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*IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm copying everything over from AO3 to here because this series has a sequel coming out in the Fall, and I'd rather be prepared just in case AO3 goes down again. This is an old, complete story. So if you recognize it, you're not imagining things. 😂

Chapter Publication Date: 11/01/22 | Word Count: 3,653

All the Precious and Fragile Things (so easily do they break): Chapter 6

Part I: All of This Past

*Warnings: 18+ for violence, torture scene.

In a flashback, we learn what instigated that final fight between Morpheus and May.

In the present, Thessaly is introduced, and May doesn't handle it well. Lucienne, as usual, is there to try and mitigate the damage. Or at least to talk some sense into her rather aloof (and foolish) ruler.

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

SEVENTEEN MONTHS PAST...

Outside of his brother's castle, Morpheus takes a moment to collect himself before going in, his hands in his coat pockets while he grips the ruby necklace he's almost completed for his beloved between his fingers. He'd started crafting this piece of jewelry as a bonding gift, one to be presented to her upon their union, despite that she has never been the sort to care for shiny objects and trinkets. This particular gem, however, is more than a mere decoration. Woven with his power, thrumming with the energy of his very essence, it will serve as a symbol of her rule and office, a symbol of her importance to both him and their realm. She will be his queen, and this gift from him is intended to mark her as such. Though now he can do naught but to treat it as a talisman of sorts, a reminder of her and their future together that he feels he needs in the face of his reservations on attending this rather cumbersome meeting.

He doesn't want to be here, not really. He's only been away from May and the peace of his realm, the peace of her love, for mere minutes, and he's already desperately yearning to go back to her side, but Destiny had summoned all of the siblings for this family dinner. Morpheus, as Dream of the Endless, has many arduous tasks and duties that he must tend to, these forced family affairs being his most tedious of them all he thinks at times. Determinedly and with great difficulty, he pushes all of those tender sentiments for his love, for his May, aside and carefully hides them beneath the usual mask of cold impassivity that he dons before his siblings. Steadying his emotions one final time, he steps forward to enter his brother’s keep.

When Destiny had called on him earlier that day, he had resolved immediately not to mention his betrothal with May, wholly unwilling to expose both her and their happy news to Desire, his most poisonous viper of a sibling. He had thought at the time that this silence would be easily accomplished, that his tendency to not speak at these gatherings would make his reticence seem more natural than suspicious. He hasn't been in the habit of sharing anything personal with his family for eons. As he had told May when he’d explained the dynamics of the Endless to her, they assuredly don’t all get along, their relationships mostly ranging as they do from apathetically strained to viciously antagonistic. None of which lend to much in the way of open and honest communication.

Within moments of arriving, however, he realizes with an odd sense of apprehension that any kind of discretion on the matter of his upcoming union might well be a lost cause.

"Congratulations Dream!" Death greets him, cheerful while she envelopes him in a hug, the warmth of her joy tugging his lips up into an unbidden smile.

He's cautiously content for a moment before he comes back to himself, remembering all the reasons he had not wanted to speak of this here and now.

"I thank you, my sister," he murmurs against her hair anyway as he stiltedly returns the embrace, tightening his hold for a minute before he takes his arms from around her. Her kind, exuberant grin is one of surprise, which he supposes is fair. He's rarely so accepting of physical touch, even from the only member of his family that he readily gets along with.

His love for May, though, has done something to him, something transformative. He feels made anew in the light of her, in the wonder of their care for one another. For the first time in ages, he feels the tentative blooming of hope for his own life outside of his function. Just the thought of her makes him feel softer somehow, more gracious, as if he is suddenly more dream than nightmare.

"What's this, then?" Desire asks, their gold eyes glowing in something that Morpheus doesn't like, and he finds that in an instant his shadows instinctively stretch back over him, taut in anticipation, his newfound optimism receding in their wake. He sits down at the table, rigidly settling into his usual place there regardless of the low hum of violence already vibrating through him. As surely as he ignores the lavish spread of food before him, he advises himself that he must also ignore this particularly loathsome sibling of his.

"Dream's in love," Delirium chimes in. She's brought butterflies with her, manifested creations from her own realm, and they flutter aimlessly around her where she's sitting on the floor beside the table. She fiddles with one of them, bright purple and shimmering, before it lands atop her head and transforms into a red streak of her hair. "All that bloody bloody light. I see why you like her. She's sooooooo warm."

"In love?" Desire laughs, and the sound of it to anyone outside this room would be delightful in its promise of what's to come. Morpheus only tenses at the noise, thinking it reminds him of nothing so much as nails ceaselessly clawing down a chalkboard. "I don't see what's so fascinating about that. Aren't you always in love?"

Morpheus glares at them. "As it's such a common occurrence, you should not overly concern yourself with it this time, sibling." He glances around the room, both to distract himself and to divert Desire far away from this topic. "Where is Despair?" he asks, though he doesn't think he truly cares. He's not sorry to see that she's apparently missing from this gathering.

"Dream is to bind," Delirium says suddenly and twirls, her butterflies taking flight and haphazardly swirling around her. "The light too. Twined together. He's like a happy, dry cat. Delight would see."

"Bind?" Desire questions, their manner flirtatious. Dream is not fooled in the slightest. "You're betrothed? Why brother, who's the lucky lady? It is a lady, right?"

He must ignore them, he reminds himself. He refuses to speak of May in Desire's presence at the very least, refuses to part with any information that this sibling could use against her. Morpheus tightens his jaw in determination and turns to Death, intent on asking after her and her work.

"Dream of the Endless will bond with the entity who calls herself May Westin," Destiny interjects in his typically unhelpful way, and Morpheus could groan in frustration (if he were given to bouts of such behavior) at his ill-timed mention of her name here of all places. Of course his attempts to keep from exposing his beloved to the rest of the Endless would be for naught. The universe is rarely so kind as to just make things easy for him, and Destiny's meddling is proof positive of that.

Morpheus thinks he should go now, should bid his family farewell and retreat, but he is far too stubborn to demonstrate such cowardice. Instead, his muscles stiffen, coiling like he is preparing for a physical blow while he slides that well-worn impassivity back on his face.

“Westin? May, ” Desire muses, two fingers on their chin as they pretend to consider. “Weeeeeestin.”

“Desire,” Morpheus growls, and his irritating sibling grins at him. Their grin is pointed, nothing more than a threatening baring of their teeth, and he feels his stomach twist in something reminiscent of dread.

“I have heard of someone who calls themselves by that moniker. If we’re thinking of the same entity, that is.”

