon,” Johanna mumbled. She was behind Y/N, careful to keep a close eye. There was a supposed demon in their midst, and yet she had a gut feeling that her starry-eyed friend might be more powerful than the creature she had in her living room.
Johanna cleared her throat, shifting her feet as she looked at the shadow. “I think it’s a demon, anyway,” she admitted. “I’m actually not sure. I caught it wandering about my house. I tried sending it back to Hell but it wouldn’t work.”
Upon Y/N’s entrance, the unknown being warped into a more solid, humanoid form. Their skin was made up of grey and black nebulae patterns that seemed to absorb light, their eyes now dimming into a dark maroon than the previous bright red. They had no hair, but instead, a faint, smokey grey hue resembling flames emitted from the top of their head.
The creature put their hand up to the invisible barrier, making it ripple in waves that spread throughout the unseeable dome, the light that bent around it being the only indication it even existed.
“I am no demon,” they grumbled. The words echoed around the room, unnaturally low yet still present—the floor and the walls seemed to vibrate with every intonation.
Y/N walked closer, and Johanna took one instinctive step towards her, prepared to pull her away if anything were to happen.
“You belong in the Dreaming…” Y/N spoke, unsure of her words, but choosing the next ones carefully. “A nightmare.”
The creature’s eyes widened and Y/N gently placed her hand over theirs through the barrier, creating a black shadow that surrounded their hands, emitting off of their nearly-touching palms as dark wisps of smoke.
“I’ve seen your kind before in the realm of dreams. Is that not where you reside?” She questioned gently, keeping in mind the possibility that they may be one of the residents that went rogue when their world started to crumble.
No harm would come to the creature, and though she sounded sure of herself, an inkling of desperation could be heard from the resolution in her voice and the persistence in her stare, almost as if purposely showing her dismay.
“You know of us—you wear his clothing,” the being responded, glancing at the windows then back to Y/N. “Your image wears his clothing.” There was wonderment in their voice, but they were not there to study her—the creature was there for the same reason Y/N was.
They wanted answers, too, but Y/N could not give them what she was also still seeking.
She dropped her hand, the wisps of shadow disappearing. “Go back home, Nightmare,” she ordered, noting how the creature’s expression seemed to drop at the mention of their lost home. “One such as you mustn't wander the waking world so carelessly.”
There was a part of her that wondered if she had gone too far. She did not know their whole story, and it was not an easy feat to see your once prosperous world decaying.
However, she also knew that their loyalties should have been to the Kingdom—the Dreaming—instead of losing trust in their monarch.
Lucienne stayed, and it was all Y/N needed to know that there was still hope. The librarian’s determination to see their Lord return was enough for Y/N to decide that there was no abandoning the Dreaming—not until Lucienne’s belief lasts.
“I could say the same for you.” The creature had tilted their chin up, as if to challenge the woman in front of them. “Do you not possess powers in which only our Lord wields?” They paused, looking over Y/N’s shoulder to gaze at Johanna.
“There have been stories about a regent,” they spoke, tearing their eyes away from the occultist’s narrowed ones and back to the woman in front. “If I may ask, am I right to assume that I have found the regent in question?”
“I’m not anyone’s regent,” Y/N answered. “Go back to the Dreaming. I know not who you speak of—I barely know your realm’s true nature, and I do not wish it to interfere with the waking world’s inhabitants.”
Putting her foot forward, Y/N broke the circle, feeling Johanna’s tight grip on her elbow. “We’re safe, Jo,” Y/N reassured, but the hold on her arm had not changed.
The creature stepped over the lines, free to do anything they desired in the waking world. They turned to the window, staring into the eyes of Y/N’s reflection. “You will find that the waking world is not your only realm, my lady.”
With on more words left to say, the Nightmare turned itself into a cloud of black smoke, floating high into the air before completely disappearing.
Johanna roughly pulled Y/N back to face her. “What the fuck was that?” she glared. “Why did you let it out? You don’t know what it’s going to—”
Y/N shook her head, calmly pushing Johanna’s hand away and holding it in hers. “They won’t do anything, I know that much. They came here for me, and if they do what I told them to do, they’ll just go back to the Dreaming.”
Pulling her hand away, Johanna ran it through her hair while her other hand rested on her hip. “And you know that how?”
“That was a Nightmare, Jo, not a demon. That’s why you couldn’t send them to Hell.”
Y/N told no lie when she mentioned her previous knowledge of the Nightmare. There were many like the one they had just encountered—she was familiar with their kind and knew that most of them were not malicious.
They had their duties, something they lost when their monarch vanished. Now they simply wandered wherever they wanted and acted how they chose to, but it did not necessarily change them into creatures of malevolence.
“Is that why you’ve been acting weird since last night?” Johanna questioned, both of her hands now on her hips, her eyes boring into Y/N’s. “So the Dreaming exists? You’re sure of that now?”
Y/N shook her head, breathing deeply and trying to digest Johanna’s words. Whatever had clouded her mind was starting to wear off, and though she was not completely herself, she was starting to feel the panic rise up in her chest when she remembered why she came there in the first place.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m here. You’re the only one I can think of who can help.” She gave Johanna a tight-lipped smile, wanting to make the tension vanish, hoping to see the usual level-headedness from her friend.
Johanna stayed silent to take a few deep breaths, regaining as much of her composure she was capable of. She could remember all of her other so-called adventures and encounters with the supernatural—but none were as strange as this.
If everything Y/N said over the phone were true, she was faced with someone who acted as a magnet for the things she was paid to get rid of. Johanna felt helpless; deep within her mind, something told her that this was not something she could help with.
She was only human, one with many limitations—she feared that this may be one of them.
“Sit.” She pointed to the sofa. “I’ll make tea; then you better explain what’s been going on with you,” she sighed, walking towards the kitchen to prepare their cups.
Instead of sitting down, though, Y/N browsed through Johanna’s collection of books that she obtained through the years. They were all strewn around the house, so inevitably, she decided to do a bit of cleaning up while she was at it.
She knew better than to clean excessively, though. As she had tried once before, but Johanna simply liked the chaos of her messy home.
Y/N flipped some books around, making sure that the titles were visible. Sometimes she would wipe the dust off the covers—she even tried to alphabetize them before she had gotten a stern look from Johanna.
“Do you have any books on the Fates?”
Holding two cups, Johanna went to sit on the couch, placing their tea on the coffee table as she waited for Y/N to join her, which she was very happy to.
Y/N took a sip of her tea. “I think they were the ones who talked to me earlier.”
“I have books, but tell me what happened first.”
Clearing her throat, Y/N tapped her short nails on the cup. “They were cryptic. I haven’t made sense of it all just yet, but I was hoping you could help.”
“Did you ask them why they were there?”
“No,” Y/N scoffed. “I couldn’t be that direct. I’ve read about them, Jo. I wasn’t planning on wasting my questions.”
“Just making sure,” Johanna responded, taking a sip of her own drink. “Tell me what they said. I can’t promise anything, though. They obviously sought you out—what’s so important about you that the Three-in-One came for a visit?”
Y/N mulled over their conversation; it was practically impossible to explain just how dreadful it was. While she succeeded in remaining level-headed during her time with The Fates, her mind had not been clear, especially with the events that transpired before and after.
“They kept calling me ‘Daydream’” was the only response Y/N could muster, deciding that she would take it one topic at a time when it became too difficult for her to try and tell the story as a whole.
“Like your nickname?”
“Yes,” Y/N nodded. “The other one called me ‘his regent’. That has to mean something, right? The nightmare called me the same name, and my father had been referring to me as ‘Daydream’ for most of my childhood.”
“ His regent. Any ideas on who you’re a supposed ‘regent’ of?” This was certainly a curious case for Johanna, especially because it was happening to a friend. Her mind was reeling with questions—ones that she was unsure she would ever get answered, but she had to try anyway.
“The ruler of dreams, apparently.”
Johanna choked on her tea, covering her mouth as she tried to keep her coughs at bay. “The Sandman,” she stifled, clearing her throat. “You mentioned him last night.”
If this case was certainly related to the Endless, Johanna Constantine was mystified; it was obvious to Y/N that she had finally caught the attention of the occultist.
Not that Johanna had not already been paying attention, but she seemed to take the situation more seriously now that an all-powerful being could possibly be involved.
Y/N L/N, a friend she made by chance, could be the Regent of an Endless. She was drinking tea with a ruler of an entire realm.
“Oh…” Y/N trailed off, her eyebrows furrowing in deep thought. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”
She had not noticed the slight gap in her memory. She could remember Amelia and how she told her the story, but after that—after she had woken up from her latest dream—the events were indistinct.
Whenever she did try to remember, she did not feel as if it were her own memories. They felt almost stolen, like peering into another’s mind; watching from their point of view and waiting for them to make their next move.
There was a buzz inside of her mind—silent, barely there, but its effects were ever so present. Her ears would become muted and clogged, her senses detaching themselves from reality.
It was definitely her, there was no doubting it. Had she been possessed, it would feel a little more aggressive than that—at least that’s what she thought, she had never actually been possessed before.
She concluded that maybe she had been distracted that night, and more questions appeared in her mind, fueled by the need to remember .
Ironically, though, these instances were not uncommon for her, as she could recall several moments where she often felt that she had lost some of her memories. However, that night at Johanna’s was the worst of it.
Y/N wanted to be able to look back and say that her actions were her own, and that whatever had been hiding inside of her brain for the past thirty years would finally come to surface.
Her dreams, her father, her abilities—they had all been normal to her.
Sure, she could eventually come to admit that, like her father, she was no ordinary human.
But what then? What could she be? Had she been anything else other than normal, her father would have told her a long time ago. He was no liar, and he has said before that it would not do them any good if he hid his true identity from his own daughter.
To be fair, though, he only said that once she noticed how no matter the wounds or illnesses he faced, he never seemed to mind the fatality.
