Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader (Hob's Daughter) Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
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You lasted until half past ten. That was considerably longer than anyone who knew you well would have expected.
The green book sat upon the bedside table while you prepared for bed. You brushed your teeth without looking at it. You changed into an old shirt, placed your phone on charge and checked that your alarm had been set for rehearsal.
Then you climbed beneath the covers and picked up the book.
This was not technically disobeying him.
He had told you not to read the final chapter before sleep. He had not forbidden you from reading the preceding chapters. There were twenty-three of those. You could read one or two, satisfy your curiosity and stop well before reaching the ending. The Drowned Orchard began with a woman returning to the country estate upon which her elder sister had drowned seventeen years earlier.
The estate possessed an orchard that produced fruit despite every tree having died. The servants refused to eat it. The heroine’s mother called the harvest a blessing. A neighbouring physician suggested that grief had affected the entire household.
The heroine began hearing her sister singing beneath the frozen lake.
By the end of the fourth chapter, you had forgotten the time. By the ninth, you had moved closer to the lamp. By the fifteenth, the heroine had discovered that the orchard’s roots extended beneath the lake and into the family crypt. The dead trees were not producing fruit. They were producing memories. Anyone who ate from them remembered the lives of the dead.
You read the twenty-second chapter with your knees drawn beneath your chin. The heroine entered the crypt and discovered her sister’s name carved into a coffin that contained no body.
The chapter ended with singing beneath the floor. You turned the page.
Chapter Twenty-Three. The heroine followed the roots into a chamber beneath the lake.
You looked towards the clock. Two seventeen.
The final chapter waited upon the opposite page.
You remembered your father’s strange friend standing inside the New Inn, the green book between his pale hands.
Do not read the final chapter before sleep. No explanation. No indication of what might happen if you did.
Merely a warning offered in that low, grave voice of his, as though your disobedience had been anticipated long before you had committed it.
You closed the book. Then you opened it again.
This was precisely why warnings within stories were irritating. They depended upon characters being given insufficient information and then blamed for acting upon entirely reasonable curiosity.
Do not enter the room. Do not open the box. Do not read the final chapter. No one ever explained why.
You placed the book face down upon the bedside table.
For several minutes, you lay in darkness listening to the rain against the window. Then you switched the lamp on again.
“This is ridiculous.”
You picked up the book and read the final chapter.
The heroine descended beneath the frozen lake. The singing grew louder. She discovered her sister alive within the roots, unchanged from the day of her disappearance. Her sister had not drowned. The orchard had taken her.
It had preserved every member of the family who had died upon the estate, feeding upon their memories while returning those memories as fruit. The mother had known. She had continued tending the trees because each harvest allowed her to remember the daughter she had lost.
The heroine cut through the roots and freed her sister. The orchard died. The lake thawed. The sisters left the estate together. It was almost a happy ending. Almost.
The final sentence read:
When spring came, they discovered that neither of them could remember which sister had drowned.
You stared at the words. A faint pressure moved through the room. Not sound. Not movement. Merely the sensation of something becoming aware of you.
You looked towards the dark window. Your reflection looked back. Nothing stood behind it. You closed the book and switched off the lamp.
Sleep did not come immediately.
The final sentence repeated itself in your mind. You imagined the sisters travelling together, each carrying memories that might belong to the other.
You wondered what happened when a person remembered a life they had not lived.
At some point, the rain disappeared. You found yourself standing within the orchard.
The trees were black and leafless. Their branches twisted against a white and depthless sky. Fruit hung from them in impossible abundance: apples as pale as bone, pears dark with bruising and small red plums that pulsed faintly as though each contained a beating heart.
Snow covered the earth. You wore no coat, yet you were not cold. The frozen lake stretched between the trees. Something moved beneath the ice.
You approached it. A woman floated below the surface with her eyes open. Her long hair moved slowly through the water. One hand pressed against the underside of the ice. You knelt. Her mouth opened.
Your own voice came from beneath the frozen lake.
“You were warned.”
You jerked backwards.
The woman disappeared. Someone stood behind you.
You turned.
Your father’s friend waited between the dead trees.
He did not look entirely as he had inside the New Inn.
His coat moved around him as though it had been made from the darkness between stars. His skin appeared almost luminous beneath the white sky. Within his eyes, distant lights turned through an immeasurable night.
He held one of the orchard’s apples.
There was something in his expression.
Not a smile.
He did not seem built for smiles.
But there was a minute softening at the edge of his severity that suggested he found the situation less solemn than you did.
“You read it.”
You rose and brushed snow from your knees.
“You knew I would.”
“I believed it likely.”
“Then the warning was pointless.”
“No.”
He turned the apple between his fingers.
“The warning was sincere. Your decision to disregard it does not alter that.”
“You sound pleased with yourself.”
His gaze lifted to yours.
“Do I?”
“Slightly.”
He did not answer.
That faint, almost invisible change remained in his face.
God, he was beautifully weird.
That was not an appropriate thought to have within a sinister dream orchard, but your subconscious had never been especially concerned with propriety.
You looked towards the frozen lake.
“Am I dreaming about the book?”
“You are dreaming of what the book awakened within you.”
“That was unnecessarily cryptic.”
“It was exact.”
He lifted the apple.
Its skin changed beneath his fingers. Red became green. Green darkened to black. For an instant, the face of a child appeared within its polished surface.
Then it was an ordinary apple again.
“The story concerns memory,” he said. “You have begun to wonder whether what is remembered must first have been lived.”
You frowned.
“I was mostly wondering which sister drowned.”
“Both.”
The answer made the orchard seem quieter.
“That is not what the book said.”
“The book said precisely that.”
“No. It said they could not remember which one drowned.”
His gaze moved towards the womanless lake.
“There are deaths from which the body rises.”
He placed the apple upon a bare branch.
The wood bent around it like closing fingers.
You watched him.
“How are you here?”
He looked at you.
“You are dreaming.”
“I know that. How are you inside it?”
He did not answer.
The wind moved through the orchard, although none of the branches stirred.
“My father said you would be in my dreams by choice.”
Silence.
“He also said you were not a vampire.”
His eyes returned to you.
“Your father considered that clarification necessary?”
“You meet several of the criteria.”
“I do not.”
“You are extremely pale.”
“That signifies nothing.”
“You dress entirely in black.”
“Nor does that.”
“You appear at night, know the private fears of strangers and enter people’s dreams.”
His expression remained grave.
“I do not believe vampires possess the ability to enter dreams. Nor do I consume blood.”
“Two points in your favour.”
He regarded you for a long moment.
It was impossible to know whether you had annoyed him.
That uncertainty was becoming oddly enjoyable.
“What are you, then?”
The singing began again beneath the ice.
He turned towards it.
“You are waking.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
The orchard began to whiten around him.
Snow rose from the ground instead of falling from the sky, gathering between you.
“Will you answer next time?”
He looked back.
“Perhaps.”
“That means no.”
“It means perhaps.”
“What should I ask instead?”
The white air thickened.
His shape began to disappear.
“Ask what you truly wish to know.”
“I truly wish to know what you are.”
His eyes remained visible after the rest of him had faded.
“No,” he said. “You wish to know whether you should fear me.”
You opened your mouth.
The dream broke apart before you could answer.
You woke with the green book open beside you.
Morning light filled the room.
For several seconds, the orchard remained more vivid than your bedroom. You could smell frozen earth. You could hear roots shifting far beneath the lake.
You also remembered him.
Not vaguely.
Not as an impression that disappeared when you attempted to examine it. You remembered his face, his voice and the slow movement of stars inside his eyes.
You remembered asking how he could enter your dream. You remembered that he had refused to answer.
At seven twenty-three in the morning, you typed pale immortal dream entity not vampire into your phone.
The search results were not helpful. They included sleep paralysis, several role-playing games, a Scandinavian metal band and an alarming number of people who believed they had married supernatural beings on an astral plane.
You refined the search. Mythological beings who enter dreams.
That produced more promising results, including Hypnos. Morpheus. The Oneiroi. Baku. Mara. The Sandman. Several children stories.
None of them helped.
Some were gods. Some were spirits. Some brought sleep. Some carried messages. Several had wings, which your father’s friend did not appear to possess.
The Sandman was particularly inconsistent. Depending upon the story, he was benevolent, murderous or primarily concerned with persuading children to close their eyes.
You opened seventeen tabs.
By the time Hob came downstairs, you were seated at the kitchen table in your dressing gown, surrounded by the green book, two notebooks and a rapidly cooling cup of tea.
He stopped in the doorway.
“Should I ask?”
“No.”
Hob studied you for a moment.
Then he nodded and continued towards the kettle.
He did not intrude. You did not question him again either.
The last time you had asked about his strange friend, Hob had told you that the truth was not his to share. You had accepted that boundary, even if your curiosity had not.
Over the weeks that followed, you continued attempting to discover the truth yourself.
You read medieval beliefs about dreams, Renaissance treatises on prophetic sleep and Victorian accounts of shared nightmares.
You found stories about kings who entered dreams, gods who ruled sleep and spirits who carried messages between sleeping minds.
Nothing fitted.
Every tradition appeared to contain some small resemblance to him. None contained the whole.
Eventually, you stopped searching. Not because you had lost interest. Because you had begun to feel faintly ridiculous.
The stranger did not return to your dreams. Not visibly.
Occasionally, however, you sensed him there. You would be standing upon an unfamiliar stage or wandering through the corridors of an impossible house, and some instinct would tell you that you were being observed.
Not hunted. Not threatened. Merely watched.
When you turned, there would be nothing except shadow.
*********
Your concert approached.
The orchestra rehearsed almost every evening during the final week. The Mahler demanded precision bordering upon violence. Mendelssohn required the strings to remain light when exhaustion made every musician’s arms feel carved from stone.
Your own composition occupied only seven minutes of the programme. Those seven minutes frightened you more than the rest combined.
Professor O’Callaghan made no further personal approach. He also did not recommend you for Vienna.
You knew because the replacement was announced three days after you rejected him: a male composer in his final year whose work Professor O’Callaghan had previously described as competent but bloodless.
He did not acknowledge the decision.
During rehearsals, he treated you with faultless professionalism. His criticism remained precise. His gaze remained cool. If anyone else noticed a change, they said nothing.
You began to doubt yourself. Not about what had happened. You remembered his hand upon your waist. But each day that passed made reporting him feel more difficult. You imagined explaining why you had waited. You imagined him producing emails in which he had praised your music. You imagined being accused of resentment because you had not received the residency.
*******
On the night of the concert, the hall was full.
You learned that only five minutes before taking your seat onstage, when Maddy appeared backstage and announced that people were being turned away.
“That is not helpful.”
“I thought it might be encouraging.”
“It is not.”
She adjusted the collar of your black concert dress.
“You look beautiful.”
You checked your violin again.
“I wish Dad were here.”
Maddy smiled.
“He sent flowers. They are enormous and creating an obstruction near the dressing rooms.”
“That sounds like him.”
She hesitated.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Maddy.”
Her smile widened.
“His weird, hot friend is here though, which must count for something.”
Your bow slipped in your hand.
“He came?”
“He is standing at the back like an omen.”
You looked towards the corridor leading to the stage.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. It is difficult to mistake him.”
Something warm and alarming moved through your chest.
You attempted to dismiss it. He had said he would consider attending. He enjoyed music. Your father had encouraged him.
His presence meant nothing.
“Where is he sitting?”
Maddy’s expression became unbearable.
“You do not care, obviously.”
“I need to know where not to look.”
“Of course.”
“Maddy.”
“Balcony. Right side. End of the first row.”
You nodded as though this information had no effect upon you.
“Thank you.”