Desire is far too gleeful, far too pleased, and Morpheus tells himself to get up and leave, to not listen to them, to plug his ears, something. Anything but to hear their manipulation. Their poison is nothing he should pay heed to, nothing he should allow to darken the curious lightness he feels with May.

“I had a fellow not far back, a Roderick Burrrrr- something. He was desirous to seek out a book that she had crafted the spells for. Some grimoire with an incantation in it to capture an Endless…." Desire smirks as they tell him this. "Though why any future member of our family would create such a thing is beyond me.”

Dream has gone rigid, his hands balled up into fists at his side. A feral fury rises in his awareness, struggling to get free of his control, and yet no matter his rage, he's reeling with what he's just been told. She can't have. Not May. “Enough,” he bites out, distantly aware of his sister Death putting a gentle hand on his arm to try and calm him. “You would dare?”

Desire laughs, as if Dream's anger is particularly amusing, which he knows all too well is likely the case for them. “Brother, I only relay the truth to you, I swear. I thought you knew seeing that the two of you are apparently betrothed to be bonded. ” As if suddenly realizing the enormity of what they've revealed, his sibling puts a hand over their mouth in blatantly false shock. "Oh, no, brother. That wasn't the same spell used to bind you, was it?"

Morpheus stands, and it's only Death who holds him back from jumping at his sibling across the table and ending them. There have been many such occasions in their eons of bickering where he has wanted to visit violence on this particular family member, but never one quite as profoundly tempting as this moment is proving to be. What Desire has said must be a lie, must be something deviously convoluted to suit their purpose. His beloved is kind, good in a way that cannot be feigned. May would never contribute to something so dark as the grimoire, never lend her time to creating that which she knew would hurt others, that which she knew would eventually hurt him.

Would she?

He doesn't want to even consider it, but there are so many things in her past that she is secretive about, things that she will not speak of even in the safety he offers her, and he's alarmed at the wariness that creeps over him as he thinks more on the possibility. His fists clench tightly at his sides again, and he can feel his eyes start to fade into that nightmare black that his temper brings on.

"Dream, don't," Death orders him, frowning at his anger before she turns her displeasure to Desire. "Leave him be, Desire. He's happy. Let's all be happy for him, yeah?"

"Absolutely, sister. Of course I'm happy for him. I only wonder why he would bond with a female who was responsible for decades of his imprisonment? Maybe I'm also a little worried for him. That sort of relationship just doesn't seem…. healthy." The faux concern in their expression is the final straw, infuriating Morpheus beyond his breaking point as he tips into a wrathful rage.

His shadows swell, and he lunges then, a snarl on his face when he gets his hands around Desire's throat to squeeze, intent on finally murdering them. He hates them for their many misdeeds in the past, hates them for their pettiness, but he hates them most of all for doing this, for infecting the wondrous beauty of his hope with their malevolence. It takes much of Death's strength to pull him back from the suicidal act of throttling Desire, to stop him from bringing the Kindly Ones down on him for this attempt at fratricide, and all while his loathsome sibling laughs gleefully at their own triumph.

And triumph it is.

The destructive seed has been planted, the damage ready to grow from the doubt that Desire has given to him this day. They are not lying, despite their many games. The truth, Morpheus knows, is often far sharper of a blade than a lie, and his sibling would pierce him with nothing but their most lethal dagger if presented the chance.

Breathing heavily, a wrathful storm building under his skin, he excuses himself hastily before shifting from his brother's realm.

PRESENT DAY...

In the low light of May's room, Morpheus sits in a plush chair and endeavors to wrangle his little girl to settle against his chest.

No longer content to stay sweetly cradled in his arms, she attempts to stand by putting weight on her feet where they rest on his lap. Of course, she is still far too young to master such a skill, but she nonetheless tries like this almost every time he holds her now, and he has grown used to having to brace her with his hands while she does so. Though, it's not as if he truly has much of a choice in the matter, really, given that she seems determined to carry on in her efforts without a single thought for her safety, without a single thought for what might happen were she to fall. And as much as this recklessness worries him, he is glad of her fearlessness, glad to see her so unafraid of what might happen that she doesn't even consider it when she sets her mind to something. He is painfully aware, as all parents are, that when she is grown she will learn to be frightened, will learn that there are things that can hurt her. And while he would not hesitate to protect her with his very life, he knows that gaining such knowledge is simply an unfortunate aspect of maturing, one that he is loathe to ever allow her to experience.

But for now, she is his baby, safe and unburdened by such alarming truths, and so he focuses on enjoying her innocent childishness in the moment. Usually when she has tired herself out from the exhausting task of trying to stand, she collapses on him in weariness and he speaks to her in low, quiet tones, rubbing her back while he soothes her into sleep.

He gathers very quickly that this will not be the case tonight.

Aurora is much too energetic for as late as it is, so he knows she will be dramatically more difficult to ease into drowsiness. She grabs a hank of his raven hair in her perfect little hands, pulling it into her mouth and gumming at it from where she leans her face closer to his, near enough so that her own mess of wild, midnight black curls tickle his nose.

Unbothered, Dream of the Endless, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms, continues on patiently with his story.

She holds her head up very well on her own, his little girl, and babbles near constantly at him during these visits. It occurs to him that she is growing far too quickly for his liking, maturing at a rapid pace that he rather wishes he could slow down. As that is not possible, he wishes instead that he could devote every last second of his time to her care, basking in her presence for as long as she would tolerate such a thing, but that will never be either. He has duties to attend, and... and there is the issue of May, the issue of everything gone wrong between them, the issue of their quiet avoidance of one another.

Sometimes, he thinks of how different things might be as her father if he didn't feel compelled to only sneak in to see her, if he weren't so lost as to how to improve things with May that he might broach the subject with her of allowing him to come whenever he would like. He tries to never let himself think of how different things might be if May had not been banished and they could be happy together, a loving family without all these unfamiliar, thorny pathways to navigate. And there are some thoughts, the most mournful of them, that he absolutely forbids himself to wistfully dwell on, beautifully sad things such as how he should have liked to feel his babe when she kicked in May's belly and how he might have spoken to Aurora while she had formed, nestled safely in his once betrothed's womb. He refuses to imagine how wonderful it would have been to hear his starshine's first cry when she finally greeted the world, refuses to imagine himself giving his love and strength and support to the mother of his child while she delivered their daughter.

He tries to never think of it, but sometimes the fantasy of it plays in his mind unbidden, and he's left bitter and sorrowful at what might have been, left grieving a possibility that can never be.