The dangers that came with being something other than human—other than a human mortal —were immeasurable, and he decided to come clean.
Eventually.
Johanna waited patiently, giving Y/N time to think. She could remember how dissociated she looked that night, and it would not surprise her if she was having trouble remembering.
Her eyes had been distant, and her mind was obviously elsewhere. It was tough to get through to her; Johanna figured that Y/N might have only needed the company—of course, until later on when she noticed the difference in her entire demeanor and the very distinct reflection in the window.
Y/N cleared her throat, keeping her eyes away from Johanna’s as she took another sip of her drink. “He’s only a story. Nothing more.” She shook her head, holding the cup down on her lap, keeping her focus on the tinted liquid inside.
“And so are the Fates, and every other creature I’ve encountered,” Johanna contested, tilting her head to try and get into Y/N’s eyesight, hoping to have her attention. “They’re all stories, we just don’t know which ones are true.”
Johanna was being kind, having rid her words of any snark or sarcastic undertones; something Y/N silently appreciated. Her friend spoke softly, making conversation instead of arguing with her about the facts.
Of course she knew that they all began with stories. Some might have been invented by some aspiring writer—a story that some mistook for real events.
There were other stories, though, that came from long-forgotten origins that were yet to be disproved or even discovered.
Deciding that she was not prepared to answer Johanna, she continued with her retelling of the Fates’ visit, praying to catch Johanna’s attention enough to ignore that she had changed the subject.
“They said that the end has begun, and left after that,” she mumbled, gulping down the rest of her tea.
The demon hunter scoffed, putting her drink down on the coffee table and crossed her arms. “The end as in…what? The apocalypse?”
“If it were the end of the world, why would they tell me that?”
Johanna clicked her tongue. “So they're talking about your end, then?”
“Maybe,” she answered honestly. There was no point in lying, but she was tempted.
Johanna had never been considered the nicest person, and most people she got into a relationship with would leave her. That was, if Johanna had not already beaten them to it.
Y/N did not want the same fate to befall their friendship.
“Maybe you’re like your dad,” Johanna shrugged. “It could run in the family, you know?” she joked, laughing despite the harsh truth that lay behind her words.
Both of them knew her father had had children before her, and a number of them faced an untimely death.
Regardless, Y/N snickered along with her, entertaining the possibility that maybe the blood of an immortal could be passed down—her half siblings may have just simply been unlucky enough not to receive it.
“One thing stuck with me, though.” Y/N paused, chewing on her lip as she tried to recall the exact words that were said to her. “ When dreams despair, the sleeping shall receive a daydream as a gift from Death.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Do they mean that you’re the gift? The daydream?”
“If I am, why?” Y/N asked. “And I'm supposed to do something?”
There was silence for a few moments as Johanna picked at her nails. “If you want to live, probably,” she mumbled.
“All jokes aside,” Johanna continued, holding her hands together to stop herself from fidgeting. “If you’re just like the rest of us, the Fates would not have had a reason to talk to you. I think it means that it involves other people, not just you. Powerful beings like them always have a reason, and they would not have had one if you were normal.”
She leaned back against the sofa, swinging her arms over the backrest. “You’ve always been weird, Y/N. Admit it—”
“I’m not—”
“You are!” Johanna insisted, putting her arm back to her side and leaning forward. “The sooner you admit that, the faster we can get to dealing with it.”
Y/N shook her head, to which Johanna groaned in annoyance. “Maybe we don’t. Maybe it’ll all go away tomorrow. This is probably just…a mistake. Or a hallucination.”
“Y/N,” Johanna sighed. “Hell exists, demons exist. Cursed objects, runes, witchcraft—they’re real. There is more than one realm. The Fates, they—”
“No.” Y/N stood up, moving to collect her things. It was ironic—she had asked Johanna for help without ever thinking that she might not be ready for it.
“Y/N look at yourself!” Johanna snapped, grabbing her by the shoulders before she turned Y/N around, holding her in place so she stood right in front of the window.
Finally, Y/N came face to face with herself, the one she only saw in the waters of the Dreaming. Someone who had been following her for a long time—the figure in the glass, in every mirror she faced.
It had always been there, but she had been too blind to see it, choosing to see her human form instead of the reflection she was always meant to have.
She could see herself— really see herself. The same white eyes she saw in the water, the dark clothing, how her cheeks looked more sunken.
“ This.” Johanna tapped on the window, making a loud thud as her hand hit the glass. “Isn’t normal! And you have to stop pretending like it is!” She walked in front of Y/N, looking intently at her eyes.
Y/N stared blankly into the window, her eyes trained on the figure in the glass.
“Gods, demons, devils, Fates—they all exist, Y/N. We both know that. Your father is immortal for heaven’s sake!” Johanna’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, her voice composed, yet it gave the slightest quiver before ending in a low whisper. “Listen to me unless you want to end up like Astra.”
Y/N tore her gaze away from the window and to Johanna, her trance broken by the mention of the late girl’s name.
“The Fates warned you, the end has begun,” Johanna reiterated, her hands falling back down to her sides. “Whatever the hell that means.” She turned around for a moment, wiping her eyes and facing Y/N once more, stoic as ever.
“Okay,” Y/N mumbled weakly, unsure of what she had just agreed to. She looked over Johanna’s shoulder, her strange reflection looking back at her.
And slowly, she stalked towards the window, her arms outstretched as she attempted to reach out, not quite sure of her next actions. The closer she got, the lesser her grasp on reality.
The air became thick, and with it, her reflection glitched, changing to the one she had always known and then changing back to the version she saw in the Dreaming.
Eventually, it started to look like broken glass. Some fragments of her figure looked human, some looking otherworldly.
"I could say the same for you. Do you not possess powers in which only our Lord wields?" she recalled what the Nightmare said.
Maybe there was some truth to that, and maybe all that was left to do was finally accept it.
She stepped closer, and her fingers brushed against the glass.
The window cracked, the deafening sound echoing across the room, making both of them flinch. It webbed outwards, the cracks becoming bigger and bigger the longer her touch remained on the glass.
Slow shattering could be heard, the crunching getting louder as the damage grew.
Y/N stepped away, her fingers no longer touching the window.
“Y/N, your hand,” Johanna pointed out, looking at her with uncertainty. The one that made contact with the window was cracked as well, similar to the glass pane.
The damage started with her fingers, the cracks webbing higher and higher as white light emitted from underneath her skin. She stared at it in horror, watching it grow brighter to blinding degrees.
That was when Y/N realized that it burned , feeling the unbearable heat brought upon by the light that seeped from her skin, her shock subsiding the more she looked at the sight before her.
The light beseeched for escape, pushing against her and testing the limits of her human body to see when it would break. She screamed, falling to her knees as she grasped her arms tightly, as if trying to close the cracks that were beginning to climb up from her hand.
“Y/N, I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Johanna spoke with urgency, hoping that her voice could be heard through Y/N’s cries of pain.
Wind began to howl inside of the living room, circulating Y/N as the pain became more unbearable.
Johanna was unfazed, knowing that the strange disturbance could only be coming from one person. She put her arm up to shield her eyes, her hair billowing as she slowly walked closer to the girl hunched over on the floor.
The house shook; books fell from their places, their pages ripped apart and scattered by the violent winds. Gadgets, documents, trinkets and more began to crash onto the floor, the smaller fragments carried in the air as they flew away.
“Y/N! You need to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it, okay?” She yelled, hoping to get Y/N's attention without adding to her distress.
When she failed to get an answer, she knelt on to the floor, close enough to Y/N but never enough to touch. The wind was most dangerous near her, and though Johanna tried, it would not be possible to cross such a threshold without being swept away.
She tried to reach out, hoping to touch Y/N’s arm to pull her away from the storm—but it was scorching, like fire crawling up her hand, prickling and irritating her skin.
If she got closer, the light would incinerate her.
There had to be a reason, though, right? The recent events proved that Y/N was not an average human, she was something else. Something they had yet to figure out.
Johanna’s mind was going into overdrive, fumbling through her brain for a solution, attempting to connect the dots.
The light was only getting brighter, the cracks on Y/N’s skin wider by the second, and the room—though wrecked by a whirlwind—was increasingly getting hotter.
The dreams, her father, the Fates —Johanna’s eyes widened as she recalled the creature that trespassed her home only minutes ago. “Y/N look at me— listen to me!” she yelled, desperate trying to get her attention.
It was far-fetched, even by her standards, because of the lack of evidence she could rely on. There was no proof or promise of accuracy, but it was her only theory.
Johanna Constantine did not want to lose another friend.
“The nightmare said that this isn’t your only world.” Her voice held steady, never taking her eyes off of Y/N.
This time, she got a response. Y/N forced herself to look at Johanna, tears falling down her face and brimming the edges of her eyes, choking out a sob as she held her arm tighter against her chest.
The wind grew stronger and she curled into herself, the cracks and the glow radiating from them reaching her neck and jaw.
Horrified, Johanna continued, feeling her own tears threatening to fall. “They said that the end has begun, but it’s only begun—this isn’t the end, not yet— not fucking yet.” Hoping that her loud, albeit wavering voice, could be heard through all the chaos, she continued. “Follow them, follow the nightmare. Go to your world—wherever that is!”
Y/N screamed louder as the cracks crawled higher, reaching the side of her head as Johanna shielded her eyes from the now blinding light that emitted from them.
For a moment, Johanna felt the light cover the entirety of her living room; there was a force like an explosion and she was thrown to the nearest wall before painfully hitting the ground with a thud and a groan.
As fast as she could, Johanna got to her feet, her eyes trailing to where Y/N once was, only to find that there was nothing but an empty space, her destroyed living room being the only proof that everything had even happened.
She would wait for Y/N to return—if she was still alive to do so. Johanna hoped she was right, and that Y/N was safe.