*********
After another fifteen minutes of emotional support from Maddy, you stepped onto the stage. The lights prevented you from seeing most of the audience. Beyond the first few rows, the hall disappeared into darkness.
You found him anyway. He sat in the front row of the balcony, motionless among the shifting audience. His black clothing merged with the shadows around him. His pale face appeared suspended within the dark.
His eyes met yours. Your pulse stumbled. He inclined his head. Only slightly.
You looked down at your music before the principal violinist could notice you staring into the balcony.
The concert began.
Mahler consumed the first half. There was no room within it for distraction. The music demanded everything: breath, movement, attention and submission to the force created when a hundred people agreed upon the same sound.
At the interval, you did not look for him. You told yourself this was because you needed to prepare for your composition.
Professor O’Callaghan appeared backstage before you could reach the dressing room.
He stopped in the corridor, leaving enough distance between you to make the encounter appear accidental.
“The Mahler was adequate.”
“Thank you.”
“Your intonation weakened during the third movement.”
“I will bear that in mind.”
His gaze travelled over your face.
“You appear nervous.”
“My composition is being performed.”
“You wanted this.”
“Yes.”
“Then you should learn to withstand it.”
You attempted to pass him.
He shifted slightly. Not enough to block you. But enough to return you to his office and the moment his hand had settled against your waist.
“I heard the Vienna appointment was announced,” you said.
His expression remained pleasant.
“It was.”
“I hope he benefits from your commitment to his development.”
Before he could answer, the stage manager called for the musicians to return.
O’Callaghan stepped aside and you walked away before he could answer.
Your composition began with the violin alone.
You had heard it performed in rehearsal many times. You knew every entry, every hesitation and every place at which the orchestra resisted what you had written.
That night, it sounded different.
Perhaps because the hall was full. Perhaps because the work had finally ceased belonging entirely to you. Or perhaps because your father’s friend was listening.
The first melody rose from the strings. The woodwinds gathered around it. The darker theme entered beneath them, patient and inevitable.
You remembered the black tree. The white moth passing through your fingers. His refusal to allow you to take what you had not yet created.
When the two melodies came together, you looked towards the balcony.
His gaze was fixed upon you. For eight measures, neither of you looked away. Then the melodies separated. The violin completed the final passage alone.
Silence followed. Then applause rose through the hall.
You stood when the conductor gestured towards you. The audience became a blur of movement. You bowed once and sat before your knees could weaken.
The stranger did not applaud. He remained seated, his pale face still within the dark. Yet something within his expression had altered. You thought he was pleased.
Afterwards, the backstage corridors filled with musicians, patrons and faculty members. You endured congratulations, questions and several people explaining your own composition to you.
Maddy found you beside the dressing rooms.
“You were magnificent.”
She threw her arms around you.
“You say that every time.”
“Usually I am lying supportively. Tonight I am entirely sincere.”
You laughed against her shoulder.
When she released you, she looked beyond you.
Her expression changed.
“He is waiting.”
You turned. Your father’s friend stood at the far end of the corridor. He had somehow avoided being approached by anyone. People moved around him without looking directly at his face, as though some quiet instinct discouraged them from drawing his attention.
You walked towards him. His gaze moved over you: the black dress, the violin case in your hand and the warmth still lingering in your face.
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“You also came.”
“You invited me.”
“You said you would consider it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
His gaze held yours.
“I came.”
The simplicity of the answer affected you more than it should have. You adjusted your grip upon the violin case.
“Did you enjoy it?”
He considered the question with enough seriousness to make you regret asking.
“The Mahler was performed competently.”
You stared at him.
“Competently.”
“The brass lacked restraint.”
“You sound like my father.”
“Your father believes music ceased to possess structure sometime during the twentieth century for which he is not entirely mistaken.”
You stared at him.
“I am choosing to ignore that.”
His eyes returned to you.
For a moment, he said nothing. The silence lengthened until you assumed he had no intention of speaking again.
Then, with the grave reluctance of someone surrendering something precious:
“Your composition was…”
He paused, as though the word itself resisted him.
“Beautiful.”
The surrounding corridor seemed to recede.
“Thank you.”
“It was also true.”
You remembered his judgement beneath the black tree. You had asked whether the composition was good. He had told you that you should have asked whether it was true.
“I hoped you would think so.”
His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“You need not have doubted it.”
Before you could answer, a voice spoke behind you.
“Miss Gadling.”
Your shoulders tightened.
Professor O’Callaghan approached through the departing musicians. He offered you a measured smile, then looked towards the stranger beside you. His gaze became faintly irritated. There was no visitor’s pass upon the stranger’s coat. Nothing to suggest who had permitted him backstage.
“This area is restricted.”
Your father’s friend looked at him. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then:
“Samuel Carrow.”
Professor O’Callaghan went still.
You looked between them. The name meant nothing to you.
It plainly meant something to him.
“You are mistaken.”
The stranger’s expression did not alter.
“I am not.”
O’Callaghan’s face remained composed, but the colour beneath it had faded.
“Who are you?”
No answer came. The stranger merely regarded him.
The sounds of the corridor seemed to diminish. Conversation became distant. Footsteps softened. Even the lights appeared dimmer, though none had gone out.
“I have not used that name for many years,” O’Callaghan said.
“No.”
The stranger’s voice was low. It seemed to come from somewhere much larger than the narrow corridor.
“Not since you were convicted beneath it.”
O’Callaghan’s eyes flickered towards you.
“I do not know what you believe you have heard.”
“I have heard nothing.”
A pause followed.
“I have seen.”
O’Callaghan stared at him. The shadows behind the professor lengthened across the wall.
They formed narrow vertical lines. Bars. O’Callaghan glanced towards them before forcing his gaze back to the stranger.
“Three years imprisoned,” the stranger said. “Yet even now, you dream that confinement was the injustice.”
The professor’s jaw tightened.
“You know nothing of me.”
The stranger tilted his head.
“I know what remains when the waking world no longer assists you in lying.”
O’Callaghan’s breath caught. For the first time since you had known him, his composure appeared genuinely uncertain.
“You dream of your offices,” the stranger continued. “The old one. The present one. The doors remain locked in both.”
“Enough.”
The stranger’s gaze remained fixed upon him.
“That is the word they used.”
The shadows darkened. Within them, you thought you saw the outline of a room. A desk. A closed door. Young women standing upon the other side of it.
“You revise their refusals while you sleep,” the stranger said. “You grant them eagerness they did not possess. You call their fear desire and their silence consent.”
O’Callaghan’s face had become ashen.
“What are you?”
The stranger looked at him with an expression so remote that the professor appeared very small beneath it.
“You have no need to know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you.
“Did this man make an advance towards you?”
The question was asked without embarrassment or hesitation. Not loudly. It did not need to be.
O’Callaghan’s eyes snapped towards you.
“Miss Gadling, I would advise you to be very careful before repeating malicious interpretations of a professional conversation.”
The stranger looked back at him.
O’Callaghan stopped speaking.
“I did not address you.”
The words were quiet. Absolute.
O’Callaghan’s mouth closed.
The stranger returned his attention to you.
“Did he?”
Your fingers tightened around the handle of the violin case.
“He offered to recommend me for a residency.”
“Upon what condition?”
“He did not say it directly.”
The stranger’s gaze moved once towards O’Callaghan.
“He did not need to.”
O’Callaghan recovered enough to speak.
“This is grotesque. I praised a promising student and discussed the realities of her profession. Nothing more.”
The stranger regarded him.
“You placed your hand upon her.”
It was not a question. O’Callaghan’s face changed.
You stared at the stranger.
“How do you know that?”
His eyes remained upon the professor.
“Because he remembers it while he sleeps.”
The corridor became cold.
O’Callaghan stepped backwards.
“I will not stand here and be threatened by some deranged stranger.”
The stranger’s face remained still.
“You are not being threatened.”
The shadows gathered at his feet.
“You are being known.”
O’Callaghan looked towards you.
“You will regret this.”
The stranger moved. Only one step.
The professor recoiled as though something far greater had advanced upon him.
“You will not touch her again. Nor will you touch any other who has not freely consented to it.”
There was no anger in his voice. No raised volume. Nothing except certainty.
O’Callaghan’s mouth opened.
No sound emerged.
“Now leave,” the stranger said.
O’Callaghan went.
He attempted to walk with dignity. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, his pace had quickened.
The shadows withdrew with him. Sound returned.
You stared at your father’s friend.
“How did you know?”
He watched the corridor for another moment.
“He dreams.”
“That does not explain how you saw them.”
His gaze returned to you.
“No.”
You exhaled.
“You are not going to explain, are you?”
“Not here.”
That was, at least, not a refusal.
You looked towards the corridor through which O’Callaghan had disappeared.
“You frightened him.”
“He was afraid before I spoke.”
“Of you?”
“Of being discovered.”
Something in his voice made you look at him more closely.
He appeared composed. Too composed. The stillness around him no longer felt neutral. It felt controlled.
“Do not do anything to him.”
His eyes rested upon you.
“You believe I intend to.”
“I believe you could.”
He did not deny it.
“I left his office,” you continued. “I dealt with it.”
“You escaped him, which is not the same.”
His gaze moved briefly towards your waist, as though he could still see the place O’Callaghan had touched.
“It is my decision what happens next.”
A silence passed between you.
Something resistant entered his expression.
Then it receded.
“Yes,” he said.
The agreement surprised you.
“Yes?”
“The offence was against you. The choice is yours.”
You studied him.
“Then you will leave him alone.”
“If that is your wish.”
“It is.”
He inclined his head.
“Then I shall not act against him.”
The wording did not entirely reassure you.
“And you will not interfere with his dreams.”
His eyes darkened faintly.
“His dreams require no invention from me.”
His gaze moved once more towards the empty corridor.
“But if he approaches you again, you will tell me.”
You raised your eyebrows.
“Will I?”
“Please.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
His attention returned to you. The coldness around him lessened.
“Okay. But only if you have a drink with me,” you said.
The change in his expression was minute. Still, you were beginning to recognise the small differences.
Surprise appeared as a sudden stillness around his eyes. Displeasure sharpened his mouth. Amusement softened something that ordinarily seemed carved from stone. This was hesitation.
“I do not drink.”
“Pretend.”
“To what purpose?”
“Conversation generally works better in a place that serves drinks,” you explained while a cellist carrying an instrument case moved around him and gave him an annoyed look.
The stranger did not appear to notice.
“It would be inappropriate.”
You blinked.
“Why?”
His gaze settled upon you.
“You are Hob’s daughter.”
“That’s no reason.”
Silence.
You waited.
His eyes lowered briefly towards your hand upon the violin case.
Then they returned to your face.
“And because you are—”
He stopped.
You raised your eyebrows.
“I am what?”
He did not complete the sentence.
“It is a drink,” you said. “I am not proposing marriage.”
A passing viola player made a strangled noise that might have been laughter.
The stranger looked towards him. The man immediately became fascinated by the floor.
You folded your arms.
“There is a bar around the corner. You can sit with an untouched glass and disapprove of mortal customs.”
“I do not disapprove of mortal customs.”
“Okay, name three mortal customs you don’t approve of then.”
He regarded you.
“Music.”
“One.”
“Stories.”
“Two.”
His gaze rested upon your face.
“Persistence.”
Warmth rose beneath your skin.
“Was that a compliment?”
“It was an observation.”
“Of course.”
You began walking towards the exit. After several steps, you looked back. He had not moved.
“Are you coming?”
He followed.
******
The bar occupied the ground floor of an old hotel opposite the concert hall. It was quieter than you expected, though several tables were occupied by members of the orchestra.
You selected a corner beneath a darkened window. The stranger sat opposite you. A server approached. You ordered wine. The stranger did not look at the menu.
“Water.”
You waited until the server had gone.