Giving an adorable growl, his starshine leans over on to his cheek with an open mouth and gums at the high bone of it, getting his face noticeably wet as she does so. Once, such a thing might have bothered him, might have incited his temper, but now he can do nothing other but to chuckle softly at her infantile antics.

"I assume you've eaten, little one. You need not attempt to consume me." Aurora stills at what he's said, almost as if she's considering it with an uncommon seriousness. And then mere seconds later a brilliant smile lights up her face while she giggles at him, her blue eyes sparkling like she's understood the joke and judged it hilarious before she reaches out to tug at the neck of his coat and pull that into her mouth as well.

"Starshine," he reprimands ever so lightly, fond exasperation on his features as she sucks on the fabric. She squirms back against his chest with a grunt, curling into him as she finally, finally lets out the sleepy yawn that's nearly an hour overdue. It is to his great relief that she begins to settle at last, to calm enough to possibly rest. However, she can't seem to resist smacking him in the chin once more while she does this, utterly startling him with her unexpected assault. Even with such an attack, albeit an adorable one, he can do naught but smile tenderly at her while he rocks her gently, soothing her into peaceful slumber. It does not take long for her to start dozing, and when she is firmly asleep he holds her for a bit longer still, taking his stolen opportunity to relish in the warm weight of her as he thinks over the past few weeks.

Lucienne, though he hates to concede it, had been right about bringing Viego to the Dreaming for a visit. He's not oblivious to the way that the subjects of his realm have been trying to help May, trying to coax her into decent health, despite how obtuse Matthew might think him on the matter. And still, regardless of all their cosseting, he has watched her weaken and known in the pit of his belly that she was fading from them all in spite of their attempts. He's seen her grow paler, seen her so fragile that he cannot understand how she will ever survive without his own power sustaining her.

There are days that he thinks it is the only reason she still breathes.

It was not surprising, then, that he hadn't wanted to let them leave, hadn't wanted either of them out of his sight. In truth, he still does not. The pang of fear that had grabbed hold of him as he'd thought of May and Aurora trapped in another binding circle, as he'd thought of being too late to get to them should they be taken, had been nothing less than staggering. His family, and they are both family now whether May wishes to accept such a label or not, is worth every universe in existence to him. He does not want to imagine what sort of terrible violence he might summon to keep them safe, what lengths he would go to to see them alive and well. Letting them go, even for a matter of hours, had been near panic inducing, but he had felt he had no real choice.

Though he is loath to admit to it, he is willing to try anything that May might improve. Anything.

It is not love, this desperation of his. How could it be love between them? She'd admitted to her feelings concerning him when she spoke with her brother, admitted that she forgave him for not bonding with her but hated him for banishing her. Though the inferno of Morpheus' own anger towards her has cooled, he's sure he doesn't love her either, but he does owe her. He owes her more than he believes he can ever repay. She is…. broken now, but he recalls when he'd emerged from Roderick Burgess' cage, after she'd saved him, and she'd helped heal him then when he too was broken, even before they knew love between them. She'd helped rebuild his realm, helped give him hope again, helped make him comfortable with touch anew. No matter her betrayal, she had indeed given him that assistance, had offered her time and power freely for him and his need.

Most importantly, she'd given him the beautiful miracle in his arms, his precious starshine, the biggest debt he knows he can never repay, not with anything in this realm or that is in his power to give. And so he swears to himself that he will do all that he can for her, which is to protect her, to keep her safe, to try everything he is capable of to see her whole and hale again, even if that means sustaining her with his power for the rest of her life.

He carefully tries not to remember those decades ago, before they'd known each other's all-consuming love, when he'd held her in his arms and promised her protection, when he'd asked for her trust and she'd given it so willingly.

She doesn't trust him now, maybe never will again. Viego had not spoken a lie when he'd said that she was terrified of him. Morpheus had known that to some extent, but he hadn't realized just how deep it went, how evident her fear was to everyone else. He reflects on how much he must have hurt her that she believes such terrible things of him. Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly morose, he wonders if she is right to expect the worst where he's concerned.

He keeps getting pulled back to her conversation with her brother during their trip to the Waking. Morpheus had listened through Matthew as the siblings had dined outside that eatery together, blatantly eavesdropping to try and get a better understanding of what May was struggling with. It was the most he had heard her speak in so long, since before he'd discovered her betrayal at least, and what she had said had been nearly... devastating to him. He hadn't realized why she was having such trouble taking sustenance, had thought that maybe he had healed her incorrectly, and when he heard her tearfully admit to the ramifications that the starvation from her imprisonment had caused, he had wished for one selfish minute that he had just healed her incorrectly. That, something as simple as shoddy mending, he could fix. Trauma…. Trauma wasn't anything that his power could undo.

And it is assuredly trauma. Lucienne had not been wrong concerning that either, though Morpheus wonders if it is all to do with her ordeal at Alexander Burgess' hands. When they were kids, she had said while she talked with her brother, and Morpheus had instantly been on alert. He's thought for a long time that something terrible must have happened to May and Viego as children, that they'd went through something horrific together as youths. What that horrific something is, though, he does not know, and it is no longer his place to ask. He'd given up the right to any of her secrets when he gave her up, and he's all too aware of it. It doesn't stay his curiosity, however, especially since he believes it might be affecting her even now, that it might be making what she'd endured in the binding circle somehow worse. But he won't question her on it, as doing so is no longer his place in the aftermath of their separation. Regardless of how much information he is or is not privy to, he simply resigns himself to continue with his own determined attempts to see her mended.

He sighs in an odd weariness, knowing as he does that the peace of his time with Aurora will end soon. He has work that he must finish this night, duties of his function that must be seen to. Tomorrow Thessaly will arrive, the witch that Joanna Constantine had located who she'd sworn might be able to help him in his search for that cursed grimoire. It will be the second time Thessaly has visited this realm, the first having been during May's banishment when he merely sought the acquisition of that cursed tome for his own safety. And while the book and its spells remain a threat to him, knowing that it is still in the waking world when it could be used against his daughter strikes a somehow worse terror in his heart. He had resolved months ago that he would find it and burn it to ashes, that he would make certain his little one was protected from another binding circle for the rest of her life.

He stands carefully, trying to stay as quiet as he can since both May and Aurora are resting, while he moves his daughter into her crib. He brushes a hand over her silken hair, smoothing it back from her face as he takes a moment to study the perfection of her, smiling at the sight of her tiny pursed mouth and her rosy cherubic cheeks. His love for his daughter, as always, tightens its already taut hold on his heart.