Until then, she would avoid going by the Inn for a little while. She knew that Y/N’s father deserved to be informed that he might have just lost his daughter—but then again, when had she ever been good at those conversations?
If she ever had to deliver such news, she would have someone else do it. It would be a kindness to both him and herself.
Neither of them would have to face the woman who could not save his daughter.
“Shit,” she muttered. “You better come back soon, you arse.”
* * *
“Before we go, my Lord—I feel there is something you should know.”
Turning back to face Lucienne, Morpheus awaited the news. His realm, in his absence, had decayed and collapsed. There was nothing Lucienne could say that would make matters worse.
They were just about to leave the ruins of the palace, concluding that if the Dreaming was to return to its previous self, they would have to pay Cain, Abel, and Gregory a visit.
“There was a child—one who frequented the palace long after you had gone.”
Morpheus’ eyes narrowed, standing straighter if it were even possible. The Heart of the Dreaming was not easily accessible to humans; a child, no matter their ability to lucid dream, should not have been able to come into his Kingdom unwelcomed.
Unless of course the child was a Vortex, in which case he would have a bigger problem on his hands.
Lucienne cleared her throat before continuing. “The last I saw of her, she had already grown up. And in the years she spent here almost every night, she…” Lucienne paused, not knowing the right words to say. “...helped sustain the realm. She—”
“That is not possible,” Morpheus interrupted.
What had given this child the right to enter his realm, roam its lands and interact with its inhabitants, taking advantage of his absence to welcome herself in the heart of the Dreaming?
But most importantly, what had given her the ability to sustain it? Clearly Lucienne would not feel the need to inform him if this had only been a lost human, finding themselves in a place in which they had not intended to be.
“But it is, my Lord,” the librarian responded, walking a few steps closer to Morpheus, but still remaining a good distance away. “I had not seen her in more than a decade, but shortly before your return, she came back with powers I had not seen since your capture. She was able to mend the throne room in mere seconds.”
“You mean to tell me that this… trespasser was capable of altering my realm?”
Lucienne bowed her head. Lord Morpheus was clearly angered, but she did not wish for Y/N to be the subject of his wrath, not when she had only ever been a gift to the Dreaming and its inhabitants.
“Yes, my Lord,” she gulped. “But her actions held no malice—”
“She had no authority to do such things. I must find her when I am in possession of my tools. A creature with such disrespect for the Kingdom in which she does not belong must be punished.”
Instinctively, Lucienne took one more step toward Morpheus, one word escaping her lips before she could stop herself. “No.”
The King of Dreams was taken aback. He had not known his librarian to have such audacity, and it rendered him momentarily speechless.
“No?”
“With all due respect, Dream Lord, she was never a creature of harm. She was human. One who held much love for the Dreaming.” The librarian tilted her chin up, willing herself to stand her ground against Morpheus.
Her last interaction with Y/N did not go very well, but it did not take away all she had done for their realm.
Y/N, to much of the Dreaming’s inhabitants, represented hope that they had not seen in decades.
“Your siblings may not have come to your aid, but she did, regardless of her ignorance about who you are. She wore your clothing, she resembled your power. I believe you must go to her, but I implore you not to punish her for simply caring about our home.”
Lucienne’s description of the girl sparked a memory in Morpheus’ mind, his anger being wiped off his almost-expressionless face, replaced with one of curiosity and recognition.
In the years of his capture, he had only seen one woman who wore the same clothing as he—one who held the cosmos in her eyes.
The woman who was the sole reason for his escape.
He must find her.
“And what is this human’s name, Lucienne?”
“Y/N.”
***
There was only silence.
Darkness enveloped Y/N’s being as she floated aimlessly somewhere void of any life or matter. There was no burning, and there was no light. Only quiet and eerie solitude
She was conscious, but she could not move, she could not scream, and she could not breathe. Y/N could only think, and in the blackness, she was unsure whether or not she could even see. Was she blind? Or were her eyes simply closed?
Fresh air entered her lungs and she inhaled deeply, not able to control her breathing as she finally felt herself get thrust into existence. She coughed, choking on the oxygen reviving her body.
She opened her eyes, realizing that she was lying on her back. Still clutching her hand to her chest, she sat up, beginning to hyperventilate as she assessed where she landed herself in this time.
Judging by the sky, she was no longer in Johanna’s residence.
She had spent quite a while in the void between realms, having floated in nothingness for hours before she arrived at the destination she was meant for. It had absorbed the light that escaped her, healing the cracks that took over half of her body.
Around her, Y/N could see the very familiar plane of the Dreaming. She sat on the wooden pier, the fog no longer as thick as the last time she visited.
“Ma’am?” a voice called, and the figure of Lucienne cautiously approached her from several feet away.
Y/N’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Her body was wracked with silent sobs, hiccuping frequently as she tried to swallow her cries, her breathing getting worse as her now-healed hand became pale with how tightly she gripped her arm.
Lucienne had just seen the Dream Lord leave to begin his search for his tools, and she was on her way to get him a raven despite his disapproval, when she heard a thump near the edge of the pier.
Aside from Morpheus, there was only one who dressed so similarly.
It was apparent to Lucienne that Y/N had come back, but by the looks of it, her usual enthusiasm upon arriving was no longer present.
“Ma’am?” Lucienne asked once more, softer, as she kneeled beside Y/N and placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder.
As Y/N looked into Lucienne’s eyes, she began to understand what the librarian was so afraid of when they last met; she remembered her reflection in Johanna’s window.
How did she look as she sat there, weeping from the pain and uncertainty of who or what she might be? Was she still the same Y/N that belonged to the human realm? Or has she embodied her form in the glass?
She brought her knees up to her chest, curling into herself as she tried to even her breathing, unable to respond to Lucienne.
A part of her hoped that Lucienne did not fear her anymore, but another part wanted to tell her to stay away.
Y/N saw how the light burnt Johanna, how it caused her pain, and it was the kind of hurt she wanted away from the Dreaming.
“What happened, ma’am? Are you okay?”
When Y/N kept quiet, Lucienne gingerly moved her hand to hold the one Y/N was keeping tightly against her chest. There was a look of sincere kindness on her face as she patiently waited for her to speak.
Y/N had not known it then, but Lucienne would have waited days if it meant letting her talk when she was ready.
She choked back a sob. Y/N, though she never knew Lucienne to be cruel, expected her to run from her considering their last encounter. Then, she was considered a threat.
And now, Y/N believed she still was.
Lucienne softly squeezed her hand. “You are in the Dreaming, ma’am. You know nothing will harm you here.”
Not then, at least. Lucienne did not know what would become of her once the Dream Lord came back, but until then, she spoke true.
And if Morpheus wished to punish her, he would have to answer to the rest of the Dreaming’s inhabitants.
Y/N only seemed to cry louder, and just when Lucienne was ready to sit with her for however long she needed, Y/N wrapped her arms around the librarian, embracing her with as much strength as she could muster.
Hesitantly at first, Lucienne reciprocated,
As Y/N attempted to utter her next words, Lucienne wrapped her arms a little tighter around the weeping girl.
It seemed that it was all she needed to be able to admit what she could not for the longest time.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
It was then that Lucienne realized that though Y/N was all grown, despite all the years that had passed, Y/N was truly just a human unfortunate enough to have been given powers she was never made to understand.
This version of her, the one who had exerted such control over a realm not her own, was still as innocent as the little girl who wandered the halls of the palace years ago.
Notes:
Aaaaand we're done for this chapter! What did you guys think? I would love to know.
Like last time, I'll *try* to upload again in two weeks. But of course, if the word count ends up being 16k again, it's going to take longer.
(This fic is in progress, and the author uploads bonus content which I will get to after I’ve done all the uploaded chapters.)
Author: @the-darklings
Fandom: The Sandman
Relationships: Morpheus/Reader
Point of View: Second-Person
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Word Count: 26,337
Chapters: 7/10
Language: English
Tags by the Author: Angst, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Slow Build, Tenderness, Platonic Relationships, Non-Sexual Intimacy, this will span 1000 years because Dream is Like That™
Summary by the Author:
"What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?"
What you can expect:
Major slow-burn. You’re gonna be seeing pre-Roderick Burgess Morpheus for a while, so the denial is real. Wanderer’s character is really interesting, and you’ll be seeing interactions not just with Morpheus, but other creatures as well—and I’ve gotta say, the author does a great job at writing the characters.
The dynamic between Wanderer and Morpheus is a rollercoaster. Both of them are clearly into each other but being immortal just means that pining can last a hundred years and they still wouldn’t be a quarter of the way to confessing.
Expect a satisfactory amount of fluff and angst. Although I will say, when there is fluff, it’s really fluffy. But when it’s angst…well, it’s pre-Burgess Morpheus so brace yourselves.
Notes: I'm backkk!! With the longest chapter of any fic I've written!! I worked hard on this y'all, I even made a schedule for it. I hope you guys like it, I would love to hear your thoughts!!
Summary:
After spending decades dreaming of the same man, who knew that a babysitting job would be the one thing she needed to end it?
However, a select few have gotten their dreams back, some even receiving them in the waking world. An air of mystery lingers around Y/N, and a recurring nightmare spanning decades might have just uncovered it.
"Have you got any information about the Burgesses? Fawney Rig?"
Johanna Constantine sat behind her desk, drinking tea while pondering over another email. Y/N called hours earlier, asking if she could visit. There had been something different about Y/N that night, acting more timid and getting stuck in her own mind more often than not.
Over the phone, she simply asked Johanna if she would be open to having some tea and catching up.
Y/N sat on a nearby couch, hoping to find some answers about Roderick Burgess by asking Johanna. She knew of her occupation, and wanted her consultation.
"Y/N, I don't spend my time dwelling on stories about devils in basements. Roderick Burgess has been dead a long time; the rumours died with him," Johanna replied, not looking away from her laptop screen as she took a sip from her cup.