“Scandalous.”
“You told me to pretend.”
“A glass of wine would have been more convincing.”
“I have no wish to convince anyone.”
Two violinists at the bar looked towards your table and began whispering.
You smiled.
“You are doing an excellent job.”
The stranger turned his eyes towards them. The whispering stopped.
“Do people always behave strangely around you?” you asked.
“People behave according to their nature.”
“That means yes.”
The drinks arrived. He looked at his water but made no attempt to touch it. You took a sip of wine.
“You have been in my dreams three times.”
“More.”
Your glass stopped halfway to the table.
“More than three?”
He said nothing.
“How many?”
Still nothing.
“That is exceedingly creepy.”
His brow moved faintly.
“Creepy.”
“Entering a woman’s dreams without announcing yourself is rather invasive where privacy is concerned.”
“Then perhaps dreams are not as private as mortals imagine.”
“That makes it worse.”
“It was not intended to comfort you.”
You studied him.
“Are you one of those beings I found in the books my father kept?”
His expression became still.
“What beings?”
“I don’t know. Gods. Spirits. Things said to rule over sleep and dreams.”
“I am neither a god nor a spirit.”
“But you enter dreams.”
“Many things enter dreams.”
“That is not reassuring either.”
A pause followed.
“Perhaps not.”
You leaned forward.
“I just want to know what you are.”
His gaze held yours.
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
The direct refusal startled you more than another evasive answer would have.
“Why not?”
“Because knowledge has consequences.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is factual.”
“Are you dangerous?”
A pause followed.
“Yes.”
Your fingers tightened faintly around the stem of your glass.
He watched you.
“Does that frighten you?”
You considered lying.
“A little.”
“Good.”
You frowned.
“That is a very strange response.”
“Fear is not always an enemy. It warns. It preserves.”
“You sound as though you think I should stay away from you.”
Something changed in his expression.
Only slightly.
“Perhaps you should.”
You watched him.
“But you came tonight.”
“Yes.”
“You entered my dreams.”
“Yes.”
“You gave me the book.”
“Yes.”
“You are doing a poor job of discouraging me.”
He said nothing.
You took another sip of wine.
“What should I call you?”
His gaze moved towards the dark window.
“You require a name.”
“Most conversations become difficult without one.”
“Names reveal more than those who speak them often understand.”
“You know mine.”
“Yes.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It is.”
The blunt agreement made you laugh.
His gaze returned to you.
“Fine,” you said. “I will invent one.”
“Will you?”
“Dream Man.”
A faint line appeared between his brows.
“Dream Man.”
“You appear in my dreams. It is accurate.”
“It is imprecise.”
“Then give me something better.”
He regarded you in silence for so long that you began to think he would refuse.
At last, he spoke.
“You may call me Dream.”
“All right, Dream.”
You studied him.
“Does my father know what you are?”
“He does now.”
A faint heaviness entered his voice.
“I owed him that much.”
Something close to affection passed across the stranger’s face.
It disappeared quickly.
“My father said you met at a tavern in 1389.”
He looked towards the other patrons.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I believed him to be arrogant and a fool.”
You laughed.
“He loves you, you know.”
His gaze lowered towards the untouched water.
“Your father has known me a long time.”
“That was not what I said.”
“It is what I shall answer.”
You smiled.
“You avoid personal questions.”
“You ask a great many.”
“I have a curious mind.”
His eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
The word settled strangely between you.
“You possess a very curious mind.”
“You make that sound dangerous.”
“Curiosity has opened many doors that should have remained closed.”
“And yet you gave me a book.”
“I did.”
“Then warned me not to read the ending.”
“You required no assistance in disobeying me.”
“Was the orchard a punishment?”
His expression sharpened.
“No.”
The answer came with more force than the others.
“Then why were you there?”
He looked at your hand beside the wine glass.
“You called.”
“I did not.”
“Not knowingly.”
“How does someone unknowingly call a mysterious man into her dreams?”
“By wishing strongly enough to be heard.”
You remembered the woman beneath the ice speaking with your voice.
“Do I do that often?”
“Increasingly.”
The answer unsettled you.
“And do you answer everyone who wishes for you?”
“No.”
You smiled.
The surrounding voices seemed to fade beneath the silence between you.
You became aware of how closely he watched you.
He did not look at people casually.
His attention settled with almost physical weight. When he looked elsewhere, the absence of it was equally noticeable. You wondered how many people throughout history had mistaken that intensity for affection. You also wondered whether you were about to become one of them.
“Why did you attend tonight?” you asked.
“You invited me.”
“You must receive many invitations.”
“I do.”
“From important people?”
“Importance is relative.”
“That sounds like yes.”
He offered nothing more.
“And you refuse them.”
“Often.”
“Yet you came because a woman you had met twice gave you a concert programme.”
“We have met more than twice.”
“In my dreams.”
“They are still meetings.”
A smile pulled at your mouth.
“You wished to hear the music.”
“Yes.”
“And you wished to see me play it.”
His expression became unreadable.
You waited.
He could have avoided the question. He could have given you one of the oblique answers you were beginning to expect from him.
Instead, he said:
“Yes.”
Your heart made an embarrassing attempt to escape through your ribs.
You took another drink.
“No further questions.”
A faint line appeared between his brows, as though he did not entirely believe you.
“Then I shall value the reprieve while it lasts.”
You laughed.
The sound drew several glances from the bar.
He watched you as though laughter were another form of music he had not anticipated.
His expression softened. Only slightly. But enough.
You remained at the bar for another hour.
The conversation moved from music to books, from books to history and from history to the peculiar experience of being raised by a father whose personal recollections frequently contradicted accepted scholarship.
Your father’s friend knew every book you mentioned.
Not merely their contents. He knew which authors had woken with stories almost complete and which had spent years attempting to recover endings lost before morning. He spoke of unfinished poems as though they still existed somewhere, waiting to be remembered.
He never boasted. That made the impossible extent of his knowledge more unsettling.
“Have you read everything?” you asked.
“No.”
“What have you not read?”
He looked towards the dark window.
“That which has not yet been written.”
“Do you know what will be written?”
“Sometimes.”
“That was almost an answer.”
“It was precisely an answer.”
“You enjoy saying that.”
“Because you frequently accuse precision of being obscurity.”
“Because your precision is obscure.”
He regarded you.
“Perhaps the failing is not mine.”
“That was rude.”
“It was an observation.”
“You enjoy saying that too.”
Something at the corner of his mouth shifted.
When the staff began stacking chairs, you realised how late it had become.
You checked your phone.
“I should go.”
He rose immediately.
“I shall accompany you.”
“You do not have to.”
“I am aware.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Outside, the city had become quiet. Rain glistened upon the pavement, though none fell. Your breath clouded in the cold air.
He walked beside you. He made almost no sound. No obvious footfall. No rustle of clothing.
Had you not been able to see him, you might have believed yourself alone.
“You are extremely unsettling to walk with.”
“Why?”
“You move like a ghost.”
“I am not a ghost.”
“Or a vampire.”
“No.”
“Or any of the things I found online.”
“No story you found contains me entire.”
You looked towards him.
“That is the closest you have come to answering.”
“It is not an answer.”
“Of course not.”
The street leading towards the Inn was empty. A bus passed, filling the wet pavement with light before disappearing around the corner.
You stopped outside the entrance.
“This is me.”
“I know.”
You became aware of the intimacy of standing beneath your own doorway with him.
“Thank you for walking me home.”
He inclined his head.
“You are welcome.”
Neither of you moved.
You placed one hand upon the door.
“Good night, Dream.”
His head tilted faintly and the air between you changed.
For one irrational moment, you thought he might step closer.
He did not.
“Good night, Y/N Gadling.”
You entered the building.
The door closed between you.
You resisted the urge to look back through the glass until you had climbed the stairs.
When you finally did, the pavement was empty.
You reached your bedroom in a state of profound irritation with yourself.
You changed clothes. Removed your makeup. Placed the violin carefully inside its case.
Then you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
Of course. Of course the first man you had found genuinely interesting in years was a nameless, possibly immortal creature who dressed like he was attending a funeral, appeared inside dreams and had been friends with your father for an unknown but evidently considerable period of time.
You had dated normal men. Or attempted to.
There had been Daniel, who spoke almost exclusively about cryptocurrency and asked whether orchestral musicians required sheet music because they had failed to memorise their parts.
There had been Oliver, who described himself as a feminist and then interrupted every time you spoke.
There had been Marcus, who seemed pleasant until he explained that female composers were less successful because women lacked the necessary emotional detachment.
There had been several others whose names had already disappeared from memory.
None had made you feel anything resembling this.
Your father’s friend had appeared in your sleep without permission, refused to answer basic questions and frightened a professor by revealing that he knew the contents of his dreams.
He was also beautiful. Painfully so.
Not in the warm, immediate way attractive men generally were. His beauty appeared constructed according to laws that belonged somewhere other than earth.
Too pale. Too still. Too severe.
Beautifully weird.
That remained the only accurate description.
You turned onto your side and pulled the blankets higher and thought about it again before pushing those thoughts away.
Because there were the obvious complications.
He was your father’s friend.
He was not human.
He might be older than your father, which was an alarming thought in itself.
He had called sharing a drink inappropriate, then accompanied you to a bar, watched you across a table for two hours and walked you home.
He had said you were—
Because you are—
Then stopped.
You stared into the darkness.
What had he intended to say?
Young?
Human?
Annoying?
You closed your eyes.
“This is a terrible idea.”
Sleep took you before you could determine precisely what the idea was.
Dream remained nearby while the waking world moved around him.
Water passed beneath the street. Cars travelled along distant roads. Hundreds of sleeping minds flickered behind brick and glass.
He felt each of them at the edge of his awareness, but none drew his attention as yours did.
A raven landed upon the streetlamp above him just as he was about to get on with some other business.
“Okay,” Matthew said. “This is weird.”
Dream looked up.
“Why are you here?”
Matthew opened his wings and descended to the pavement.
“Lucienne asked me to check on you.”
“I require no checking.”
“Yeah. That is generally what people who need checking say.”
Dream began walking.
Matthew hopped after him before taking flight and settling upon a low wall beside the pavement.
“You have been spending a lot of time in the waking world lately, boss.”
“I have duties here.”
“You always had duties here. You did not usually attend concerts, spend two hours in bars and walk pretty women home.”
Dream stopped.
Matthew shifted his feet.
“I am just saying.”
“She is Hob’s daughter.”
“I know who she is.”
“Then your observation was unnecessary.”
Matthew studied him.
“Lucienne thinks it is strange too.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not in those exact words.”
Dream looked at him.
“What words did she use?”
Matthew hesitated.
“She said your increased interest in the waking world, after being imprisoned here for more than a century, was noteworthy.”
“And she sent you to spy upon me.”
“Check on you. Different tone.”
Dream resumed walking.
Matthew flew after him.
“Also, boss, in case you failed to notice, the girl you just walked home has a crush on you.”
Dream stopped.
The nearest streetlamp dimmed.
He turned his head slowly towards Matthew.
“A crush?”
Matthew shifted awkwardly on the railing.
“You know. She likes you.”
Dream continued to stare.
“Not just as her dad’s weird friend,” Matthew added. “She thinks you’re attractive. She gets nervous around you, talks too fast, tries not to look at you and then looks at you anyway. A crush.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I’m really not.”
“She is the daughter of an old acquaintance.”
“And yet she still has a crush on you.”
The shadows surrounding Dream deepened.
“This conversation is over.”
Matthew lifted both wings slightly.
“Okay, boss. Where are we going now?”
Dream resumed walking.
“To see another old acquaintance.”
Matthew flew after him.
“Who?”
“Johanna Constantine.”
“Why?”