"Goodnight, my starshine," he murmurs before he leaves. "Sleep well."

After the door clicks near silently behind him, May finally dozes off from where she'd been only half asleep, and when she dreams at last, it is of him. It's a common enough occurrence that she's been dealing with since her nightmares had ceased, something she's grown bitterly used to. Most nights she sees snatches of memories of them from the beginning of their relationship when they had been happy and in love, and the dreams are so vivid and beautiful that she often wakes with tears on her cheeks, often greets the morning sunlight of the Dreaming in grief for what she had and what she had lost. Where Morpheus is concerned, May has too many conflicting emotions, more than she thinks she will ever be able to successfully untangle. She had loved him (at first when they’d sworn themselves to one another), and then she was frightened of him (when she had lost him and he’d nearly killed her), and then she yearned for him (his child growing in her belly and she’d thought of course he would come for her), and then she hated him (because he hadn’t, because his own stubbornness had left her practically dead and powerless, causing her to make sacrifices that hollowed out the very core of her), and now she just….

Now she just does all of those things at once.

She's crying when next she lurches in consciousness, her dream still fresh in her mind. It had been one of sweet remembrance, so much love in it that her heart hurts in its aftermath, aching with a distinctly physical pain as she begins her morning rituals. She feeds, changes, and dresses her daughter, all the while trying to ignore the knot in her stomach and the tightness in her chest that is nothing more than her sense of mourning, of grief.

When they get to the library, Aurora is as happy as ever to see Lucienne, babbling and laughing as the librarian hefts her up into her arms. Her little girl stretches tiny hands out, grabbing for Lucienne's glasses as her friend chuckles at the child's antics.

"Can I help?" May asks softly while her daughter yanks on the collar of Lucienne's shirt to pull it into her mouth and chew on it, leaving a wet spot blooming on the fabric.

"I have new arrivals you could sort through," Lucienne offers with a careful smile. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine." She's wearing her mask of brittle calm that she thinks, that she hopes, might fool her friend. "Are the new arrivals in their usual place?"

Lucienne frowns. Not fooled, then, May surmises nervously. She really doesn't want them all to worry about her so much. It's as if Lucienne can hear her thoughts, though, as if she knows everything May is incapable of speaking aloud, because she doesn't say anything else. Instead, she simply nods, a sad resignation shining out from her rich ebony eyes while she follows May to where the new books are, carrying Aurora in her arms as she does.

And for a few hours, May is granted the bliss of mindlessness, of being able to ignore her many emotions as she loses herself in caring for Aurora and handling the tasks that her friend puts to her.

A person named Thessaly apparently shows up that morning while May is still in the library with Lucienne, and she knows by Matthew's hushed tones three rows over that this is an unwelcome thing. May hovers near Aurora's small crib while she sleeps, a few books in her hands that need sorting, and she can't help but to freeze as their conversation reaches her, can't help but to go still as their words filter through to her hearing.

"The witch is here. She turned up at the gates," Matthew starts.

"Wonderful," Lucienne responds, the bite of sarcasm in her voice clear to any listening. "What does he think he's doing?"

"She's supposed to be helping him with the book, but everyone says-"

"I'm aware of what the gossips are saying, Matthew," Lucienne cuts in flatly, her tone sharp in that way it gets when she's angry about something.

"Oh, man. Is May gonna find out? I don't want her to… to get hurt any more," Matthew croaks out sympathetically, and alarm rises up in May so quickly that she feels as if she might retch. Hurt? Why would she be hurt? She can't... She doesn't... think she's strong enough to withstand any more pain at the moment, either physical or mental.

"There's nothing to be done. You know how he is."

He? Morpheus then. Lucienne must be talking about Morpheus, and that makes May go stiff with apprehension. If Morpheus wants to hurt her, if he wants to withdraw his protection of her, there's nothing she or anyone else can do about it. He's always been more powerful than she has but especially now, especially while she lacks her magic.

"Maybe one of us should talk to him?" the raven suggests, sounding hopeful even as May turns over the idea in her mind of grabbing her daughter up and running with her. Where would she go, though? How would she leave this place without Morpheus or Viego to shift her from it? Not for the first time, she curses her lack of magic, curses her own binding of it even though rationally she knows she'd had no other choice.

Lucienne snorts derisively. "Good luck with that undertaking, Matthew. You and I both know he won't listen."

"Maybe we should just try and keep them away from each other?"

A few moments of silence pass before Lucienne finally answers, her tone troubled. "We will try."

Despite her fear that she will be tossed out of the realm, it becomes abundantly clear what's going on not an hour later when Morpheus introduces May to the witch as Matthew had called her. Thessaly is pretty enough really, May observes detachedly as she sizes the woman up, lingering overlong on her cat-like features and emerald green eyes. The woman has her arm entwined with his, and she's leaning rather intimately against the Endless like they're ready to walk to his room for an afternoon tryst.

This is what her friends had been trying to protect her from. This is the hurt they'd been trying to avoid. Not for the first time, May wishes she hadn't even gotten out of bed that morning, that she hadn't even survived birthing Aurora, because this... this feels like her belly has been ran through with a jagged edged knife, like her insides are so knotted up with heartbreak that no power in any world could untangle them.

"Oh, the baby's beautiful," the witch- Thessaly- croons, and it's only Lucienne stepping in front of Aurora that prevents the woman from touching the girl. For some reason, it's irrationally nice to think that Lucienne dislikes this stranger too, that she might disapprove of this special friend of Morpheus', and it takes a great feat of mental strength for May to finally find her voice again in the midst of her own shock.

"Thank you," she returns at last, forcing herself steady as she can.

Morpheus seems surprised to hear her speak. "It is good to see you, May Westin." The formal tone he's using towards her cuts deeper than she thought possible with such a simple greeting, the fact that he'd used one of her many false surnames, Westin, somehow making it worse.

"Of course, Lord Morpheus."

Perplexed, he studies her, his forehead creasing. "It is only Morpheus, May. As you are well aware."

"Then it's only May, Morpheus. As you are well aware also."

He frowns, seemingly unsure as to how exactly he's offended her, but May can't help it. Not really. The appearance of the other woman has set her teeth on edge. She tells herself that she doesn't like her song, that the sharp, harsh notes in its chords are crowded too close together, breaking off in places, the discordance jarring to her. This woman has done terrible things, and her melody, if one could call it that, gives it away.