Y/N sighed. "But his long life remains in question."
"I'm not denying that he was into occult shit; but the Burgesses are old news. Whatever magic Fawney Rig held went away a long time ago."
“You seem so sure. Have you ever paid them a visit?”
Johanna’s eyes flicked towards Y/N’s, and she saw it again. The distant look in her eyes, constantly lost in thought since the moment she stepped foot into her home. She went back to her emails, deciding that if her friend needed help with anything, she would ask. Until then, she would be keeping an eye on her.
“No,” she answered. “I have other things to do—it pays well to keep your focus on the important clients.” She smirked, hoping to start their usual playful banters.
Y/N paid her no mind, busying herself by turning to look at the window beside her, observing the passersby and stray animals that wandered the streets.
* * *
The water rippled beneath her fingers, her reflection looking back at her as if it was a creature of its own. Her outstretched hand was mere inches away from it, the fog engulfing most of her surroundings. Other than herself, Y/N could not see anything else in the water, only the mist that danced in the air.
Longing for a semblance of their lost monarch, the water accepted her. Her reflection reached out, tightly gripping her wrist, and pulled. The cold engulfed her body in a matter of seconds, millions of dreams and nightmares swimming around her as she sank lower and lower.
The depths of something so inhuman, so inconceivably omniscient pained her, the pressure building around her body and inside of her lungs. She did not have enough time to take a deep breath before she was under the water, her chest burned, and her head felt heavy as the images she saw became too much.
And so she awoke, finding herself back inside of her bedroom unharmed.
There was a harsh throbbing in her head, making her squint her eyes shut from the pain.
Years of being plagued by dreams you could not understand, that humanity was not meant to explore, would expectedly cause such headaches.
It troubled her that as much she frequented that place in her sleep, there were still some places yet to be discovered. Places like those waters—desperate for something she could not give. She groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples to try and tame the still-building pressure.
Nevertheless, she swung her legs off the bed. The shutters were left closed, keeping the light from entering the room. When one experiences such painful mornings, one tends to make adjustments around their sleeping quarters.
Under her bed, her hand clasped the wooden frame, careful of the soft white fabric that wrapped around it. It was her canvas, stored under her bed in case of mornings like these.
Y/N found that the best way to soothe an overwhelmed imagination was to paint what she saw—to get the images out of her mind and create something which she can touch and feel.
She was an artist—a storyteller of profound dreams and visions she knew not the value of.
Her easel and the rest of her materials were all set up, always ready in the corner of her room, waiting for her next tale.
She had dreamt of many stories and considered them a significant part of her sleep, though in the waking world, Y/N looked at them as an art she’d yet to master, looking no further for meaning or purpose that surpasses those of the mortal realm.
Whenever her dreams were brought and told to the many inhabitants of the waking world, she always relished in her decisions to remain truthful. She may not be the most honest person in the world, but her books and paintings accurately hold all the beauty and horrors that she witnessed in her sleep.
However, not all of her dreams make it to the human world.
There was one specific picture that she’d seen too many times to count. Canvas upon canvas were stacked and littered around her room just from the past month. The same dream over and over again, each one more vivid than the last.
She knew all the scenes well, her hand expertly guiding the brushes as she carefully worked on her latest piece.
Y/N basked in the nostalgia of the painting, having seen the same picture since she was a child. It had been too tragic, she refused to bring it to life.
This time, however, it called to her.
The sorrowful image, mostly of browns and blacks, held only one pale figure in the middle, seemingly glowing in the darkness he laid in. Aside from the man, unconscious and naked on the floor, the painting was barren.
Only he brought life to the painting; even though his story was one she shied away from throughout the years, thinking it too heavy on the soul to even think about, let alone tell. What happened? What had gone so wrong?
Y/N desperately wanted to know, but uncovering his narrative would take effort; maybe if she kept painting he would tell her. Maybe she’d hear him speak one night, if he even had a voice.
The story of Lord Morpheus, however, was not very different from hers. And it was not his story alone, but the tale of millions upon millions of dreamers.
Had Y/N known that, she would have been enthralled, yet heartbroken that a being such as him could look so small and evanescent on her painting.
The silence was interrupted by the shrill ringing of her phone, the high pitched tune extinguishing the haze over her eyes. She answered the call, carelessly placing down the brush onto the palette.
She had been stuck in another one of her trances, spacing out when utterly focused on her work. Though the painting was nowhere near finished, the painter had decided to turn her back to it, telling herself that it can wait.
"Hey, we're leaving in about 5 hours. You can come here any time before then. Amelia's excited to see you!"
The voice of her long-time friend, Maurice, was heard through the phone. And Y/N shook her head, rubbing the back of her neck to wake herself up.
"Got it! Tell little Amy I'll see her soon, be careful on your trip!" Y/N answered. A small, fond smile appeared on her face, voice sounding bubbly regardless of her drowsiness.
Amelia never seemed to run out of creativity, always telling her about the adventures she embarked on in her dreams. Her mother, Maurice, was one of the people whom Y/N worked with at the Inn.
Maurice liked to tease Y/N, always saying that in the almost two decades they’ve known each other, Y/N didn’t look a day over 25. All the while Amelia aged Maurice as time passed by, having worked above and beyond to be a deserving mother to her young daughter.
"Make sure to stay with her until she falls asleep. She said she gets better dreams when you're around. I swear she only gets a full eight hours when you're babysitting," Maurice chuckled before saying goodbye.
Maurice and her husband, Adam, were scheduled for a one-day business trip. And while Amelia surely loved her parents, she wouldn’t dare give up an opportunity to be with her favourite babysitter.
She was only seven, and having no siblings to play with, her time was usually spent burying herself in the variety of books that resided in their small library. The bookshelf in her room, though, sheltered most, if not all, of Y/N’s published story books.
Y/N placed her phone down, sitting at the edge of her bed, before browsing through her sketchbook which had always been placed on the bedside table in case of urgent matters. Those matters being rough illustrations for when she did not have enough time to paint.
The ache in her head came creeping back as she flipped through the drawings she made in the past few days. Graphite and charcoal sullied the pages, creating the image of the same subject over and over again.
These pictures were of the same man in her painting, who now was trapped inside of a glass sphere surrounded by a gold circle drawn onto the floor. There were runes, ones that only Johanna knew of. She referred to it as a binding circle, but the reasoning behind it was lost to Y/N. There was no fathoming why anyone would trap a man inside of such a cruel prison.
In the 32 years she had lived, the dream never changed. No matter the variety that visited her as she slept, the circumstances of the trapped man were substantially the same when his turn to visit her came.
It seemed, in a way, that she was trapped with him. Cursed to watch and feel him in misery for all those years without one person coming to his aid. She was but a helpless observer, never being able to touch or speak with him.
The dreams were frantic now, though, and they pestered her to no end. Every night she could see him. Same place, same fire in his eyes that would put the biggest star to shame. No other dream dared to compete.
How long has he been there? Was he still there? Did he even exist?
Questions that have long been unanswered were now occupying her mind. Questions she tried to forget ever since they woke her in the late hours of the night, crying out to her father several times a week.
He would soothe her back to bed, filling her mind with positive thoughts and reassuring her that no , that man would not come for her. He was a mere nightmare and nothing else.
There was a time when she wondered if the man was angry at her, furious that she would not set him free. She wanted to tell him that if it were up to her, he would have been out of there long, long ago.
Her five-year-old brain had not processed the dream well, and years after, she would continue to be haunted and disturbed by the dream’s air of resentment unmatched by anything she’d seen in the waking world.
* * *
The time flew by fast, and soon enough, Y/N was sat by Amelia’s side, tucking her into bed an hour before her curfew.
Determined to focus on taking care of Amelia, Y/N purposely distracted herself when the opportunity presented itself, letting her mind drift away from her recent dreams. It was not an impossible feat, though from time to time, she would find herself beginning to wander back to the thought of her unfinished painting, to which she turned her back and left all alone in the corner of her room.
Only to be reminded that she was at Maurice’s house by an energetic Amelia or a barking dog outside of the house.
“Can you tell me a different story tonight? I’ve read all the ones I have.” Amelia pouted, her eyes pleading as she tried to convince Y/N.
Y/N went along, making a face as if she was in deep thought. “Hmmm, I don’t know…thinking of stories on the spot is no joke, you know?” she teased, keeping her tone playful.
“Well…” Amelia dragged on, and her babysitter stayed silent, giving her time to think. “Tell me a dream. Your dream. The ones you have when you’re asleep.”
Y/N chuckled, caressing Amelia’s hair. “Why would you want to know about my dreams? If you go to bed now, you get to explore yours.”
“You said you wrote books about what you dream of. I reckon you have some unwritten ones.”
“Uhmm, I don’t know, Amelia. Maybe I don’t have any more dreams to tell,” she baited.
Amelia whined, kicking her feet in protest. “But you always have dreams! They’re always so good! Especially when you turn them into stories!”
Y/N laughed at the little girl beside her, who was clearly determined to get a bedtime story. Who was she to deny her?
“You know, Amy, dreams are the stories. They’re the only place where you can truly experience the most fantastic fairy tales. A place where you can truly be free,” Y/N trailed off, but only for a moment. It was a lie, at least to her it was. But for Amelia, she could pretend, bend the truth for her peace of mind.
After all, how do you tell a child that not all dreams are realms in which you can control? That sometimes, there are things you are only meant to observe, no matter how painful?
To Y/N, there was already enough of that in the waking world. Amelia did not need to know that dreams could be just as terrible.
“I don’t need to turn them into stories, Amy. They already are, and when I feel that the world deserves to know of such wonderful places and inspiring creatures, I write them. To help people like you, who may need a reminder that dreaming is free, and that all you need to do is get a full night’s rest.” She smiled, winking at Amelia.