Dream’s expression became distant.
“Because the manner of my release from the Burgess residence was… unusual.”
Matthew landed upon a nearby sign.
“Unusual how?”
Dream was silent for several steps.
“The bindings did not fail as they should have. Something interfered with them.”
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader (Hob's Daughter)
Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me ❤️
The Day the Glass Broke
The New Inn, London
You stood behind the bar of the New Inn polishing wineglasses while, fourteen years away and several thousand feet above the earth, an aeroplane began to fall.
Not literally.
The aircraft had fallen a long time ago.
Fourteen years ago today, in fact.
But anniversaries were strange things. They collapsed time. They found the memories you had packed away carefully and pulled them apart until the past no longer felt like something that had already happened.
The glass turned between your fingers, the polishing cloth whispering against its surface.
Outside, London had dissolved into rain.
Water ran down the tall front windows in crooked silver streams, breaking the pedestrians beyond them into blurred coats, umbrellas and hurried shadows. Traffic hissed over wet roads. The sky was already darkening despite the early hour, heavy clouds pressing low over the city.
Inside, the pub was warm.
The evening crowd had not yet arrived, but several tables were occupied. Two elderly men were arguing amiably over a newspaper. A university student sat near the window with a laptop, an untouched pint and the despairing expression of someone facing an imminent deadline. At the far end of the room, your father was pretending to inspect an invoice while actually listening to every conversation taking place around him.
The New Inn smelled of wood polish, beer, rain-damp coats and the stew Hob had started cooking before lunch despite being repeatedly reminded that the pub had a kitchen and staff who were perfectly capable of feeding themselves.
It was home.
It had been home for most of your life.
You placed the polished glass beneath the bar and reached for another.
On the television mounted above the far shelves, the afternoon news continued silently beneath a stream of captions.
You had muted it half an hour ago.
They had been showing the memorial.
Aerial footage of the field where the wreckage had fallen.
A line of white flowers against a stone monument.
Relatives standing beneath umbrellas as the names of the dead were read aloud.
Two hundred and twenty-three people.
You had always hated the number.
It was too large to understand properly and too precise to ignore.
Two hundred and twenty-four people had boarded the aircraft.
Two hundred and twenty-three people had died.
And you, a six-year-old girl seated near the centre of the passenger cabin, had survived.
You were still twenty now, although your twenty-first birthday was only three weeks away.
That meant you had lived more than twice as long after the crash as you had before it.
The thought unsettled you every year.
Most people considered surviving a miracle.
You had never known what to call it.
A miracle implied purpose. Benevolence. Some divine hand reaching down through smoke and fire to save a child.
You remembered no hand.
You remembered falling.
The wineglass slowed between your fingers.
You rarely allowed yourself to think about the flight in detail. Not because the memories were clear, but because they were not. What remained came in fragments that never seemed to belong to one another.
A blue fabric seat beneath your legs.
Your shoes not quite touching the floor.
A woman beside you humming while she turned the pages of a magazine.
You thought she had been your mother.
There were photographs of her in the files the social workers had eventually given your adoptive parents, but the face in the photographs never quite matched the woman you remembered.
Perhaps that was normal.
You had been six.
Memory changed people.
It polished them down or distorted them according to whatever the mind needed to survive.
You remembered the woman fastening your seat belt.
You remembered her fingers trembling.
You remembered asking why the plane was shaking.
After that came scattered impressions.
The overhead lights flickering.
A bag falling from an open compartment.
Someone shouting from the rear of the cabin.
The sharp, metallic cry of the aircraft itself as though the machine had become a wounded animal.
The woman pulling you against her.
Then darkness.
Not unconsciousness.
Darkness.
A darkness so complete that it had seemed to possess weight.
Sometimes you remembered stars inside it.
Not stars beyond the window. Not distant lights in the night sky.
Stars surrounding you.
Cold points of white light scattered through an endless black expanse while something vast moved beyond them.
You had never told the investigators that part.
You had not told your therapists.
You had not even told Hob.
It sounded ridiculous, and you had spent enough of your childhood being studied by people who thought every silence concealed a symptom.
The official version of events was simpler.
The plane had encountered a severe storm shortly before beginning its approach to London. Communications became confused. The aircraft lost altitude, clipped a line of trees and struck the ground with enough force to scatter wreckage across more than a kilometre of farmland.
There had been fire.
There had been no response from the cabin.
Emergency crews arrived expecting a recovery operation rather than a rescue.
They found you shortly before dawn.
You had been standing in the mud beyond the outer edge of the wreckage.
Barefoot.
Still wearing the dark blue dress you had boarded the plane in.
There was blood on the front of it, but none of the blood belonged to you.
You had no burns.
No broken bones.
No internal injuries.
Not even a meaningful bruise.
The investigators calculated where your seat had been located and concluded, in the carefully restrained language used by official reports, that your survival was inexplicable.
The newspapers had been less restrained.
MIRACLE CHILD WALKS FROM INFERNO.
THE GIRL DEATH FORGOT.
THE LONE SURVIVOR.
You had been too young to understand the articles, but old enough to recognise your own face on the front pages.
For several days, the hospital had been surrounded by reporters.
You remembered flashes beyond the windows.
You remembered nurses closing the curtains.
You remembered waking to find police officers sitting outside your room.
Mostly, you remembered refusing to speak.
It had not been a deliberate decision. Words simply seemed impossible. The adults around you asked questions faster than you could understand them.
What was your full name?
Who had you travelled with?
Did you remember the crash?
Did you have grandparents?
Aunts?
Uncles?
Where had you lived?
Did you know your address?
You knew your first name.
You knew the woman beside you had been your mother, or at least that you had called her Mum.
You knew there had once been a man whose voice you could almost remember, though investigators could not determine whether he had been on the plane.
Everything else was missing.
The passport recovered from the wreckage gave your surname and date of birth. It identified the dead woman beside you as your mother.
The address listed in the documents belonged to a flat that had been vacant for years.
Telephone numbers led nowhere.
The school named in your papers had no record of you.
Your mother’s identity existed on paper, but the further investigators looked, the less substance they found beneath it. No employment history. No medical records before the previous year. No relatives who could be located.
There had been no father listed on your birth certificate.
No one came to claim you.
For six weeks, you remained in hospital.
Not because you were injured, but because the authorities had nowhere else to place the famous child who had survived when everyone else had died.
Doctors examined you repeatedly.
They tested your hearing, your reflexes and your memory. They scanned your brain. They monitored your sleep.
One doctor noted that you never appeared to dream.
Your eyes did not move beneath your eyelids as expected. You did not talk in your sleep. You never woke frightened by nightmares, despite everything you had endured.
You simply closed your eyes and disappeared into stillness.
Later, therapists told you the absence of dreams was probably your mind protecting itself. Or something else. Some people simply did not dream. Maybe you were just one of them.
You had accepted the explanation because you possessed no better one.
The newspapers eventually moved on.
The flowers outside the hospital wilted.
The police presence diminished.
And one rainy afternoon, Robert and Elenore Gadling came to meet you.
Hob always claimed Elenore had volunteered them both before he properly understood what she was suggesting.
According to him, she had seen a report about you on television and telephoned the local authority the next morning.
Elenore had worked with children for years. She had been a teacher, then a counsellor, and she and Hob had previously provided emergency foster care when placements were scarce.
Their home had space.
Their records were excellent.
They had no young children of their own.
They could take you temporarily while the authorities continued searching for family.
The first meeting took place in a hospital consultation room that smelled of disinfectant and overbrewed tea.
You sat on a plastic chair with your knees drawn to your chest.
Elenore sat across from you.
She had been forty-nine then, with dark hair threaded by grey and kind brown eyes that did not stare at the faint scar near your temple.
Hob sat beside her.
He looked approximately thirty-eight.
He had always looked approximately thirty-eight.
At the time, you did not know there was anything unusual about that.
Neither of them asked about the crash.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Elenore placed a small cloth bag on the table and opened it. Inside were coloured pencils, paper and several books.
“You don’t have to speak to us,” she said.
You watched her.
“We can sit here for a little while, and then we can leave. Or you can draw something. Or read. Or do absolutely nothing.”
Hob leaned towards the bag and examined its contents.
“She neglected to bring food.”
Elenore looked at him.
“We are in a hospital.”
“Exactly. The food here is terrible.”
“Hob.”
“It is. I’m not criticising the nurses. I’m criticising whoever decided jelly constitutes a meal.”
You had looked at him then.
He noticed.
His expression changed, but he did not smile too quickly or praise you for responding.
He simply took a pencil from the bag.
“Do you know how to draw a horse?”
You did not answer.
“Neither do I.”
He attempted one anyway.
It looked like a dog with extremely long legs.
You had almost laughed.
Almost.
During their second visit, Elenore brought you a small wooden music box.
The melody was simple. A lullaby you did not recognise.
You turned the handle twice, listened, then reached for a sheet of paper.
Instead of drawing, you wrote the notes down.
Elenore watched without interrupting.
Hob leaned over her shoulder.
“What is that?”
You spoke for the first time in twenty-three days.
“Music.”
Hob sat back.
“Right. Of course it is.”
Elenore cried in the corridor afterwards.
You learned that years later.
They took you home three weeks after that.
The placement was temporary.
Everyone said so.
The social worker repeated it in the car.
Elenore explained it again when she showed you the small bedroom at the back of the house. Nothing would happen without you being told. No one expected you to call them Mum or Dad. You could stay until the authorities found the right permanent arrangement.
The bedroom had pale walls, a narrow bed and shelves filled with books chosen for children both younger and older than you because Elenore had not known what you liked.
The door did not have a lock.
You asked her to leave it open.
For the first year, you could not sleep with a closed door.
Hob removed it entirely for several months.
He stored it in the attic until you asked for it back.
The temporary placement lasted twelve weeks.
Then six months.
Then a year.
Investigators searched internationally for relatives. Notices were published. DNA samples were compared with missing-person databases. Every lead ended in nothing.
The woman believed to be your biological mother was buried with the other passengers, and no one attended the funeral except officials and two reporters.
Elenore took you.
Hob stood on your other side and held your hand throughout the service.
You did not cry.
You stared at the coffin and felt as though you were mourning someone from a story you had once been told.
You knew the woman had loved you.
Your body remembered the safety of her arms even when your mind could not rebuild her face.
But she belonged to a life that had ended in fire.
Hob and Elenore belonged to the life that followed.
The adoption process began when you were seven.
There were interviews.
Home inspections.
Medical assessments.
Financial records.
Questions about Hob’s unusual employment history and the fact that his legal documentation seemed to begin far more recently than he claimed his family did.
Hob had become exceptionally skilled at creating plausible lives.
Centuries of practice had given him excellent paperwork.
At the time, you knew none of that.
You only knew strangers came to the house and asked whether you felt safe.
Whether Hob became angry.
Whether Elenore listened to you.
Whether you wanted to stay.
You always gave the same answer.
Yes.
The final hearing took place in a small family courtroom.
You wore a green dress Elenore had bought specifically for the occasion. Hob wore a tie for nearly twenty minutes before loosening it and receiving a warning look from the solicitor.
The judge asked whether you understood what adoption meant.
You said it meant they could not send you somewhere else.
The room became very quiet.
Elenore reached for your hand.
The judge explained that it meant more than that. It meant Hob and Elenore would become your legal parents. Their family would become yours. Their home would remain your home.
You looked at Hob.
“Even when I’m grown up?”
His face softened.
“Especially then.”
You agreed.
You became a Gadling.
Elenore cried openly when the order was granted.
Hob claimed he had dust in his eye.
There had been no dust in the courtroom.
The years afterwards were, for the most part, ordinary.
Or as ordinary as life could be with Hob Gadling.