But…. she can't completely lie to herself and pretend that her dislike of the woman doesn't also have something to do with her flirtatious behavior towards Morpheus, the male who until not long ago at all had been May's. It hurts to see them so close together, very obviously involved in some manner. It hurts to know that he's moved on so quickly while she is so clearly still struggling from the loss of him and what they'd had.

Of the whirlwind of feelings she always has now where he’s concerned, hatred and pain peak above the rest for the moment.

Lucienne, the clever, wonderful friend she is, politely excuses the both of them as she gathers up Aurora to take her and May to the kitchens (and away from the library) so that they can visit with Minnie, leaving Thessaly behind to assist Lord Morpheus in his task, which May is sure is nothing more than a considerate lie on Lucienne's part. She doesn't elaborate what that task is to May, and May doesn't ask. She tells herself that she doesn't care, that whatever they're doing is nothing to her, but... she knows better. Curiously, her chest hurts as if her heart is breaking further, and that should surprise her.

Honestly, she didn't know there was any part of it left for Morpheus to shatter.

When they get to the kitchen, the girls working in there all stop their hushed whispering, and May knows that they'd been gossiping, most likely about the visitor. It's only Minnie that comes forward to greet her, making an obvious face over her wan appearance before she ushers her to a seat at the large island counter in the middle of the room.

She tsks at her. "Lamb, you look a ghost. Did you eat this mornin'?" May's smile is faint but polite. They are good to her, and no matter what she's going through, she'll return that. She loves them all so much.

"Of course."

Minnie studies her like a mother might study an errant, intractable child while lies spill from their lips. "Hmmm."

Aurora shrieks for attention, a relief, since May knows that her daughter has just saved her from a lecture or a force-feeding, which mostly consists of Minnie putting all manner of food before May and guilt-tripping her into picking at it.

"You've brought the wee one," Minnie exclaims excitedly, and Aurora makes little noises in response to her. The woman grabs her from Lucienne and cuddles her against her own ample bosom, speaking to May's daughter in her sweetest tone. It warms her heart, that, listening to Minnie tell the girl about the issues with the carrots from the garden in an enthusiastic baby voice. She smiles and lets the comfort of it wash over her.

This. This is what she wants for her child, what she sometimes dared to dream of for her while she was trapped in that circle. Unlike May herself, Aurora will grow up with love and peace and people who care for her. She wants her daughter to never know the horrors she had faced as a child, wants her to never know what it means to feel the darkness stain her very soul and to know it won't come off no matter how much good one tries to do. She wants her little love to never know the harsh bite of suffering or hunger or pain.

"Would you like somethin' to nibble on, dear?" Minnie asks, her usual affection clear in her tone as she tries to cajole May to eat, but May only shakes her head.

"No, thank you," she declines, before moving sluggishly to a large window in the kitchen, one facing out to the courtyard. With a start, she realizes that they’re both there walking in the gardens, Morpheus and Thessaly, the sight of them turning her stomach. Morpheus stops their stroll, pointing out the delicate dream orchids to the woman, drawing attention to the beautiful blossoms that May and Mervyn had planted over a decade ago.

The flowers themselves had been a pain. They'd struggled for nearly a year to keep the damned things from dying, their fragility making it difficult for them to take root. They'd had to take shifts day and night for constant watering (despite a disgruntled Morpheus pouting at her like an angry cat when he'd made the decision to sit outside with her on her nights instead of being away from her), and she'd kept the cold away from them with her magic for months until at last Mervyn had declared them firmly rooted and sturdy enough to keep. And both he and May had shared a celebratory cigar afterwards that she hadn't really liked the taste of, but she'd smoked anyway, enjoying the custodian's boisterous company, enjoying the change of his usual heavy, slow song to a rare one of jaunty, quick-paced happiness.

Something in her snaps (loud enough that she thinks she can hear a crack inside of herself) to see Thessaly reach down and pluck a deep lavender orchid to place over her ear, to adorn her hair.

The dream orchids are strictly off limits. They have been since they'd cultivated and nurtured them and toiled so long on their planting. Even the garden fairies avoid them. Morpheus knows this, had been charmed by them at the time so long ago, but currently he doesn't even seem to care when the witch ravages one of them, cutting its long life short to decorate her hair, as if the tiny sentient beings are no more than a bauble or jewel that she can callously murder for her own beautification. May can feel the other orchids titter in shock before a few of them scream, shrieking in terror and despair. In a panic, almost dazed by it, she watches the Endless and his new paramour as they tread the garden path, unsure of what she's supposed to do until finally coming to her senses. She steels herself to intervene if Thessaly dares reach for another one, but she quickly discovers that she needn't have bothered because Morpheus and his new mistress soon resume their walk.

When the two of them have continued on, casually strolling away from where they've inflicted so much damage, so much destruction, May wastes no time in marching out to where the remaining ones are crying, awash in their grief. With a gentle hand, she reaches out to stroke the others, unsurprised when they flinch away as if they're scared of hands now, even the ones that had lovingly tended them for so long.

"Shhhh, sweetlings," she murmurs, sinking to her knees before them, her magic sense rising up inside of her, the only part of her power that wasn't dulled by the binding spell she'd performed on herself. Their anguish curdles in her belly, and she fights the urge to throw up the few bites of food she'd managed to choke down that morning.

The broken stem flutters in the breeze, nectar leaking out of the jagged end of it like blood.

She sobs then. She's too far gone to care that anyone sees, to care what anyone might think as she breaks down amongst the pitiful song her lovely flowers are trilling out. They’re broken now too. Forever. Irreparably. One more loss in a sea of loss that she's drowning in. It's as if that last drop of misery is all she needs for the sorrow to overflow inside of her.

"May?" He's behind her. Morpheus. "Where is Aurora? Why are you-"

She cuts a glare at him, suddenly indescribably angry. He's taken aback at the vehemence he can surely see in her eyes. She stands, resentment giving her strength she doesn't usually have anymore.

"Fix it," she orders, her voice harsh with her fury. He’s shattered so much in his carelessness, and she irrationally wants him to put it back together.

"Fix what?" he bites out, seemingly on edge. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The orchids." Her vision blurs for a moment, and when she reaches a confused hand up to her face, she feels tears there, still spilling over her cheeks. When had she started crying again? "They're….. screaming. She… She murdered one of them. Right in front of the others, and now…. now they’re…. they’re broken."

Confusedly, he glances at the flowers. They're shivering in their hysteria.

"You gave them sentience?" he breathes in sudden horrified understanding.