It was Y/N’s way of getting her to go to bed early, and for a while, it worked.
When Encephalitis Lethargica befell the world, not all could dream. And not all could get out of dreams, either. However, as Y/N brought the adventures she saw in her sleep to the waking world, dreamers became just a little bit more hopeful, and a little bit more rested.
This time, though, Y/N had no story to tell, as all her dreams had been the same. She was a vessel, a writer who retold the stories she saw in the dead of night. The years she spent being an author had certainly made her a master at conjuring up tales in an instant if she wished, but when her mind was clouded with the same images and the familiar feeling of anguish from seeing the trapped man every night, it was not so easy to think of happy tales that Amelia deserved.
The little girl was hoping for another adventure-filled fantasy. One that would act as a send-off before she walked the realm of dreams.
The efforts Y/N made at trying to form the perfect story for her had become futile. Only one dream, one story stayed in her mind. Scenarios of what could have happened to the man, stuck in a cage he had filled with endless indignation, were at the forefront of her mind: images of him getting hurt and beaten just to get him inside of the sphere.
But perhaps it did not need to be that way.
“I…guess I do have a story for you,” Y/N said reluctantly. It was a stretch, but in the end, all stories, no matter how sad, could be adjusted to fit a happier narrative.
There was only one who had the power to command dreams and stories to venture on a different path. But on that night, for one little girl, Y/N would dare change the story of one such as the Dream Lord himself.
Routinely, she took the small vial of sand placed on Amelia’s nightstand, stationed there for the days Y/N would stay over to babysit. The little girl beamed, her wish coming true before her eyes as Y/N sat up from the bed and poured the white grains on the table.
She kneeled in front of it as Amelia moved to lay on her side, watching intently.
With the sand, Y/N drew, her story coming to life in mere seconds. The small grains of white followed her fingers ever so slightly, seeming to follow every movement of her hand to create any image she wished to show.
In that moment, in the darkness of Amelia’s bedroom, the faintest hint of light radiated from the sand like the moon covered by clouds. Barely there, only seen when one looks for it.
“Somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, there is a man.” On the nightstand was the image of a figure, enclosed within a sphere. “His eyes hold the universe, his skin as white as paper, his hair like the feathers of ravens.”
She drew a circle, encasing the sphere inside as she drew the runes she could remember. “And he’s trapped. No one knows how long, and no one knows how much longer.”
Now, there was an image of a raven, flying while its beak touched the glass sphere. “His raven had gone a long time ago, a victim of the man’s captors, leaving him truly alone.”
Amelia’s face showed a deep frown as her young brain comprehended the tale.
“He never speaks, never asks for help. But he lets you see, he lets you observe his pain as if even he thinks he deserves to be caged as one would a rabid animal.”
With precision, she added more detail to the image, using one of her better drawings back home as inspiration. “He’s known not the kindness of humans, not for a long time, but perhaps, one act of true humanity might give him all he needs to be free.”
In one swoop, Y/N cleared the drawings with her hand, turning them back into messy piles of sand before putting them back in the vial. She pushed the sand off the corner of the table, effortlessly catching them with the glass container and closing it with its cork-made seal.
“One act of true humanity,” she booped Amelia’s nose, snapping her out of her trance. “That’s where you come in.”
Interested, Amelia sat up as Y/N went back to her place next to the little girl. The painter pushed back some of the girl’s red locks behind her ear before continuing. “He appears in dreams. He only shows himself to me, and now to you through my story. It’s our duty to dream of his freedom.”
“If I dream, will you make it come true? Will he be freed?” Amelia asked, eyes pleading for a positive answer.
The worry that showed on the girl’s face was vehement, her empathy swam within the confines of her room.
Though all dreams could be felt by the Dreaming, there was something about children that fueled the realm of stories. There is an intrinsic ability for a child to dream, unafraid and untainted by the horrors one would face in a world such as theirs.
“Promise,” Y/N whispered, leaning down to kiss Amelia’s hair before tucking her back into bed. “Sweet dreams, Amelia.”
She stood, walking to leave the room, the little girl’s gaze following her. Y/N held the doorknob and spoke just before she closed the door. “And remember, you don’t need to be asleep to dream.”
In the guest bedroom, Y/N stood by the window, observing the quiet street and the clear skies. There were no traces of pollution, only stars that twinkle light years away. It looked serene, and she’d hoped that maybe somewhere out there, maybe in another universe where dreams really do come true, the man would roam free.
The man that held the cosmos in his eyes. The man who had started as her nightmare, and whom she had come to understand and sympathize with.
Y/N wondered if Amelia could do it—change her dream. It had been a long-standing one; the only place she had no control over while she slept.
The air was calm, much like how it felt whenever she was in the middle of writing or painting one of her dreams. Dreams that, if only she knew, were more palpable than she nor her father ever thought.
Remembering her dad, she dialed his number, waiting to hear his voice on the other side.
“Hey! Everything okay? How’s Amelia?”
Y/N smiled, eyes trained to the stars and the moon outside her window. “Hey dad. We’re good, she’s asleep.”
She spoke softly, not wanting Amelia to be distured in case she could hear them. Y/N loved her father dearly, and he would certainly be over the moon to know that perhaps she could finally get a good night's rest—one that did not require his comfort.
“What story did you tell her this time? She usually gushes about them when she visits the inn.”
“I, uhm, I told her about the… that dream.” She waited, but no response came. The dream was a topic to avoid, Y/N knew how much her father would chastise himself for not being able to make the nightmares go away, especially in the days when she was much younger.
There was no sound, only silence. One that Y/N took the first step in breaking. “I toned it down, obviously. I thought that maybe if I…made it a little more hopeful, maybe it could change.”
“Right,” there was a pause, concern dripping from his voice. “how do you feel?”
“I think—I think I’m going to have good dreams tonight.”
“That’s good!” he responded, the volume surprising even himself. “That’s great. I’m proud of you.”
Night after night his daughter would wake, crying about a man in her dreams. He was a good fighter, vowing to protect Y/N all throughout her life from any danger that dared to go near. He could give her knowledge impossible to acquire in her generation, and wisdom from years before the birth of their oldest friends—most of them, at least.
Of all he could protect her from, Y/N’s worst nightmare had to be exactly that—a nightmare. One that never seemed to fade away, one that haunted them for years.
Her because of the sheer weight of what could be seen during her slumber, and him because in his lifetime, there had never been such an unreachable feat.
He couldn’t walk her dreams, he could only hope to alleviate the sorrow that came after.
And for a man like him, for one who had steered clear of Death herself, no wound or hunger could feel as painful as the ache in his chest when he could not chase away the man that plagued her daughter’s sleeping mind.
“Yeah, it is. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you for letting me know, my little daydream. Sleep well.”
“Sweet dreams, dad.”
As a child, after she wrote down each and every one of her nightly adventures, her father claimed that her dreams never seemed to stay put in her unconscious mind, but rather, spilled into her creations during her waking hours.
“My little daydream” he would call her.
After she dozed off in the guest room, the next thing she could remember was the feel of soft, powder-like material under her feet. The sound of the ocean reached her ears in a melody of waves, alternating as they touched the sand before going back into the water.
She welcomed the smell of salt and the breeze that graced her skin, the wind moving in time with the ocean. Y/N felt herself relax, finding that her mind was quiet here, as opposed to the burden she would carry in the waking world.
The beach, the sun, the sand—they were all hers. Her territory in the realm of the sleeping. Though she was none the wiser, all aspects of the Dreaming would bow to her in a heartbeat if she wished, following her orders to the best of their abilities as they would their missing monarch.
“Y/N!” The voice of Amelia shouted, running towards her, leaving her footprints on the soft sand. She hugged Y/N tightly, wrapping her small arms around her waist before looking up at her eyes. “Are you here to save the caged man? The one with stars in his eyes?”
The breeze stopped, their hair no longer blowing in the wind. The sound of waves could no longer be heard.
Everything stopped, no grain of sand gave the slightest bit of movement. Only she and Amelia existed in this plane, their surroundings a mere image of the life that once fueled the beach.
Y/N donned a black coat that reached her ankles, her feet clad in a pair of Doc Martens. She wore a black shirt and a black pair of jeans instead of the pajamas she slept in. To her, there was no meaning behind her clothing and why she wore them in her dreams.
However, as Amelia mentioned the Dreaming’s absent King, the realm seemed to have recognized what Y/N’s purpose could be that night. The land had stopped to listen, straying from their function to hear word of the man who could very well be their master.
The change in the atmosphere was stark, heavy on Y/N’s heart. She only had a moment to herself, thinking that maybe she could roam aimlessly without bearing the weight of that man’s anguish.
She was no longer trapped with him, but perhaps, she must fulfill her promise to Amelia.
She cleared her throat, glancing at their surroundings before stroking Amelia’s hair. The world began to move once again; the waves were loud, the sand moved by the wind, and Y/N’s coat billowed from the breeze.
“Yes, I am. But I’m afraid I don’t know how to do that—”
The waves reached their feet now, and from the corner of her eye, as she looked down at Amelia, she saw the water glow.
It shimmered when it covered her feet, electric and familiar, but remained a normal shade of blue when it hit Amelia’s.
“—but I think I might have just figured it out,” she spoke slowly, her eyes glazing over as she looked at the distant shoreline. It wasn’t the endlessness of it that caught her eye, rather, the blue vortex several feet away from them.
Amelia followed her gaze, seeing the same bright light. She beamed, looking excitedly up at Y/N. “What are you waiting for, then? I think that’s for you!”
Other than an unwavering smile, she offered Amelia nothing else before running off towards the portal, the sand glowing a bright blue every step she took.
Without so much as a second thought, she jumped, feeling herself get carried away by the vacuum before violently landing on black sand.