You went to school.
You made friends badly.
You learned to ride a bicycle and broke three windows attempting to practise cricket in the garden.
You discovered literature, mythology and the theatre.
You began playing the violin when you were eight.
The instrument belonged to Elenore’s aunt and had been stored in its case for decades. You found it while exploring a cupboard and asked if you could touch it.
Elenore showed you how to hold the bow.
Neither she nor Hob could explain what happened next.
You played a melody.
Not well. Your fingers were clumsy, your bow scratched across the strings, but the melody itself was coherent. Complete.
Hob asked where you had heard it.
You did not know.
It had simply been waiting inside you.
Lessons followed.
Within a year, you had moved beyond the first teacher’s ability.
By twelve, people had begun using words like exceptional.
Gifted.
Rare.
Your music frightened you sometimes.
Not the pieces written by ordinary composers. You loved those. Bach gave structure to the world. Vivaldi made it move. Tchaikovsky made sorrow beautiful enough to survive.
It was the other music that unsettled you.
The melodies that came late at night.
The songs no one had taught you.
Old, winding arrangements that seemed to resist conventional notation. When you played them, candles occasionally guttered. Shadows gathered in corners. Hob would stop whatever he was doing and listen with an expression you could not understand.
Once, when you were fourteen, you played a piece that made Elenore begin to cry without knowing why.
You never played that one again.
Your childhood contained other peculiarities.
Accidents that nearly happened.
A car mounted the pavement when you were ten, struck the exact place you had been standing and missed you because you had turned away seconds earlier after hearing someone call your name.
No one had called.
At thirteen, a section of ceiling collapsed during a school performance. You had left the stage moments before because you suddenly became certain your violin was out of tune.
It had not been.
At sixteen, you slipped beside the Thames and should have fallen into the water. Instead, your coat caught on a rusted railing that broke immediately after Hob pulled you to safety.
Everyone called you lucky.
Hob became increasingly uneasy each time.
He rarely explained his fears.
Your father was a man who could speak for hours about food, politics, football, property prices and the deficiencies of modern ale, yet became evasive whenever a subject mattered too much.
You discovered his immortality yourself.
You were fifteen.
A history assignment led you into the room Hob called his study, although it functioned mainly as an archive for the debris of several lifetimes.
You were looking for an old map.
Instead, you found a portrait.
The painting was badly preserved and centuries old, but the man depicted in it was unmistakably your father.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same small scar beneath his chin.
He wore clothing from another era and stood beside a woman whose name you did not know.
You carried the portrait downstairs.
Hob was cooking.
Elenore was reading at the kitchen table.
You placed the painting beside the vegetables.
“Who is this?”
Hob looked at it.
Then at you.
Elenore closed her book.
“Ah,” Hob said.
“That is you.”
“Yes.”
“The gallery record says it was painted in 1672.”
“Also yes.”
You waited for him to laugh.
He did not.
“You haven’t aged since I was six.”
Hob put down the knife.
Elenore watched him carefully.
“No.”
“Why?”
He told you about the year 1389.
He told you about the tavern, the ale and the declaration he had made loudly enough for a stranger to overhear.
Hob had decided that dying was a foolish business.
A pale man dressed in black approached his table and challenged him to prove it.
They would meet again in one hundred years.
If Hob still wished to live, he would say so.
Hob agreed.
He survived plague, war, starvation, wealth, ruin, imprisonment and grief.
The stranger returned every century.
Then 1989 came, and Hob waited alone.
The stranger never arrived.
“What was he?” you asked.
Hob leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know.”
“You met him six times.”
“Seven, if you count the first.”
“And you never asked?”
“I asked plenty. He didn’t answer.”
“Was he the devil?”
“Never wanted my soul.”
“An angel?”
Hob snorted.
“Not one with much interest in good cheer.”
“A god?”
He became quieter.
“Perhaps.”
At first, you assumed the story had to be an elaborate lie.
Then Hob showed you more.
Letters.
Portraits.
Journals written in his own hand over hundreds of years.
Documents under different names with the same face attached to them.
He spoke about history with a precision no scholar could counterfeit.
William Shakespeare was not a distant literary figure to Hob. He was Will, an ambitious young man with a sharp mind and a desperate hunger to be remembered.
The Elizabethan period was not an academic subject. It was mud, smoke, disease and packed theatres.
The seventeenth century was not a chapter. It was the loss of a wife named Elenore and a son named Robyn.
You had looked towards your adoptive mother when he said the name.
She had smiled sadly.
Hob had told her the truth before they married.
He had loved another woman with the same name centuries ago.
Your mother had never resented the name.
“There are worse women to be named after than someone he loved for several lifetimes,” she told you once.
Hob’s immortality became another truth folded into the structure of your family.
Strange, but familiar.
Like the aircraft.
Like your impossible survival.
Like the music that came from nowhere.
Elenore aged.
Hob did not.
You noticed it more as the years passed.
Grey spread through her hair. Fine lines deepened around her eyes. Her hands changed.
Hob remained the same.
Your only friend, Madeline, thought he had remarkable genes.
You allowed her to believe it.
Elenore became ill when you were seventeen.
At first, the symptoms seemed minor. Fatigue. Pain she dismissed. Appointments she postponed because she did not want to worry either of you.
The diagnosis came too late.
Cancer had already spread.
The illness lasted eleven months.
You played for her often during that final year, but never the strange melodies.
Only the pieces she loved.
She died eventually with Hob on one side of the bed and you on the other.
Hob had survived wars and plagues.
He had buried children.
He had watched civilisations change.
Nothing had prepared him to lose her.
Immortality did not make grief easier.
It merely ensured grief had longer to accumulate.
For months afterwards, Hob continued cooking enough food for three people. He sometimes turned towards the stairs when the floorboards creaked, expecting Elenore to appear.
You did the same.
Three years later, her absence still occupied space.
It lived in the empty chair upstairs.
In the mug no one used.
In the books with notes written in her careful hand.
It was one reason you had never moved far from the New Inn.
The other was money.
London was absurdly expensive, your orchestra paid appallingly and you had discovered that living with strangers was unbearable.
You studied music and took additional courses in literature and theatre because choosing only one subject felt impossible. You worked occasional shifts at an antique shop near Bloomsbury, where the owner had stopped asking how you recognised the age of objects before examining their markings.
You played with a small orchestra that sounded prestigious when mentioned in conversation and considerably less so when the payment entered your bank account.
The work was irregular.
The rehearsals were exhausting.
The money was shit.
You loved it anyway.
When the orchestra was not using you and the antique shop did not need you, you worked at the New Inn.
Hob pretended to pay you properly.
You pretended to believe him.
Living above the pub meant you were never entirely off duty, but it also meant books covered nearly every upstairs wall and your violin could be heard drifting through the floorboards after closing.
It meant your father was never far away.
It meant you did not have to live with people who borrowed your food, moved your belongings or objected when you practised at midnight.
You had attempted shared accommodation once.
Four months with three other students had taught you everything you needed to know.
One left moulding dishes in the sink.
One stole your milk.
One held loud parties before your performances.
The third brought home a succession of men whose names you learned from overheard arguments.
You moved back to the New Inn after informing them that something was scratching inside the kitchen wall.
They accused you of trying to frighten them.
A week later, pest control removed eleven mice.
Madeline had found the entire situation hilarious.
Madeline was your closest friend.
Possibly your only close friend.
You had met during your first year at university when she sat beside you in a lecture on Greek drama and whispered that the lecturer looked as though he had personally offended Dionysus.
You laughed loudly enough to be asked to leave.
The friendship had continued from there.
Madeline was everything you were not.
She enjoyed crowds.
She understood social cues.
She could begin a conversation with a stranger and know their life story within fifteen minutes.
She liked parties, bright clothes and people who used phrases such as networking opportunity without irony.
You preferred books, empty rehearsal rooms and conversations about subjects most people considered too bleak for dinner.
Madeline called you strange with great affection.
Other people were less kind.
Your dating history was evidence of that.
Madeline had been trying to find you a partner for years.
Men, mostly, although she had also arranged dates with two women after you pointed out that her efforts lacked imagination.
Every date had been disastrous.
One man spent two hours explaining cryptocurrency.
Another asked whether Hob was single.
A cellist from a neighbouring orchestra became offended when you correctly identified that he had lied about learning a concerto.
A woman from your literature course left halfway through dinner after you began explaining why Orpheus’s second loss of Eurydice was more important than the first.
Madeline claimed you frightened people.
You did not think that was entirely fair.
You merely answered questions honestly.
Sometimes you noticed things others did not.
The rhythm of a person’s breathing when they lied.
The second set of footsteps in an apparently empty corridor.
The shadows that gathered around certain people.
The wrongness inside some voices.
You had learned not to mention most of it.
Madeline tolerated the rest.
At the other end of the bar, she was currently folding black cocktail napkins into increasingly unrecognisable shapes.
You placed another polished glass on the shelf.
“What are those meant to be?”
Madeline held one up.
“Flowers.”
“They look diseased.”
“They are prototypes.”
“For what?”
She looked at you as though the answer were obvious.
“Your birthday.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You said birthday.”
“You are turning twenty-one.”
“In three weeks.”
“Exactly. We’re running out of time.”
“There is no we.”
Madeline flattened the napkin against the bar and started again.
“Hob told me to speak to you.”
Your gaze shifted across the room.
Your father was still holding the invoice.
He had been examining the same page for at least ten minutes.
“Did he?”
Hob looked up at the precise moment he realised you were watching.
“Everything all right?” he called.
“Traitor.”
He smiled.
“No idea what you mean.”
Madeline leaned closer.
“He says you need a proper party.”
“My father believes every event requires alcohol and public noise.”
“He owns a pub.”
“That explains the bias. It does not justify it.”
“Twenty-one is important.”
“Why?”
“Because it is.”
“That is circular reasoning.”
“There will be cake.”
“I can purchase cake without enduring a party.”
“Music.”
“I work with musicians. I have no interest in encouraging them outside contracted hours.”
Madeline lowered her voice.
“Attractive people.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I have not specified a gender.”
“The objection remains.”
She sighed theatrically and then rested both elbows on the bar.
Her expression softened as she looked at you.
“You’re thinking about the crash.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass.
Very few people could read your face.
Madeline had always been able to.
“It’s the anniversary,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked towards the muted television.
The memorial footage had ended. A politician now stood behind a lectern, speaking passionately about something the captions reduced to a line of bland text.
“Fourteen years,” you said.
Madeline reached across the bar and rested her fingers against your wrist.
She did not say you were lucky.
She did not say everything happened for a reason.
She had learned very quickly that you hated both statements.
“Do you want me to stay tonight?”
“You are already working.”
“I mean afterwards.”
You shook your head.
“I’ll probably practise.”
“Until two in the morning?”
“The walls are thick.”
“The walls are not that thick.”
“My father sleeps through wars.”
From across the room, your father called, “I heard that.”
“Apparently not,” Madeline said.
You smiled despite yourself.
For several minutes, everything felt ordinary again.
Glasses.
Rain.
Hob muttering over invoices.
Madeline producing another deformed napkin flower.
Then the candle on the nearest table went out.
You noticed because there was no breeze.
The flame did not flicker or shrink.
It bent sharply towards the floor and vanished.
A pressure formed behind your eyes.
You stopped polishing.
The room seemed to change around you.
Not visibly.
The walls remained where they were. Customers continued talking. Rain tapped against the windows.
But beneath the familiar sounds came something else.
A low vibration.
A distant grinding noise.
Stone against stone.
Chains drawn slowly across a floor.
You looked towards the front windows.
For an instant, your reflection was not alone.
But when you turned, there was no one there.
“What?” Madeline asked.
“Nothing.”
The pressure sharpened.