"Fix it," she repeats, the sorrow in her melting into something like desperation. "Please." She's not too proud to beg him, not if it will stop their hurt, not if it will stop the hurt, not if it will all stop hurting. She just needs it all to stop. "Please. It's…. It's terrible."

"I… cannot. You gave them life, not I," he tells her earnestly, and May turns away, unable to bear looking at him any longer, hopelessness threatening to overwhelm her further while she sinks to her knees anew, trying to settle the others, trying to soothe them as best she can without her magic. It's all she can do now, this meager bit of comfort. Many times since she'd been required to lock her power away had May felt the loss of it, but this is so acute that she wants to scream in frustration. She's useless now. The sound of them crying is heart wrenching, and May gazes over them forlornly, more tears splashing down her face at the utter woe of her creations' ruin.

Beside her, he crouches down on his haunches.

"May…" His voice is soft, as if he’s speaking to a wild animal that needs calming, but she doesn't care. She hates him now, she thinks. Hates him still. Hates him again. "Allow me to take you inside."

"Go away," she commands firmly in response, despite that she feels as if she’s trembling apart on the inside. She doesn’t want to be alone like this, doesn’t ever want to be alone again, but she’s so very angry at him. For a moment, she sees that terrible night they had fought, a flash of his power aimed at her so long ago and fading to sand at the shield of her magic. What was she doing in his realm now? He'd almost killed her, hadn't he? Shouldn’t she get far away? Why is she still here? Why... is she... in the Dreaming with him? Unless... Had she ever left? Had she ever came back at all?

The gold paint of that damned binding circle flashes through her mind. The fear and the pain almost choking in their intensity. What if she's not here, but instead... instead there? Could she still be trapped in that hopeless hell? Her child dead? Sweet Aurora nothing more than a cold corpse on the floor? Her cruel death meant as another inflicted brutality to make May cooperate?

May squeezes her eyes shut, grounding herself, her fingernails digging into her palm as she makes a fist. It stings, but the pain is welcome now because it... it reminds her that this is real.

"May," Morpheus calls yet again, and she can't bear the gentleness of his tone, not when she's so frightened and furious and... out of sorts.

"I'll make my own way inside."

"I am... sorry for your loss," he offers, and he seems sincere enough for all that she doesn't care.

"It's not my loss. It's theirs. They're the ones screaming in agony."

"I cannot hear it." He holds out his hand, moonlight pale and strong. She had once thought that they were beautiful, his hands, had once admired and stroked his long pianist fingers when she’d had the right to marvel at them. He’s offering something now, but she can’t think what it is, can't fathom what he could be suggesting to her. "But I should like to."

Oh, right. He wants to hear their cries. Flinty-eyed, she glances down at his proffered hand. Should she do it? Will he even give a damn? She bites her tongue on asking him what the point is, on how a cruel bastard like him could ever be bothered about something so insignificant as her orchids when he'd been so callous with her heart. But then she changes her mind, shoving her own palm roughly in his. Even if he doesn’t care, she wants him to see the mess he’s made, wants him to understand what his carelessness has cost someone that isn’t him, what it always seems to cost someone who isn't him. Despite that May never did this while they were in love, it's easy enough to expand her magic sense to him so that he can hear what she does. She watches him while he starts at their shrieks, looking at them as if he's seeing them for the first time. Some of the newer blooms, alarmed at the sorrow from their elders, whimper and shake like small children afraid. May takes her free hand and reaches out anew, willing them to understand that she won't hurt them, that she won't let anyone hurt them again for as long as she breathes. Morpheus can clearly see them jerk away from her, can hear the sobs and the wailing and the keening cries that they make. These flowers have only known peace and gentle care and complete safety, and one careless action has ripped all of that away from them. They will never have it back, no matter what anyone does. He pulls his hand away at last, and May lets it go without struggle. Their eyes meet, his sparkling blue with tears that overflow a little, making a few shining trails on his cheeks.

"I am sorry," he rasps out.

"Sorry doesn't make it better," she tells him as she sluggishly gets to her feet on shaking legs, tears still falling over her face while she does. Her head hurts, and she doesn't quite feel right. She's a little disoriented, but Aurora has started fussing in the kitchen, and May must go to her. "Next time, tell your mistress to stay away from my orchids."

His forehead creases in what might be confusion, though she isn’t sure. "My mistress?"

He calls out for her as she leaves him behind, but May doesn't answer, too hollowed out by anger and melancholy and something unspeakable to even think about interacting with him any longer. When she gets to Aurora, May gathers her up, incredibly relieved to have her daughter’s warm weight in her arms. Holding her tight, she ducks into one of the rarely used small pantries adjacent to the kitchen, sitting on the floor in there with her back against the wall as she soaks in the quiet and tries to just… re-center herself, to settle the fuck down.

She’s not surprised when Matthew swoops in not five minutes later, though, yapping at her about his mom’s garden when he was a kid. She knows that Morpheus has likely sent him in to keep an eye on her, but as she calms a small fraction at a time, she can’t be angry at the raven for that. He really has no choice but to obey the Dream King. After an hour or so of his chatter, she eventually finds herself stretching out a hand to stroke his head absentmindedly.

“Thank you, Matthew,” she offers faintly.

He seems startled. “Sure, May. Are you …. Are you feelin’ all right?”

Unbidden, her eyes water again and she attempts to hold back the flow of yet more tears.

“No! No…. I’m sorry! Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean-.”

“It’s... nothing to do with you. I... I promise.”

“Okay,” the raven says just before Aurora kicks a tiny foot at him. “Ow…. May, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure your kid is trying to kill me.”

May snorts out a watery laugh, surprising even herself. It doesn't feel hollow when she does this but instead like a comfortable heat on a freezing day, like stepping into the sunshine when one is chilled. ”You waved the wing in front of her face yesterday morning, Matthew. You don’t have anyone to blame for your new bald patch but yourself.”

“I didn’t think she’d yank some of my feathers out. It hurt!” Matthew exclaims in mock protest, and May knows that he's just trying to divert her, to cheer her up in whatever way he can, and she loves him for it.

“She might end up being a terror like her father,” May predicts wryly, looking down at her whole tiny world while she sleeps, letting her gaze rove over the plump cheeks of Aurora's face and her long lashes, focusing on the pout of her rosebud mouth as she purses it in slumber, and Matthew caws out an easy chuckle as May does this. Gratefulness washes over her, and she is suddenly overwhelmingly thankful for her family here (and they are family to her whether they accept such a title or not), for Lucienne and Minnie and Mervyn and sweet Matthew, all the ones who radiate such warmth for her while she shivers with the cold of what she's going through, the iciness of misery that aches all the way down into her bones.