It was harsh, unlike the smooth, white sand on the beach. Here there was no water, no sound but the rush of stale air. The ground was coarse, small stones and pebbles pricked her skin as she tumbled.
Behind her was a gate—the entrance to the Heart of the Dreaming.
She felt no surprise, finding herself in a place she had been to many times before. She walked towards it, touching the grand structure gently before the Gates of Horn and Ivory opened to welcome her in, revealing the ruins of the palace.
It was a sorrowful sight. The castle broken and abandoned by most of its inhabitants. To her, however, the scenery looked the same as the first time she saw it.
She still wondered, though, about what the kingdom used to look like with its walls intact and cared for. Was the land bustling with life? Did they celebrate their own holidays?
Or was it tranquil? A calm paradise in which everyone basked in their people’s company with no need to gather?
The kingdom had long passed its golden years, but how could something devoid of life seem so…out of place? As if it couldn’t be anything other than alive .
Without the presence of their King who functioned as the heart and soul, the Dreaming could not be called a kingdom, but only a spectre that lingered in the space between realms.
It was barren, and had been for more than a century, but the ghostly structures—to her— felt unnatural. As if, instead of the ruins of a once thriving paradise, it was dying . There was a missing piece, an absent force that drained the realm of its life.
She kneeled, grasping a handful of sand that glowed with her touch. She opened her palm, blowing on the sand as it flew toward the palace, swirling around the broken walls and pillars, repairing the cracks and missing pieces.
There was no bringing back its prior beauty, however, she will do what she can, aiding the land while it still stands.
There was no telling how long it would last without Y/N before it turned into dust, turning into a vast desert where the grieving dreams and nightmares may wander, wishing for their King to give them back their home.
The black grains delicately fell back down onto the floor, barely doing enough for the castle. Only a small measure had been mended, but it would do.
It was as much as she could do no matter how many attempts. Whether she rebuilt it by hand or by sand, it would never go back to its former glory. It refused .
And though it denied her help, the Dreaming was, in essence, kept alive by the thin thread that had attached itself to Y/N when she was born, her care and love for it keeping its foundation intact no matter how battered it may seem.
Since her first visits, Y/N endeavoured to heal the land in hopes that some of its inhabitants might return to help. There was Cain, Abel, and Gregory, but they had insisted there was nothing to do for their home, yet keeping all other details hidden as per Lucienne’s request.
Contented with her work, knowing she had done all she can, Y/N entered the palace. Even in its broken stature, there was a memory of brilliance and power that lingered in the air, one that greeted her its fleeting welcome as she walked the halls.
She had explored all there is that surrounded the palace, though Y/N rarely ever stepped inside. And whenever she did, she would not stay very long. It was clear to her that the realm embraced her presence with open arms, but she did not feel comfortable roaming around inside.
She felt at home there, yet a part of her could sense that she was crossing into someone else’s territory—one that showed no malice, but deserved deep respect.
The inert landscape was a tragic sight. But within the palace walls was a kind of suffering she could not describe. It yearned for something, longed to thrive like it once had, but unable to do so with its throne lying empty, the broken seat of an absent ruler sat atop a regal set of stairs. The presence of Merv and Lucienne, though, told her that their history was not as simple as a runaway monarch.
It had been years since she went back inside, the last time being when she was still a teenager. She neared the throne, daring to get halfway up the stairs before she heard familiar footsteps.
Y/N grinned widely and eagerly turned around, rushing down the stairs as she engulfed Lucienne in a tight embrace.
The librarian tensed, stunned in place as she calmly held Y/N’s arms and gently pushed her away. “Uhm, pardon my ignorance, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before. Are you lost, perhaps?”
“Oh, uh,” Y/N stepped back, awkwardly shifting her feet, but her smile was as wide as ever. “I guess my father was lying when he told me I barely aged. Did I really? To the point of unrecognition?” she chuckled, hoping to refresh Lucienne’s memory.
The librarian studied her carefully, taking in her appearance and the uncanny similarities towards the Dream Lord. Finally, it dawned on her.
“Miss Y/N!” She held Y/N’s shoulders, stroking her hair with one hand. “Oh how you’ve grown!” She awed, this time, opening her arms to embrace Y/N. “Your father is no liar. I have not seen you in the Dreaming for so long, your visit was merely unexpected.”
Y/N’s shoulders tensed, Lucienne pulled back with a confused expression. “Is there something wrong, miss?”
She beamed widely at the librarian. “The Dreaming. Is that what this place is called, Lucienne?”
Hesitancy lingered in the air, silence invaded the palace as Lucienne contemplated her next words. In the years Y/N has visited the Dreaming, she took it upon herself to keep quiet about their affairs and the tragedy that befell the once prosperous realm.
The last that Lucienne knew of Y/N, she was blissfully unaware of the depth of their troubles. Lucienne had caught her trying to repair the palace walls by hand, finding materials around the Kingdom or borrowing from Cain and Abel to do so.
Gregory had been with her, and they were flying around to the tops of the castle in a misguided effort to rebuild.
Lucienne did not have the heart to stop them, only informing her that they had done what they could, but the Kingdom remained broken. No other information was disclosed, most questions were redirected or dismissed.
Nonetheless, they remained friends. The librarian adored her love for their realm, having not seen any other creature care for it besides a select few. At the time, Lucienne took her for a lost dreamer, finding their way to the Heart of the Dreaming because there was no one left to keep them away.
They were familiar with lucid dreamers, some better than others; she assumed that the young Y/N might have been one of the better ones.
Her visits started when she was only 12 years old, and she frequented the realm on most nights. Lucienne read all she can, attempting to decipher their mysterious guest. However, when more and more of the library vanished, she laid her investigation to rest.
In some respects, those who stayed in the Dreaming saw the curious little girl grow up.
She rarely visited the palace, where Lucienne spent most of her time, so they have not bonded the way Y/N and the others have. Moreover, that did not take away from their friendship.
The librarian liked to monitor her, though, for any other strange happenings. And in the process, she had started to care for her the way she does for the rest of the realm. Y/N had become more of an honoured visitor than an uninvited guest.
“Yes, miss. You are in the Heart of the Dreaming,” Lucienne answered, abstaining from revealing any and all other details.
No malice could be felt when around Y/N, she has crossed the gates many times on her own and has acted with good intentions—there was no doubting her kind spirit.
Nevertheless, as a loyal subject of Morpheus, she was unsure of how to go about telling a mere human about the existence of the Dreaming. There was no confirming that Y/N knew about their realm’s true nature, for all she knew Y/N thought this was all a strange dream regardless of the recurrence.
“That’s…nice,” Y/N replied, her smile turning mellow. “My second home finally has a name.”
Lucienne was touched. Most of the Dreaming’s inhabitants are long gone, losing their trust in their missing monarch. But no matter how broken, how unfixable their Kingdom was, someone had managed to find a home in it.
However, there was no denying that she did not belong there, and no one knew of any consequences that might occur due to her visits.
“With all due respect, you belong to the waking world, miss Y/N. This is merely another destination you venture to in your sleep,” Lucienne said, empathetic as ever. She did not want to deter her from coming to the Dreaming.
Y/N walked towards the bottom of the steps, taking in the newly-named palace. “I am dreaming, Lucienne,” she spoke, elegantly waking up the stairs.
Lucienne was frozen in place, watching as the girl walked up towards their King’s throne. It wasn’t her actions that baffled her, it was the semblance of power. Something seemed to have shifted in their realm every step she took, as if there was a low rumbling coming from deep inside the palace.
“My mind conjured this up a long time ago, and it is not willing to let it go so easily,” Y/N continued. “This is my realm. I belong here.”
Her voice grew more confident as she neared the broken throne. “They say that names are powerful—and I do believe they are. The Dreaming has become my refuge, and I hold you all dear to my heart.”
She arrived at the top, gently touching the throne. Light emitted from beneath her fingers, black smoke radiating from them as Lucienne let out a quiet gasp.
Y/N looked at the librarian, “I have tried to fix this place long ago, and now I think I finally can. For now, at least.” She looked around the room, broken pieces of the palace rising from the ground, going back into their rightful place.
The cracks and rubble from the bottom of the throne healed, becoming an almost-perfect image of its former self.
“This is impossible,” Lucienne whispered, overcome with gladness and fear at seeing her home be restored by such a display of power that she had not seen in over a century. The palace shook, but she kept in place, stunned in silence.
When the rehabilitation of the palace halted, Lucienne looked up at the girl in her master's clothing.
The throne room could not be revived to its former glory. However, all that was left were cracks and chipped pieces on the walls. It resembled a restored renaissance painting—alive, but never as beautiful as the days it spent with its creator.
Unfortunately, the sight did not last. It took only a few moments before the colour drained from the walls, the structures crumbling once again, but thankfully, not to the state Y/N found it in.
Y/N’s stature could not help but falter, discouraged that her efforts remained futile despite the power she could feel flowing within her veins.
Lucienne, however, staggered. She cleared her throat, straightening her posture while clasping her hands formally. “I mean no disrespect, ma’am,” she hesitated for a moment. “But what are you? ”.
She almost seemed afraid, and Y/N took notice, going back down the stairs as she stood in front of Lucienne. “I-I am human, and this is my dream—” she chuckled nervously. “There’s no need to worry—”
“The Dreaming is not your realm, ma’am. It is not yours to take,” Lucienne defended, her voice apprehensive but nevertheless defiant. “I mean no offence, but you do not belong here . I think it is best you go back—”
“No,” Y/N interjected. Lucienne’s words sparked a memory—her duty and purpose in the Dreaming coming back to her. “I need you to take me to the water. I don’t recall how I arrived there the first time, but I—”
“My apologies, ma’am, but it is not my place to show you where it is located.” Lucienne stood her ground, her voice wavering ever so slightly regardless of her efforts to stay professional.
“I have good reason to be there. You can trust me, Lucienne. I would never do this place any harm,” Y/N spoke, bringing down her voice to a softer tone.