Your vision blurred.
You placed one hand against the bar.
Somewhere beneath London, a circle was breaking.
************
The Burgess Estate
For more than a century, Dream of the Endless had been held inside glass.
Men had called it a prison.
They were mistaken.
Glass alone could not imprison him.
Iron alone could not contain him.
The sphere was merely the centre of a greater construction: a binding circle drawn beneath it, symbols copied from stolen books and reinforced with tools taken from his person.
His helm.
His pouch of sand.
His ruby.
The mortals who captured him had intended to summon Death.
They had obtained Dream instead.
Roderick Burgess had demanded gifts.
The restoration of his dead son.
Immortality.
Power over those who opposed him.
Dream had answered with silence.
He could not grant what the mortal demanded.
He would not reward the man who had torn him from his realm, stolen his tools and imprisoned him.
So he waited.
At first, Dream believed his absence from the Dreaming would be brief.
The mortals would make an error.
The circle would fail.
One guard would succumb to sleep.
Yet Burgess was cautious, and fear made men diligent.
Days became months.
Months became years.
Years became decades.
Dream felt his realm deteriorate in his absence.
He felt gates left unguarded.
Dreams that could not find their dreamers.
Nightmares abandoning their functions.
Creatures born of story and fear wandering without order.
He felt mortals fall into sleep and fail to wake.
Others remained awake for years, unable to cross the threshold into his domain.
The sickness spread through the waking world.
Dream felt each lost sleeper as a distant wound.
He could not reach them.
He could not reach his kingdom.
He sat naked within the sphere and watched the twentieth century pass through the clothing and faces of his captors.
Roderick Burgess aged.
His certainty became desperation.
His demands became pleas.
Then the Magus died, leaving his son to inherit the estate, the guards and the secret beneath the house.
Alex Burgess had been a child when Dream was captured.
He grew into a frightened young man beneath Dream’s unchanging gaze.
Then he became old.
Dream watched his hair whiten.
His shoulders stoop.
His hands tremble.
Beside him remained Paul.
Paul, who had entered the house as a young man and stayed long enough to become part of it.
Paul, who looked at the glass with something that was not greed.
Perhaps guilt.
Perhaps pity.
Perhaps merely weariness.
Dream did not trust the distinctions mortals made between such feelings. Compassion without action was only another manner of cowardice.
On the final evening of his captivity, Alex Burgess sat before the sphere in a wheelchair.
Paul stood beside him.
Alex’s voice had weakened with age.
“I was a child when my father brought you here.”
Dream raised his head.
He did not speak.
“It was not my doing.”
The mortal’s eyes filled.
“I could have killed you. I did not.”
Dream regarded him in silence.
The claim was absurd.
Alex Burgess had possessed neither the knowledge nor the power required to destroy an Endless.
Yet mortals often mistook prolonged cruelty for mercy simply because it stopped short of murder.
Alex leaned forward.
“I am asking you to forgive me.”
Dream did not move.
Forgiveness was not a thing extracted through repetition.
Paul placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder.
“Come away,” he said quietly.
He turned the wheelchair.
One wheel crossed close to the edge of the binding circle.
Paul’s shoe touched the line.
The chalk shifted.
Only slightly.
A smear no wider than a finger.
Yet the circle had to be whole.
A boundary was not almost complete.
A promise was not nearly kept.
For the first time in more than a century, Dream felt the binding weaken.
He remained perfectly still.
Alex and Paul did not notice.
Paul looked once towards the sphere before pushing Alex away.
There was something in his expression.
Regret, perhaps.
Dream believed, in that moment, that Paul had broken the line deliberately.
A small act of pity concealed beneath the appearance of carelessness.
Later, Dream would reconsider.
He would remember the abrupt pressure that moved through the chamber before Paul’s foot crossed the chalk.
The trembling of the glass.
The sensation of another presence touching the outer edge of the spell.
Something distant.
Something that did not belong within the Burgess estate.
He did not yet understand that the disturbance had begun elsewhere in London.
Inside a young woman standing behind a bar.
A woman who carried a history no mortal records could explain.
A woman who did not dream. Not yet. But soon.
The broken line was not enough to free him immediately.
But it gave him reach.
A guard entered the chamber after Alex and Paul departed.
He sat opposite the sphere with a weapon across his lap.
The guards had been taught never to sleep in Dream’s presence.
Never to cross the circle.
Never to approach the glass.
Mortals believed knowledge of weakness made them immune to it.
Dream waited.
The guard blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His head lowered.
Sleep took him.
The moment the mortal crossed into Dream’s realm, Dream entered his mind.
The dream was small and crude.
A sunny beach.
Money.
Freedom from the Burgess family.
Dream altered it.
He placed the glass sphere within the dream and showed the guard himself breaking it. He made the act appear necessary. Heroic. The only escape from a danger closing around him.
The mortal rose in the waking world.
His movements were uncertain, guided by a dream he believed was his own.
He approached the sphere.
Raised his weapon.
Fired.
The glass cracked.
The sound passed through the chamber like the splitting of the earth.
Dream lifted his face.
The guard woke.
Too late.
A second crack raced across the sphere.
Then a third.
The glass exploded.
Dream became shadow.
He became wind moving through a sealed room.
He became a storm of black sand pouring through the fractured sphere and over the broken circle.
The chamber lights died.
The guard screamed and fled.
Dream stood beyond his prison for the first time in more than one hundred years.
His body was weakened.
His tools were gone.
His realm had suffered.
Yet he was free.
He turned towards the old man sleeping elsewhere in the house.
Alex Burgess had sought forgiveness.
Instead, Dream entered his mind.
The dream began in a familiar bedroom.
Paul stood near the window, young again.
Alex smiled.
Then Paul opened the door.
Another room waited beyond it.
Inside stood Roderick Burgess.
Beyond Roderick waited another door.
Then another.
Each led to a memory Alex had buried.
Each room offered the possibility of waking and then withdrew it.
Alex attempted to turn his wheelchair.
It would not move.
Dream stepped from the shadows.
“You asked that I forgive the years you stole.”
Alex stared at him.
“Please.”
“You had many years in which to free me.”
“I was afraid.”
“And so you made your fear my prison.”
The walls began to fracture.
The rooms multiplied.
Doors opened into corridors without end.
“You shall sleep,” Dream said.
Alex began to cry.
“And each time you believe you have awakened, the dream shall begin again.”
Dream withdrew.
Alex Burgess remained behind, trapped inside an endless waking nightmare.
Justice had been delivered.
Dream should have turned his thoughts towards the Dreaming.
Towards his absent tools.
Towards the subjects who might yet remain.
Instead, he paused in the ruined chamber.
Something had touched him when the glass broke.
Not the guard.
Not Paul.
Not any member of the Burgess household.
For one brief moment, he had felt another mind recoil with his own.
Young.
Unfamiliar.
Human in shape, but not entirely human in substance.
The presence had carried the faintest scent of smoke.
Old fire.
Cold iron.
And beneath both, something darker.
A realm Dream had known since before mortals first gave it names.
He reached outward.
Across the sleeping city, minds opened before him.
Children dreamed of impossible gardens.
Adults rebuilt lost homes.
The lonely spoke with the dead.
Nightmares crouched behind familiar doors.
Dream searched among them for the presence that had touched the boundary of his prison.
He found nothing.
There was no dream to follow.
No path.
No door.
The mind had vanished from his perception as though it had never entered the Dreaming at all.
Dream opened his eyes.
For the first time since escaping, uncertainty moved through him.
******
The New Inn
Just as, across London, Dream of the Endless escaped from his prison, the wineglass exploded in your hand.
One moment it was whole.
The next, it burst outward with a sharp crack.
Fragments scattered across the bar and struck the shelves behind you. A jagged piece sliced through your palm.
Pain came a heartbeat later.
You gasped and dropped the stem.
The room tilted violently.
Madeline abandoned the napkins.
“Oh my God.”
She caught your wrist before you could pull your injured hand against your chest.
Blood welled across your palm and ran between your fingers.
Hob was moving before anyone else understood what had happened.
The invoice fell from his hands.
His chair struck the floor behind him as he crossed the room.
“What happened?”
“The glass shattered,” Madeline said. “She wasn’t squeezing it. It just broke.”
Hob took your wrist carefully.
His face had changed.
The easy humour was gone.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
Your voice sounded distant.
The pressure behind your eyes had become unbearable.
The pub blurred around you.
For one impossible instant, you were somewhere else.
A dark chamber.
Broken glass spread across a stone floor.
A pale man standing within a circle, shadows folding around him like robes.
His face turned towards you.
Not towards the door.
Not towards the fleeing guard.
Towards you.
His eyes were black.
Stars burned within them.
Something moved through your body like lightning.
You jerked violently.
Hob caught your shoulders.
“Look at me.”
The vision vanished.
You stared at your father.
His mouth was moving, but you could not hear him properly.
Beneath the ordinary noise of the pub came thousands of other sounds.
Breathing.
Whispering.
Crying.
Laughter from distant rooms.
The rustle of wings.
You felt the sleeping city.
Not as individual people, but as a vast ocean of minds moving beneath the surface of consciousness.
Dreams opened around you.
A child running through a forest made of glass.
An old woman dancing with her dead husband.
A man trapped in a room with no doors.
A girl standing beneath a red sky while something called her name from beyond a wall.
Then the connection snapped.
Sound rushed back into the New Inn.
Madeline pressed a folded cloth against your palm.
“Are you all right?”
You struggled to breathe normally.
“Yes.”
“You nearly collapsed.”
“I felt dizzy.”
Hob was staring at you.
Not only with concern.
Recognition.
Or the fear of recognising something he did not understand.
“Dizzy how?” he asked.
You looked towards the shattered glass.
“Like a shock.”
“An electric shock?” Madeline asked.
“No.”
You swallowed.
The strange pressure was already fading.
“It felt like something broke.”
*******
The Hour of Dream’s Escape
Far beneath the northern edge of London, where the oldest tunnels had been sealed and forgotten, a bell rang once.
No hand touched it.
The sound rolled through the underground chambers, low and resonant, disturbing centuries of dust. Black candles flared within their iron stands. Symbols cut into the stone floor filled briefly with a dull red light.
At the centre of the chamber stood a basin fashioned from volcanic glass. Its surface had reflected nothing for more than one hundred years. Now it showed a broken sphere.
Cracks spread through the glass prison like lightning trapped in ice. Within it, the pale figure who had sat unmoving for generations lifted his head.
The magicians surrounding the basin fell silent. Some knelt. Others stepped back, unable to endure the sight of the being imprisoned within the vision. Azazel remained standing.
His shape was scarcely contained by the chamber. He appeared as an absence in the rough outline of a man, a depth of darkness into which the candlelight vanished. Three mouths opened where a face might have been, each revealing another blackness behind it.
In the basin, the binding circle beneath the sphere was broken.
Dream of the Endless emerged in a storm of darkness and sand.
Azazel’s three mouths smiled.
“It is done.”
The words seemed to come from beneath the floor.
One of the human magicians lowered her head.
Symbols had been burned into the skin around her eyes so that she might look upon beings from other realms without losing her sight.
Even so, she did not look directly at Azazel.
“The Dream Lord is free.”
“He is.”
The image within the basin changed.
Dream stood in the ruined cellar, naked, starved and terrible. His tools were gone, his power diminished after more than a century of captivity.
Yet the humans in the chamber trembled merely from witnessing his reflection.
A demon crouched near the basin. Its body was narrow and grey, its arms long enough for its claws to scrape the floor.
“Then the prophecy may begin.”
Azazel’s central mouth opened.
“The prophecy began before the first of these mortals learned to name the stars.”
The demon bowed its head.
“Then it may take root.”