But Morpheus…

A shiver goes through her, the implications of what’s just happened whirling around in her mind. She’d yelled at him, would absolutely yell some more if she weren’t so tired. Could this be the thing that prompts him to banish her again? Is he already planning it? Possibly tired of her disrespect and the strain of keeping her alive? May shakes her head, trying to remind herself that he won’t do that, but her fear lingers, its icy grip holding tight to her, even as Matthew begins talking again at her side. And it’s all May can do to keep herself together, to stall the inevitable breakdown until she manages to escape to the safety of her rooms.

"May?" Lucienne calls as she twists the doorknob to May's chamber, giving her friend no chance to actually answer her before she barges in. It's not that Lucienne's being rude, but she knows better than to permit May the opportunity to disallow her entry, to turn her away in the midst of the no-doubt overwhelming emotions her friend is suffering at present.

News of the incident in the garden had reached Lucienne quickly, one of Minnie's assistants rushing into the library to breathlessly relay it to her, and as Lucienne had listened, she'd fought the urge to seek out Lord Morpheus and smack him over the head with a heavy book. Not that it would hurt him, to her great displeasure, but she'd been furious enough that it had been a real possibility for a moment or two until her senses had came back to her.

Now, she finds May lying on the bed, the covers pulled up over her head as if she's hiding from everything around her, and Lucienne cannot blame her for that in the slightest. She'd known as soon as Lord Morpheus had told her of Thessaly's visit that it was going to go sideways. The rumors had abounded on the witch's first sojourn to this realm with sordid gossip of the Dream King having taken another lover so soon, and while Lucienne is almost sure that is not what's really going on between them, even she can admit that it appears … far more factual than Lord Morpheus seems to realize. Lucienne has always been respectful of him, always tempering her responses on his feelings and sometimes questionable behavior, but in this… in this she thinks he is being nothing less than an idiot, a fool showing no consideration for how his actions affect others.

And yes, it makes her angry. Rageful even.

However, she resolves to address Lord Morpheus later. Currently, May is in a state, and Lucienne is fairly certain she's the only one who might get through to her in it. Carefully, she sets the tray she'd brought on the bed before taking hold of the edge of the blanket to yank it up, uncovering her friend.

"Leave me alone," May murmurs, sounding disjointed, her voice clearly rough from crying. "Please, Lucienne. Just…."

"No," is Lucienne's firm answer. She glances towards Aurora's crib, grateful to see that the girl is fast asleep. "I've brought food, and you must eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Lucienne fixes her friend with the sternest stare she's capable of. "You are never hungry anymore, but you will sit up and have a few bites regardless."

"Lucienne-"

"I will not leave until you do so, May." Gentling a bit, Lucienne settles herself on the bed, stretching out a hand to brush her fingers against May's hair, smoothing it back despite how May flinches with the contact. This is another thing that she's noticed since May's return here, since her captivity in Alexander Burgess' basement. Her friend cannot seem to handle touch any longer unless she is the one to initiate it, which is something she almost never does save for tending to Aurora, and it is a pitiful thing to see. May had always been so tactile before, generous with her embraces, and the hesitancy emanating from her now concerning this simple physicality is sorrowful, a clear sign of just how badly May has been hurt. "You should speak to me. It… It might help."

Sniffling, May finally sits up, and Lucienne's heart twists as she studies her friend's appearance. Her eyes are red rimmed and wet, her face gaunt and sickly. She looks a mess, a mournful, grieving shadow of how happy she'd seemed mere years ago. Lucienne is not ever fooled by the brittle calm that May wears like a mask these days, but she knows all too well how daunting a prospect it can be to drop that facade of being mentally well, to permit anyone to bear witness to all the vulnerability beneath. When Lucienne had been struggling through her own ordeal with captivity and its aftermath, May had been the only one Lucienne had let down her guard around, the only one who'd been understanding enough to cajole her into it. And Lucienne, loving May as she does, intends to make sure that May can do the same with her.

"I'm fine," May says, delivering this blatant lie despite that there are tears falling over her cheeks.

Lucienne raises an eyebrow. "I should think you are not fine, and that is… a fair way for you to feel."

She's quiet for a a couple minutes, and Lucienne resigns herself to patiently waiting her out.

"One of the orchids is dead," May supplies tremulously at last, her breath catching like she might begin miserably sobbing anew. "The others are… are terrified."

This, Lucienne had heard as well, and while Minnie's assistant hadn't quite comprehended why this would affect May so greatly, Lucienne herself had. In those long years following Lord Morpheus being freed, she had seen the care that May wove into her creations, the kindness with which she tended them. It is not outlandish to her that May had been attached to something she'd so lovingly made. And as for the orchids being terrified, who better to relate to that lately than May? Lucienne is under no delusions that her friend isn't constantly anxious, that she doesn't struggle with an almost crippling fear at all times.

"If Thessaly makes such a trespass again, there are several nightmares ready to ensure she is set straight. A few of them seem overjoyed at the prospect of undertaking this task."

Lucienne means it to be lighthearted, an attempt at humor to cheer the overwrought woman, but her words have more than a touch of honesty in them. The subjects of this realm like May, respect her for her goodness to them when they had all felt neglected and abandoned. The nightmares, vicious and violent though they can be, are no exception to this.

"Thessaly." Hastily, May wipes at her face. "I didn't know… I didn't…"

"It's only gossip. You know how rampant that is here, especially regarding him."

May's expression is one of incredulity, which is wholly understandable given how the witch had been practically draped over Lord Morpheus for the entirety of her visit here, but Lucienne bites her tongue on telling her friend that she's almost certain he isn't romantically entangled with Thessaly. In all truthfulness, though, Lucienne isn't exactly sure, and she'd rather not end up lying to her friend in case she is wrong.

"You are aware that he's an idiot, are you not?" she settles on instead.

"He's dangerous," May answers, her words hushed even in the near silence of the room. "And he… he could banish me again tomorrow, could keep Aurora for himself, and I… I'd be powerless to stop him."

Lucienne might not know all the details of her lord's personal affairs, but she knows for a fact that such a thing will never come to pass. The fact is that, however difficult this situation is, Lucienne isn't blind to the way he seems so… concerned for May, invested in her health in a way that sometimes even reminds Lucienne a little of love. "He would not do so, May. I can promise that."