Lucienne kept silent, and Y/N’s heart broke. “Ma’am, I do not take you for a liar, which could only mean that you do not know of the power you possess. No matter your purpose here, this realm cannot take any more damage in the instance that you might harm it unintentionally.”
Y/N swallowed, unable to hide her sorrow as the woman she once knew to care for her, now looked at her in fear. But she could not deny that she understood Lucienne’s apprehension. What she could do in the Dreaming was natural to her, she was sure of the fact that she could never bring any harm to it.
If she could not see that, Y/N did not have the time to convince her.
The man was waiting, and he had been for long enough.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, sand swirling around her figure, growing thicker until Lucienne could no longer see her.
In her mind she focused on the water, not having a single recollection of how she wound up being pulled into a sea of different worlds. Regardless, she remembered how it felt, and she held onto it, letting it take over her body before she was violently tossed onto the wooden floor of a foggy pier.
Y/N was thrown across the wooden planks, covering her head with her arms as she stumbled, stopping right at the edge where she could see herself in the water. She kneeled on the wood floor, staring into the white, beady eyes of her reflection.
If she hadn’t been so entranced by it, she would have found it familiar.
She held her hand out, carefully reaching for the water, but pulled back right as she was about to make contact.
Instead, she dove in.
The water splashed around her as her body was engulfed by it, and she continued to go farther down.
Shadows and scenes of hell and paradise and domesticity swam around her, and she flailed the deeper she got, having regretted her decision to enter the treacherous water. Unfortunately, before she could try swimming up, something had caught hold of her foot, dragging her further down the deep blue.
Y/N screamed, air bubbles rapidly flowing out of her mouth as she aggressively kicked her foot, trying to loosen the hold of her captor. When she looked beneath her, there was nothing. The space where she could feel the pressure on her ankle lay empty.
Her hands stopped flailing, and her feet stopped kicking, feeling her lungs a second away from being filled with water.
Then, she was on a yacht. Clean and luxurious. Mountain tops could be seen in the distance; her clothes were dry and her breathing as light as ever. The familiar scent of the ocean reached her nostrils, and she breathed in, taking in lungfuls of the fresh air.
Her black coat billowed in the wind and she looked around. Other than the yacht she stood on, nothing could be seen for miles besides the silhouettes of mountains and the clouds that floated above her. She could hear seagulls, some landing beside her feet, and some placing themselves on the metal railing in front of her.
She clasped the handrail, looking down at the ocean. The waves obstructed the mirrored images of herself and the yacht, however, she recognized those same white eyes that gazed back at her.
In spite of the clear skies and the sun that burnt her skin, the water had no shimmer on its surface. No light bounced off of the ocean, and it remained as dark as she saw it on the fog-covered pier.
There was a depth to it, an endless dark blue inhabited by strange movement and worlds that seemed to pass by.
Her eyes squinted, noticing the circular shape surrounding her reflection. Everything moved slower, her coat floated as if she were in space instead of the quick flutter from the breeze. There were no seagulls in the reflection, but rather ravens accompanied her second self.
Then, just as she saw the familiar shape of the trapped man behind her reflection, she jumped in once again, pushing herself upwards as she held the steel bars tightly, swinging her legs over them and landing into the water once more.
The pressure in her ears was instant, and her body felt ice-cold—but only for a second.
When she landed on the other side, the air no longer smelled fresh, but stale and musty, old and worn. Her lungs felt heavy instead of refreshed.
Her clothes were still as dry as ever, but they no longer moved. There was no wind, barely any ventilation.
Y/N stood on the battered cement floor worn by time. Tall pillars held up the room and wooden arches supported the ceiling, but all were void of life. The colours they once held were now faded, barely visible in the darkness.
There was a door, next to it a man was sat on a chair with his eyes to the floor, glazed over in thought.
He was daydreaming, and it provided a dangerous path for Y/N to embark. She paid him no mind, as her presence was fairly obvious, and yet he failed to notice the stranger standing mere feet away from him.
Y/N knew where she had arrived, her gaze landing on the attenuated gold circle on the floor. Slowly, she looked upwards.
The man inside the sphere with his back turned to her, sitting motionless with his head bowed down. His alabaster skin glowed with the singular light placed above him, illuminating him as if he were a museum piece, bare and presented for everyone to see.
For a long time, this man haunted her dreams. Years of countless nights she was awoken by her own screams, the burden of sharing a fraction of his torment scarring and embedding itself into her childhood years.
But as she approached the glass sphere, silent tears fell from her eyes, weeping for the man who had been trapped here for far longer than she could imagine
There was an inkling of doubt that yearned to be acknowledged, crying for denial, telling her it was all a dream, and that when she wakes, it will all be a figment of her imagination, a memory from a place fantastical and unreal.
However, as she mourned his lost freedom, the doubt could not rise.
Her foot stepped beyond the circle, uncaring about its importance—after all, what good purpose could it have if it was created by his captors? She reached forward until her palm was only a few inches away from the glass.
The man turned to Y/N when her hand touched his enclosure, expression cold and shoulders broadening in an attempt to show power. Even now, with him as helpless as one can be, he commanded the room with only his eyes.
Upon seeing her tears, he turned his body to face her, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly at the sight. He had not known empathy in a long time, decidedly untrusting of it after Jessamy’s passing.
What Y/N could not see in that moment, were the eyes that Lord Morpheus himself was gazing into.
A pair of dark orbs, the cosmos within them as they shed tears—as if the galaxies beyond her eyes were weeping for him. The clothes she wore did not go unnoticed by the Dream Lord, nor the small but significant smudges her shoes had inflicted upon the circle that bound him.
Knowing he could not lose any more than he has, his palm touched hers from the inside of the sphere, their hands a few inches from one another. His expression remained stoic, but his fingers gave the slightest twitch.
Deep within Y/N’s soul, she knew she had found what the palace was searching for. And she had discovered what the man had been missing in the years he spent inside of the darkness.
They both turned their heads toward the door when another guard entered, their hands still barely touching.
Y/N remained looking at the guard, observing to see if they would notice her. Morpheus tore his eyes away from the door, jaw clenching and the hand that stretched to be near Y/N’s tensing, fingers almost clawing at the glass.
When Y/N turned back to him, she smiled delicately.
“Only you can see me,” she mouthed.
The newly arrived guard turned to their coworker, shaking his shoulder. “Spacing out again? Enough of that. It’s my turn to get a bloody rest,” they said, crossing their arms as they went to their seat.
When the resting guard awoke from his daydream, he sat up straighter, clearing his throat as he tried to get ahold of his surroundings.
Meanwhile, Morpheus briskly placed his other hand next to the one on the glass, tilting his head downwards, his eyes sharper than ever .
Y/N placed her other hand on the glass, growing anxious as she saw them begin to fade.
The daydream has ended, and so has hers. She was no longer tethered, and he was no longer undiscovered.
Y/N sat up, feeling the bed below her as she clutched her blanket. She was in no distress, and there was no perplexing want to paint. There was no headache present. A heavy heart took their place, and now, much like the Dreaming, she felt herself wanting to call for something missing.
And somehow, that feeling was much worse than the pain she used to wake up to.
In the darkness of the guest room, swirling black smoke emanated from her eyes. And as she brought up a hand to rub the sleep away from them, she felt a sprinkle of sand on her fingers then onto the blanket that covered her legs.
The glow in her eyes vanished, as did the smoke. But the sand remained, and while she took them between her fingers…
The Dream Lord had been busying himself with putting a certain man to sleep.
***
“I think they’re true—the rumours.”
Johanna looked up from her laptop for the first time since she sat down, furrowing her eyebrows at Y/N’s bold statement. “Since when were you into this? You never liked meddling with anything that came close to my job.”
Y/N held her cup in both of her hands, one leg resting on the couch as she looked at the window pane. There they were again—her eyes that shone brighter than the stars in the night sky. They weren’t as vast, nor were they as celestial as the man’s, but they were surely noticeable.
And Johanna was not one to miss such a detail. Her friend’s image in the window pane blended almost completely with the buildings and the lights outside, but her eyes reflected back two white orbs that could almost be mistaken as distant suns.
“Have you heard of the Sandman?” Y/N turned to look at Johanna, who tore her gaze away from the reflection and to her friends’ eyes. She closed her laptop as she sat up straighter.
“He’s a fairytale,” she shrugged it off, albeit her voice was just barely above a whisper. “With all the dreams you’ve had, you might as well be him,” she chuckled apprehensively. Something had changed in Y/N, but being the busy woman that she is, she overlooked it until she had seen the window that reflected her friend. “Are you alright?”
Johanna had never been very good at caring, jumping from one relationship to the next without so much as a goodbye. But Y/N had been a long-term friend, never expecting anything out of her other than a bit of her time.
Though she would not admit it, her first meeting with Y/N had intrigued her. She originally engaged in conversation due to her suspicion that she might not be human. Maybe a demon? An angel?
And when she learned about Y/N’s father, her interest grew. Her investigations proved to be futile, learning that her friend was no more than any other mortal that walked the Earth.
But perhaps she was wrong.
“I am,” Y/N answered. “I’ve actually been feeling much better since last night.”
Johanna cleared her throat, finding the haze in her friends’ eyes strange and a tad uncomfortable. “Did Amelia ask you to tell her another one of your bedtime stories?”
Y/N nodded gently, “Yeah, she did. It was a bit different this time, though.”
“Yeah?”
“I told her about the man. The one in the glass sphere?”
Johanna leaned back into her chair, not knowing what to say. She had known about the recurring dreams, but when she asked, Y/N had dismissed it, saying that it was nothing more than her imagination. A part of her wished she had not settled for such a simple answer.
“Isn’t that a little…scary? For a seven-year-old?”
“I changed it.”