At that, the basin trembled.
For a moment, another image appeared beneath the reflection of broken glass.
A young woman stood behind the bar of a public house. Blood ran over her hand. Her face was pale with shock, and behind her stood an immortal man who did not yet understand what he had taken into his home.
The image vanished almost immediately.
The female magician looked towards Azazel.
“He felt her.”
One of Azazel’s mouths smiled.
Another remained still.
The third spoke.
“He felt that something touched the boundary of his prison.”
“Will he search for her?”
“He already started.”
The candles nearest the basin bent towards Azazel.
“He sought her among the dreamers. He found no door, no path and no mark by which her mind might be entered.”
Azazel extended one shadowed limb above the basin. The water darkened, concealing the young woman completely.
“The opening was brief. The magic that held an Endless tore through several boundaries when it failed. The concealment weakened for no more than a breath.”
Another demon looked back at the basin then and Dream’s image emerged again. He stood over Alex Burgess, preparing a punishment that would last beyond waking.
“Why free him now, not later?”
The three mouths closed.
For several moments, only the faint grinding of stone could be heard.
Azazel moved around the basin.
The magicians lowered themselves further as his shadow passed over them.
“Because the girl approaches the twenty-first year of her mortal life.”
The woman waited.
“Her power will begin to reveal itself.”
“It already has,” said the long-limbed demon. “The accidents. The music.”
Azazel’s darkness surged.
The demon flattened itself against the floor.
“Fragments,” Azazel said. “Instinct without understanding. A door moving in its frame, but not yet open.”
He turned his attention back to the magician.
“Soon the signs will become more difficult to conceal. Creatures of Hell will sense her. The servants of the Silver City will recognise the wound in creation from which she came. Even mortals will begin to understand that she is not one of them.”
The magician’s expression shifted.
“And if Dream becomes to know what she is?”
The basin changed.
The young woman appeared again, but this time darkness moved beneath her skin. Behind her, for less than an instant, stood an enormous gate formed from iron, bone and fire.
“If the Lord of Dreams knows what she is before he knows who she is,” Azazel said, “he will destroy her.”
The magician stared at the vision.
“Because she belongs to Hell?”
“No.”
The denial came from all three mouths.
The candles guttered.
“Dream does not kill merely because a creature is infernal. Hell and the Dreaming have existed beside one another since before men imagined either realm.”
Azazel’s form rose higher, nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling.
“He will destroy her because she is a breach in the order of things.”
The stone symbols beneath him glowed.
“A living wound between realms.”
The basin showed borders folding into one another.
The waking world bled into a red and burning landscape. Human cities stood beneath a sky without sun. Towers of Heaven withdrew behind gates of silver while demons passed freely across lands that had never belonged to them.
“Her existence threatens the balance that even the Endless must preserve.”
The female magician spoke softly.
“Dream is not guardian of the balance.”
Azazel’s middle mouth curved.
“No. But he is bound to it.”
The right mouth opened.
“Dream is not a creature who possesses a duty.”
The left joined it.
“He is his duty.”
The three voices came together.
“So, if he recognises the breach before attachment clouds his judgement, he will fulfil his function,” Azazel said. “He will mourn her if he believes mourning appropriate. He may resent those who made the act necessary. But he will end her life, and the balance will remain.”
The magician looked towards the basin.
“Then we require him to meet her while she still appears only human.”
“Yes.”
“Before the breach matures.”
“Before he can name it.”
The long-limbed demon lifted its head cautiously.
“You believe the Dream Lord will fall in love with her? A mortal woman?”
Azazel turned.
For once, none of his mouths smiled.
“Belief is for fools.”
A pause followed.
“But yes. It would not be the first time the Lord of Dreams has loved a mortal.”
The demon glanced towards the dark water.
“And this is what the prophecy promises?”
“This is what I understand it to require.”
Azazel’s shadow stretched across the floor.
“He must love her before he understands the danger she represents. Before he sees the breach rather than the woman. Before duty becomes the only choice available to him.”
“Then the prophecy—”
Azazel moved closer to the basin.
“Then the prophecy shall be fulfilled.”
The black water began to ripple.
Words appeared across its surface, written in no mortal language, yet understood by every being within the chamber.
A voice spoke from nowhere.
First came the voice of a maiden.
Then that of a mother.
Then an old woman whose breath rattled at the edge of death.
When the King of Dreams gives his heart to the Child of the Wound, that which sleeps within her shall wake.
The breach shall flower beneath the shadow of his love.
The walls of Hell shall cease to be walls.
And Hell shall become all that Heaven has not claimed.
who in SBR is knocking you off the bed in their sleep? even if they give you the Kars treatment, if you do it back, none of them are happy (Pocoloco is so chill though he really would be like “Do we need to talk about something”)
<𝟑 .ᐟ Motionless, eerily peaceful
So, uh. Not to be a dick but Johnny… for most of the series Johnny canonically can’t—
But in seriousness I do think he’s a pretty immobile sleeper. He may have been a thrasher as a child, but his father chided him out of it. More likely to cling to you so you can’t get out even if you want to, sleeping solid as a rock. Please cling back to him.
Pocoloco sleeps like a cat, occasionally stretching and maneuvering himself to maximize comfort, but he doesn’t really kick or splay his arms out. He might nudge you a little as he moves, but if it bothers you, he may scoot a tiny bit further from you to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Or, if you prefer (and really he prefers this too) you can cuddle and he moves much less.
Gyro I don’t think sends you flying the way Diego or Sandman would, but he might accidentally leave a bruise. He may make an effort to consciously tangle your legs so he doesn’t accidentally fling his foot out (especially on the trail, when he’s wearing boots even in his sleep some days. Mutters about how you should just snuggle him so he doesn’t do it.
Sandman is 50/50. He’s constantly in motion, and if he nudges you, there’s a chance it’s nothing and there’s a chance you’re rolling three feet to the side and potentially off the bed. It’s not antagonistic, but he also isn’t too much of a cuddler when he sleeps and so it’s probably better to be a little apart. Has no qualms about holding hands during sleep though or looping pinkies.
Diego is also 50/50. Only where Sandman has two modes, Diego’s only mode is sending you rolling and crashing off the bed unless he’s got you pinned in his arms or there’s a two foot gap between the two of you. You have absolutely snapped at him and threatened to drug him so he sleeps more soundly, only for him to threaten the same so you can’t squirm when crushed against his chest.
Hot Pants sends you into orbit if you give her the chance, but it’s rare. Following bad dreams she’ll leave a fist sized bruise on your ribs or calf or wake you as you fall off the bed with a soft thump. In the morning she feels just a hair guilty, but doesn’t say so. She instead, similar to Gyro, suggests that you tangle legs together, that or sleep further apart. Really hopes you don’t do the latter but can’t say it.
Note: A spin-off chapter set after the events of Bound in Eternity — Parts I through IV.
Pairing: Morpheus x wife!reader.
CW/TW: fluff, light intimacy.
This chapter is dedicated to my beloved @misswings1864
also, happy to get @iamcharliemichaels attention too <3
The Dreaming settles into evening slowly, the way it always does when Morpheus allows it to — as though even the dark has to be persuaded into place rather than simply arriving. Lantern-light drifts along the garden paths below, and somewhere past the hedges the sea exhales, slow and patient, the way it has every night for as long as you have had a balcony to stand on.
You find him already there, one hand resting on the stone rail, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular — which usually means he is thinking about everything at once. He does not turn when you step out to join him. He never needs to.
"You've been standing here since before I finished the dishes," you say, coming to lean into his side.
"The kitchen does not require an audience."
"It requires someone to dry the mugs, actually. Matthew keeps insisting he can do it with his beak and I keep telling him that's how we lost the good one."
"We did not lose a mug. You threw it at a nightmare that would not stop imitating Despair's voice."
"That nightmare deserved it."
His arm settles around you, unhurried, and you feel the small huff of air that in anyone else would be a laugh. You tuck yourself against him, and for a while neither of you says anything, content to watch the stars rearrange themselves into shapes that mean something only to the Dreaming, and to you, now, because you have spent enough years learning to read them.
"It has been a long while since it was only this," he says eventually. "No task waiting. No realm trembling somewhere out of sight."
"A quiet year," you say, and something in the phrase makes him glance down at you, because he knows exactly which year you mean — the one where you stopped feeling the holidays arrive, where the Waking World's countdown of days slid past you without catching, and he sat with that fear until you found your way back to wanting things again. "Not that kind of quiet, though. The good kind."
"There is a difference," he agrees. "I did not always know that."
"You know it now."
"I had considerable motivation to learn."
You smile against his shoulder. Below, the garden shifts almost imperceptibly, the roses you tend yourself turning very slightly toward the sound of your voice, the way they have for longer than either of you bothers to count anymore.
"Do you remember the Underground?" you ask, because the thought arrives unbidden, the way old memories do on nights like this. "When I stepped out too fast and ended up in an empty carriage wearing absolutely nothing?"
"I remember," he says, and there is something low and warm in his voice now, edged with a possessiveness he has never fully outgrown and clearly has no intention of trying to. "I remember rather vividly."
"You were insufferable about it."
"I was thorough."
"You were jealous of an empty train car."
"I was concerned," he says, with the particular dignity of a man defending a position he has already lost. "The distinction matters."
"It really doesn't."
He does not argue further, which you have learned over the years is its own kind of concession. His hand at your waist tightens slightly, the same way it did that night, and you laugh softly into the quiet, because a hundred-odd years later it still works exactly the way it always has.
"I think about the vow sometimes," you say, quieter now. "The one we never wrote down."
"Not Endless, and once mortal," he says, the words settling between you like something worn smooth from handling. "Not creator and creation. Just us."
"You remember that too."
"I remember all of it," he says. "I have simply learned not to announce it every time, since you accused me once of being dramatically sentimental and I have not fully recovered from the insult."
"You are dramatically sentimental."
"I am economical with it."
You turn fully to face him now, your hand rising to rest against his chest, feeling the strange, steady stillness there that has never resolved into a heartbeat and never quite needed to. "What do you want, now? Out of all the years still ahead of us."
He considers this the way he considers most things that matter to you — slowly, and without performance. "More evenings precisely like this one," he says. "Fewer disasters requiring your presence at my side, though I suspect that request is somewhat naive of me. I would like to finish the wing of the library you started cataloguing last spring, though I suspect you have opinions about which volumes belong where that will outlast several more centuries of argument."
"I have very strong opinions."
"I am aware. I look forward to losing that particular argument for as long as we both exist." His hand rises to your jaw, and this time it does not stay unhurried. His thumb drags slower along your cheekbone, deliberate, and something in his gaze deepens — that familiar shift from stillness into focus, the one that has never once failed to undo you. "And I would like, on occasion, for you to keep looking at me exactly the way you are looking at me now."
"How am I looking at you?"
"As though you have not yet decided whether to argue with me or ruin me entirely."
"Can't it be both?"
"It is always both, with you." His voice drops lower, rougher at the edges, and the hand at your waist pulls you flush against him without asking permission, without needing to. "It is, I confess, my favorite thing about you."
"That's almost romantic."
"It was precise." His forehead lowers to yours, breath warm against your mouth, and for a moment neither of you moves, letting the anticipation stretch taut between you the way it has for a hundred years and has never once grown dull. "Say something clever," he murmurs. "Before I stop letting you."
"I don't feel like being clever."
"Good," he says, and closes the distance himself.
The kiss is not careful. It starts slow and does not stay that way — his hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wants it, and you answer with the same hunger, fingers fisting into the front of his coat to keep him from thinking, even for a second, about pulling back. He kisses you like he has something to prove and all of eternity to prove it in, unhurried in the way that only makes it worse, deliberate in a way that leaves you breathless and wanting more before he has even finished with less. When his mouth drags along your jaw, lower, to the place beneath your ear that has undone you for a century, you feel more than hear the low sound he makes against your skin — something satisfied, something possessive, something that has nothing to do with kings or realms and everything to do with you.