It's not enough to stay her friend's fears, and May buries her face in her hands, giving up the fight as she starts to sob silently, her shoulders shaking. She's so afraid, terrified of Lord Morpheus' cruelty, that Lucienne is suddenly painfully cognizant that paltry reassurances won't lessen her apprehension in the slightest. It's instinct for her to lean forward and wrap her arms around May, to try and hold her despite that she jerks a bit at the contact, obviously ill at ease with such a thing as an embrace.

"Shhh," Lucienne soothes nonetheless. "You are well. You are safe. Everything will be better eventually."

She's not sure how long they remain like that, but at some point May finally loses some of her tenseness, melting into Lucienne almost desperately until at last she's clinging as well. Only when her cries have devolved into small sniffles does May pull back, creating distance between them slowly, though she keeps hold of Lucienne's hand as if doing so is tethering her in some way, keeping her focused and centered in the icy storm of her grief.

"I'm… scared of… of him," she confesses hoarsely. "I'm scared of what he… what he might do, but… his power is keeping me alive, and Aurora is… is protected here. I don't want to take her away from that if I… don't have to."

Protected? Why would May fear for Aurora's protection? Viego had killed Alexander Burgess, and Lucienne knows that May has been told of his murder. "May-"

"Would you tell me… if he… if he planned it? So that I could… try and get free? So that I could attempt to get Viego here and escape?"

What she's proposing is treason, the sort that could see Lucienne sent to the Dreaming's dungeons for even considering it, but Lucienne doesn't hesitate to nod, to agree. "Yes. It will not come to that, but… I would not sit idly by while Aurora was stolen from you."

May nods, seeming relieved for a second before that relief fades into weariness, the kind that only being drained by terror and tears can bring about. "Thank you, Lucienne. Thank you…. so much. For… For everything."

"Will you eat now? Please?"

"I… can't. Later, but… I'll just throw it up if I try now. My nerves are too…" she trails off, looking ashamed, as if she's embarrassed of this weakness on her part.

Lucienne frowns, but she tightens her hold of May's hand as she does. "Very well. Would you like for me to… read to you? Perhaps it might take your mind off of less pleasant things for a while."

"No, thank… you. I just… I'm tired. I think I want to… to sleep."

"If you mean to rest, I will find a chair, and-"

"No," May cuts in. "I... I'd like to be alone. If it's okay with you."

Lucienne doesn't want to leave her, doesn't want to go, but… if May is asking her to, then she will honor her friend's request, albeit reluctantly.

"If that is what you wish." Lucienne hates the hopelessness she can still sense from her friend, though, that broken fragility that speaks of feeling defeated. "I will return tonight."

She lets go of her friend's hand, getting to her feet and gathering the tray as May lies down, as she pulls the covers up over her head anew. Lucienne scrutinizes her as she drifts off, and it takes mere minutes until May is seemingly in a deep slumber. She'll likely have a headache when she wakes, Lucienne knows, and she makes a mental note to have May drink a full two glasses of water upon rousing to mitigate any dehydration the crying has assuredly caused. Then Lucienne makes her way to the door, pulling it softly closed behind her on her way out.

And she supposes she shouldn't be at all surprised to see Lord Morpheus on the other side of it, standing in the hallway like a lost puppy who's been barred from coming into the house on a rainy day. He looks… drawn, his face paler than usual, his eyes dull and empty as if the sorrow he feels has crushed their ever-present stars and nebulae into nothing more than dust. She might have pity for him were this any other situation, were he not the one responsible for this mess, but it is impossible for her to dredge up any sympathy given his actions this day.

"How is she?" he demands, his voice rough and haggard.

"Unwell," is Lucienne's tart reply. "She is mourning her orchid."

He seems uncomfortable, which is fitting as far as she's concerned. Let him squirm with guilt over what he's permitted to happen with his own callousness.

"I cannot... mend it as she has requested. It is beyond my power."

She wants to immediately launch into a reprimand, but instead she finds herself studying him, measuring how great his resolve seems to be for actually fixing this catastrophe. That care, his unsettled distress from her upset, is emanating from him, almost tangible in its intensity. "Then let us discuss what you can mend. I believe that I need not tell you how that display with Thessaly earlier appeared."

He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together, his mouth pursing into an expression of confusion. "Of what do you speak?"

Lucienne sighs, loathing his cluelessness in this instance. Obviously she does, in fact, need to tell him as much, to spell it out clearly enough that even he can understand how foolishly he's handled this matter. She glances back at May's door, all too aware that she doesn't want her friend to hear anything that might be said in this soon to be heated exchange with Lord Morpheus. "Not here. We should talk of this elsewhere."

Lord Morpheus does not answer right away, and when she turns her attention back to him, he is gazing down at the tray she still holds, presumably noting that it is untouched. The worry on his face is plain as day. "She… did not take sustenance."

"No," Lucienne answers. "She was unable, sir."

Because she's frightened of you, and hurt beyond measure, and carelessly you broke her heart all over again, she does not say, though she certainly wishes to. The tray disappears from her hands, as if he can no longer bear to see the proof of May's turmoil before him, and it makes Lucienne somehow more angry than she'd been prior, her blood feeling as if it's boiling from the force of her fury. Without another word, she shifts to the library, unwilling to have this conversation right outside May's room, and he follows in an instant, appearing in a rather secluded spot amidst the general fiction section as she readies herself to respectfully lecture her king on his egregious behavior. Even if respect is absolutely the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.

That night, May is lying in bed when he comes in, the gentle click of the door alerting her to his presence. She's gotten used to the steady cadence of him slipping in at night and sitting in the chair by Aurora's crib, murmuring to their daughter in a low voice while he holds her and tells her a story. His tenderness towards their child tends to bring tears to May's eyes if she thinks on it, and so she resolutely tries not to.

She mostly just pretends to be asleep, unsure of what she would actually say were she to speak. She's felt that way often lately, uncertain of what to say, unwilling to open her mouth much. She thinks that if she does, if she starts verbalizing any of her emotions, giving voice to the entire maelstrom of her feelings and pain, that she'll just scream and scream and scream until her lungs collapse in on themselves.

His voice, as wary of him as she is now, is actually nice. Beautifully soothing even, though she'd never admit that to him. Not that she's actually talking to him at the moment anyway. He won't consider it a great loss, she's sure. Not with his new paramour to keep him occupied. It shouldn't bother her, she reasons practically. After all, they are no longer beholden to one another, no longer betrothed for marriage and bonding. They're held together by a child and their common love for that child and nothing else. He doesn't answer to her, and he's free to have sex with whomever takes his fancy.

It still hurts, though.

And May…. May is so very tired of hurting.

NEXT CHAPTER

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