Something in the air shifted, and Johanna felt it. Her job was to know when something otherworldly was afoot, after all.
There was more to Y/N's answer than what meets the eye, and Johanna knew that maybe she hadn't been wrong to investigate when they first met.
Unlike Gods and Endless, Y/N was not born into her function; she was hardly supposed to be anything else but human. And in a way, her purpose had been deeply rooted into her humanity.
Everyone else could feel it whenever she tells a story, that warmth that only a dream could bring, but Y/N firmly refused to acknowledge it.
She knew of impossible things, and yet she denied being one herself, even after discovering her father's long-kept secret.
Y/N turned to look back outside, staring at all the houses where people slept soundly in their beds, wondering what kind of adventures or horrors they were facing behind their closed eyelids.
She wondered if she could see them someday.
"I promised Amelia a good story, Johanna. I saw to it that I spoke true."
Notes: Chapter one's done!! Again, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on it!
Fic Rec IV: How to ruin a Dream Lord’s proposal (and get away with it)
source: How to ruin a Dream Lord’s proposal (and get away with it)
Author: @full-time-make-believer
Fandom: The Sandman
Relationships: Morpheus/Reader
Point of View: Second-Person
Word Count: 3k
Chapters: 1 (Kind of a sequel but can be a stand-alone)
Language: English
Warnings from the author: Morpheus is a menace when it comes to relationships (just ask Nada), reader is out of their goddamn mind, what Matthew has seen cannot be unseen (I’m being an idiot but you’re safe guys, the only real warning is some suggestive stuff towards the end)
Author’s Note: This fic is kind of a sequel to these headcanons but makes sense on its own. It’s also just an excuse for me to have a little fun with these characters, so please don’t take it too seriously😅
Summary by the Author:
Matthew finds out Morpheus plans to propose to you… on your first date. Given what happened to the last poor soul who said no when Dream popped the big question, Matthew and the others are understandably concerned for you. Because there’s no way you’d wanna marry a guy you haven’t even started dating yet, right?
Right??
What you can expect:
It’s a very entertaining story, honestly. Especially because all the characters are very in-character. You can clearly imagine all of them, especially Matthew.
Expect some soft!Morpheus, too, but it’s not OOC. He’s just a dumbass when it comes to human customs. Also, you’re going to be seeing some really good writing, especially the description and the dialogue. It’s fluffy, but you’ll also laugh your ass off because of Matthew.
It gets sort of spicy at the end but it’s not so bad, just some kissing and suggestive dialogue. You can easily skip or skim through it, though.
More subjective thoughts and minor spoilers under the cut.
—
(Masterlist)
Posted on September 8, 2022
Posted by Sophia
Ko-fi
I LOVE THIS FIC OMG— anyway
The entire freak-out that Matthew has is just so entertaining, it starts the story off really well. And since he was formerly human, he seemed to be really watching out for Y/N but also Morpheus at the same time.
I love the way the author wrote Morpheus, especially when he was obviously hurt by Y/N’s words, which would momentarily make you think that there’s going to be an angsty moment:
Author did a really good job at maintaining Morpheus’ personality even when he was being emotional.
The suspension of disbelief did not waver at all. Because of how in-character everyone is, you’re really immersed into the story.
Matthew’s reactions to all the unexpected twists and turns this story takes is hilarious af, and the post-credit scene was even funnier with Lucienne and Merv.
There’s a little bit of everything in this fic. Tiny bit of angst, lots of fluff, some spice, and a lot of humorous scenes.
It’s a great read. I like to go back to re-read it every now and then, and maybe y’all would too!
Thoughts on Chapter 1 (minor spoilers): Year 0-200
I thought chapter 1 was written as a perfect introduction to the series. You get a taste of the blossoming dynamic between Wanderer and Morpheus. The use of body language was precise, you’d get a glimpse of what Morpheus might be thinking.
Wanderer, cursed to be a Wanderer, lands in the Dreaming. She has a bubbly personality to her that Dream just seems to tolerate, at first. I love the small details that the author reveals about how Wanderer really is, like when she says she can’t sleep and doesn’t dream:
It adds to the mystery—really hooked me into the story.
Also! Throughout ch.1, Dream is overall prideful. There’s this one scene where Wanderer practically forces him to be a little less boring and broody:
That’s as playful as he’s gonna get in a while XD.
Oh and the last scene is really well-written. Like, really well-written. But I’m not going to attach a screenshot here in case you haven’t read it.
The honesty that Wanderer has about her curse, the way she’s genuinely interested in Dream and what he does—it almost makes him a little less of a dick, yk? XD. Because he’s getting a first-hand account about what it’s like to be cursed to wander aimlessly and uncontrollably in realms you’re not necessarily welcome in.
So, while he’s very in character in the entire series so far, you know he cares because of how well the author characterized him in the fic. It’s very show-don’t-tell.
I personally think that this fic deserves more recognition because of how artistic the writing is. It feels very personal—not just because it’s in second person, but also because you get to experience and read about a cursed immortal who only ever wants to be free.
So far, we don’t know why or how Wanderer was cursed. All we know is that it doesn’t seem like she deserves it, but then again, we have no idea what she did to get cursed in the first place. And I like that it was written like that, because if she did do something terrible, she’s obviously a very different person now.
The story teaches empathy, I think. And it’s very artistic in how the author shows the human experience through an immortal and the span of a thousand years.
Okay so this is probably one of my favourite chapters (apart from chapter 10.)
ISTG Wanderer and Corinthian’s relationship is sooooooo….AKJHFSAHFKAJSKH. No but seriously, in times when Dream just isn’t there, and even when he is, Corinthian is just that soulmate BFF that she needs. It’s hard to describe their relationship, but this is probably one of my favourite scenes of theirs, because Corinthian just casually made something for her and gave it to her like it’s just some random trinket, but the meaning behind it and what it means to Wanderer is so profound.
I GENUINELY JUST NOTICED THIS NOW— I knew that Morpheus made Corinthian is Wanderer’s image but OTHERS TOO?!
s i m p .
Anyway—
Onto my favourite scene in this entire fic (so far). I won’t say much, because I really don’t want to spoil this chapter for anyone.
But this scene gets me everytime. Because to Wanderer, someone who can’t dream or even sleep outside of the Dreaming, this experience is something entirely new to who ever since her curse.
Not just that, but for someone who sees herself as a plague, the fact that the Dream Lord himself is making her a dream is such a major point in her existence and in the story. She has something in the Dreaming now, something that others will be able to benefit from as well.
So not only is she helping people in the waking world, but she also gave them a safe space when they’re asleep.
Writing wise, the description in this scene is beautiful. It really brings out what Wanderer felt at that moment, and to me, it’s probably the most selfless Dream has been in the series. Because during Dreamfall, when everyone dreams, he made sure that the one person who can’t was taken care of as well. He wasn’t just thinking about humanity. He made Dreamfall all about Wanderer, basically. Because in a way, Wanderer represents humans and their stories, so I guess Dreamfall is honouring Wanderer just as much as Wanderer honours humanity.
Which is nice, because this chapter has two very important points in it. One, Corinthian carves a miniature Wanderer, and two, Wanderer now has a place in the Dreaming. This is the chapter that gave Wanderer a chance to be real. A chance to feel human.
I apologize for the short review, I just really didn’t want to give away a lot of details, especially because we’re reaching some of the most important points of the story hehe.
Note: This author requested for us to review their fic. So I’ll go into a little more detail on the review. The reason we don’t go into much detail for the reviews generally is because it’s not like the author asked us to do that, so we’re not gonna go on here and give unsolicited advice or anything. We’re simply here to show our support!
Pagiecake, though, specifically asked us to review Assorodus. While Mavis and I are definitely not professionals, we do have quite a bit of writing experience outside of fanfiction so we thought we’d give this story more effort as a way of showing the author our appreciation for supporting our blog!
I repeat, we are not professionals. So everything here is subjective and based on what we’ve been taught as writers.
Author: @pagiecake (PagieCake on ao3)
Fandom: The Sandman
Relationships: Morpheus/Reader
Point of View: First-Person
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Word Count: 19,638
Chapters: 6/10
Language: English
Tags by the Author: Angst, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow Build, Tenderness, Platonic Relationships
Summary by the Author:
Assorodus meaning "silvery water".
Purpose may or may not exist, depending on our personal ideologies. The Endless know better though, they saw the entity prowling the lands before the beginning of history, and it was older than them. Not by much, a few eons maybe, arriving after the birth of the universe we know. For this being was strong and withered the coldness of the void until everything was created. First of Writers, the name it was given, for the inherent purpose of every breathing thing had to be formed in words. Whether we believe in it or not.
His body I recognise, I’ve seen him naked before, but now the stretch of his skin is strange, sickly, I can see his bones protruding from underneath as if trying to break through his pale flesh. I remember his complexion being fair, though not to this extent. Partly obscured by his jet-black hair, his eyes are two windows to fiery rage, so much so, that I sense he is not sure who I am yet, his swirling emotions rendering him blind. Pink lips barely moving, he slightly pulls them into a scowl, threatening me without the use of words. I know him, but at the same time not, not in this state. What have they done to him?
“Morpheus?”
What you can expect:
Very interesting plot. I’ve read a lot of Sandman fics since the TV show came out, and I can confidently say that this is one of the more unique and ambitious fics I’ve read. The tags say Tenderness, and there’s definitely quite a bit of that. It’s interesting, too, since it points to a much deeper story that I look forward to as the story gets updated.
Morpheus and Reader have known each other for a while, so you can expect there’s an air of mystery regarding their relationship—platonic or not. They’re kind of in that weird limbo phase and it annoys the heck out of me as slow-burn fics usually do HAHAHAH AUTHOR PLEASE CUT TO THE CHASE— *cough* anyway, back to Writer Mode™.
More subjective thoughts and minor spoilers under the cut.