"Morpheus," you breathe, not quite a warning.
"Mm," he says, entirely unrepentant, and kisses you again — deeper this time, slower, his hand splayed warm against the small of your back as though he intends to keep you exactly here for the rest of the night and has no interest in negotiating otherwise.
You are the one who breaks it, only far enough to speak against his mouth. "Take me inside."
Something shifts behind his eyes — dark, immediate, entirely unsurprised, as though he had simply been waiting for you to ask. "As you wish," he says, and the balcony doors open behind you without either of you touching them, the Dreaming already anticipating what its king wants before he has fully decided to want it aloud.
He does not release you as you cross the threshold. If anything his hold tightens, guiding rather than leading, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, unhurried even now, as though a century has taught him that patience is its own kind of devastating. You feel the low sound he makes against your skin more than you hear it — satisfaction, want, something ancient and entirely undiminished by time.
The bed is an afterthought neither of you rushes toward and neither of you avoids. When your knees find the edge of it, his hands are already at the fastenings of your dress, unhurried, deliberate, each inch of skin he uncovers met with his mouth before his hands move on — as though he intends to relearn you tonight, the way he has relearned you a hundred times before and never once found the process anything less than essential.
"You're staring," you murmur, breathless, as the last of the fabric slips free.
"I am observing," he says, though his voice has lost its usual composure, roughened at the edges in the way that only ever happens here, only ever with you. "You are still the single fact in this realm I have never fully learned to anticipate."
"Good," you whisper, drawing him down with you. "Keep learning."
He does.
His weight settles over you, unhurried and certain, his mouth trailing slow, deliberate heat along your collarbone while his hand maps the curve of your waist, your hip, with the reverence of something that has never once taken you for granted. When he finally settles between your thighs, it is with the same patience he has carried the whole evening — no urgency, only the maddening, thorough attention of a being who has all of eternity and intends to spend a considerable portion of it exactly here.
"Look at me," he murmurs against your ear, and you do, and what passes between you in that single unguarded look is worth more than anything either of you could have said aloud.
Then he moves, and words stop mattering at all.
Afterward, you lie tangled in the dark, his arm heavy and warm across your waist, his breath slow against your hair. The Dreaming has gone hushed around the two of you, the way it does when it wants nothing more than to leave you undisturbed.
"A hundred years," you murmur eventually, tracing an idle line along his chest, "and you still make that sound like it's the first time."
"It is never the first time," he says quietly, "and yet somehow it is never merely the hundredth, either." His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together over his heart, or the place a heart would be if he required one. "I have not found the words for that. I am not certain they exist."
"You just found them."
"Then I suppose I am improving."
You smile against his shoulder, and for a long while neither of you says anything more, content in the quiet that has followed you both from the balcony into the dark — earned, unhurried, and entirely your own.
A shape crosses the windowsill without landing — Matthew, more shadow than bird against the dark of the garden beyond.
"Didn't want to interrupt," he says, clearly interrupting, "but Lucienne wants to know if you're coming down for dinner or if she should just assume you've eloped again."
"We're already married, Matthew."
"Tell her that..." He's gone again before you can, folding back into the night with the particular satisfaction of a raven who has said exactly enough and not one word more.
"He still worries," you say, laughing softly against Morpheus's chest.
"He always will," Morpheus says. "I have stopped attempting to convince him otherwise. I find I no longer mind."
You settle back against him, and his arms close fully around you, unhurried, certain, the two of you wrapped in a quiet that has followed you from the balcony and shows no sign of releasing either of you soon.
"Five more minutes," you say.
"Lucienne will forgive us."
"She always does."
Neither of you moves. Below, the Dreaming waits, patient as it has learned to be, entirely used to its king taking his time when it matters. And for a little while longer, in the room that has held every quiet ending you have earned since everything that came before it, that is exactly what he does.
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PLEASE ENGAGE IF YOU LIKE IT! Your comments, thoughts, and reactions mean everything. This story truly lives only when someone else falls into it with me.
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CHECK MY OTHER SANDMAN FANFIC
Summary: The God of Dreams assists you in escaping Poseidon's obsession.
status: ongoing
wordcount: 13.6k
warnings: Implied non-con (not Morpheus)
18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.
Morpheus stands calf deep on the shore of her crystal clear water, holding her forearm in his hands, reluctant to let go. Kisses the veins on the back of her wrists laced over like Hornworts.
Her giggles whistles softly under the Dreaming’s silver moon hanging in the midnight sky. He can’t help his own smile spreading over, notes the rustling leaves from the woods surrounding, to the Willow beside them. As if they approve of this courting between him and his sweet Naiad by gushing eagerly to one another.
“Good night, Morpheus.” she whispers, leaning to kiss his cheek but he captures her lips first. She laughs again in his mouth, then kisses him tenderly, he captures all he could take. Trace the outline of her visage under the tepid moonlight and commit them to his eternal memories.
“Sleep peacefully, (y/n).”
After he kissed her cheek once more, she returned to slumber under her lake, saplings and trees stoop their heads low to protect her body of water.
They adored her as much as him. How could they not? She is a part of the Dreaming as any written words in the library or fields of wheat that germinates from the dirt. Nurture and care as if she is their mother. Laughed and cried and raged then bared herself to every particle. How could they not when they have truly seen her for what she is? When her intentions have always been translucent.
He returns to his palace, residing in his Throne room, pacing around as he tries to work, but thinks of the first time she kissed him that very same evening instead. He pores over it over and over again. Her shadow leaks to every being that dreams on that night.
He wishes he needed sleep.
The Phantom of her kiss lingers. The stars seemed to tremble at her lips, landing sweet on his mouth. What he imagined for centuries is fleeting and brief and for a moment he despises his father Time and the rules of his work.
He feels like those days at the beginning of all things. The world was new and he was young. Love tastes so sweet that it paralyses him, he didn't know what to do.
Morpheus sighs and closes his eyes in resignation, deciding to busy himself watching over his subjects of dreams and nightmares into the dawn. In the back of his eyes he ruminates still the way she looked at him, as if he had hung the universe in her hair, wove the dust into her clothes. He quite literally has done that, and in turn she had taken those universes and hung them along the branches of her willow tree. Illuminating her lake at night. Glimmering like flickering lanterns in a cold, windy night.
When he rises from his throne at the breaking dawn, he wills his coat into a black Chiton that slung over his shoulder and the other fastened on his ribs, then travels to her domain as he lets his sand take him away.
He feels the grass beneath his soles, sees his Naiad fluttering from the water as she drapes the ivory coloured Chiton around her skin, looping her arms through the fabric made from stardust he had sewn for her some centuries ago.
“Morpheus.” she calls, her voice entwined with the grogginess of her breaking slumber. A lovely smile spreads on her face.
“(y/n).” he returns her smile, and strides to stand behind her after he takes the golden brooches in her hands. His fingers dutifully work his way about her shoulders cinching the jewellery.
“You’re leaving?” she cranes her wet neck to look over her shoulder.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night.” he remembers exactly when he decided to tell her his comings and goings. Repeatedly falling asleep at the long table in the library, awaiting his arrival from twilight into the dawn. He unfolded her arms on the wooden surface and gently woke her with a palm on her cheek. To which she smiled at the sight of him and looped her fingers around his settled on her face.
“I’ll receive you when you return.” She turns her body towards him and takes both of his hands. His fingers instinctively reach for the scars on her palm and caress them.
“No more staying up, My heart. You should never lose sleep on my account.” he reminds her.
“You’re worth it, God of my Dreams.” She gives him a lazy smile, one that squeezes his chest and muddles his head in adoration. Turns him inside out, his moon—wrought innards and all. Centuries upon centuries and yet he is still unprepared of how much she affects him by doing so little, by saying so little.
There is no helping him from leaning in to kiss her on the lips, she who tastes of Saffron and fresh water and hints of early morning Crocus. Her gentle mouth playful with his own, flays his skin in pleasure.
When their lips part, his hand lovingly grazes her cheekbone, he kisses her there.
“I will be home soon.” He promises to her skin.
“I will be waiting.” she says as she presses her cheek against his. Found comfort at her fingers settling on the hollow of his neck.
1
Morpheus has Departed the Dreaming in the morning. His last kiss still leaves you in a daze. You swallow as you sit and lean against your Willow. When you close your eyes you can feel him all around you. The grass beneath your soles, the air in your lungs, the trees surrounding your lake. Your palm grips the grass, you miss him already. But a sudden breeze comes your way and tickles your neck, soothes your desire just a fraction. You chuckle. It seems the king is as eager as you do.
2
Even within the dreaming, there’s always patterns of stable ecosystems you could find. While you could do everything in this place, you somehow find Hunting becoming your preferred sport, because you can take careful consideration of what you could bring to the dinner table at Cain’s or Abel’s. You always bring the best to your friends. Pigeons, Fowls, Partridge, Quail, and many others several times a week. You appreciate what the craft has done to your body. Your steps grew silent. Your arms are stronger. The pace of strategizing, you adore every single second of the hunt.
As you are left to your own devices, you don’t particularly feel like filling in the ledger in the library. So you take your woven bag and bow—carved by your own hands from black—barked Hickory, then slung them over your shoulder. You set off to hunt for lunch in the northern forest. You crave black Grouse for today, and you shall pluck many for your friends as well.
The walk is long, but since you landed face flat into the Dreaming, you found walking is always a pleasure. Some parts of the Dreaming are unchanging but ones that do are magnificent, you find new splendour every day, in tune with the gradual change of civilization and cultures. You’ve witnessed the rise and fall of mankind beside the King, lingering in his throne room with your chin tilted to the ceiling, dazed by the beauty and the pain of the world that is no longer familiar for centuries upon centuries.
You remove your bow from your shoulder, pushing deeper into the misty woods. The sun barely punctures the atmosphere for today, and you wonder why as you let your palm glide on the trees.
You take a step back when you hear a gentle chirping of the black bird, your eyes scouring around the woods and find Grouses flocked on the pine trees across your left shoulder, perched in rows.
You blink. Is it that cold already?
You pay it no mind as you crouch, take an arrow from your quiver pouch strapped on your waist, then draw in the strings. You breathe in, breathe out, and-
You stumble forward. The birds flew from the trees into the bright sky. For a brief second your lungs felt as if it could collapse. Water stings the back of your eyes with staggering pressure you fear your eyeballs might escape out of their sockets. The scars on your palm stings violently you thought there was a dagger digging through your bones.
Then you blink. Stand as you sway, leaning on the tree. When your skin touches the bark, you flinch. Then press them again to make sure. Then to another tree, and another. Somehow, the trees feel as if it has the consistency of a hollowed glass. You’re afraid if you pressed them too hard they would break under your fingers. You don’t think too much of it, you don’t know how to. But you’ll have to ask Mervyn later.
Something has happened. You breathe in for a second. Confused in your confusion.
Still, you advance deeper into the woods.
—
“Merv!” You called.
“Kid.” He greets. Raking another patch of soil for the Calamint in the side of the grove. His turnip head had changed into a Pumpkin, when it happened you almost didn’t recognise him. Suits him better somehow.
“You’re early. Good hunt?” He eyes your bounty. You’ve shot 8. 5 in the bag, 3 dangles around your hip.
“They flocked.” You reveal to him.
“Huh.” Mervin says to himself puzzledly.
“And there’s something else.” You take his hand and place it on the nearest Pomegranate tree. His eyes squinted.
“What the hell.” Mervyn mumbles. Rubbing his palms against the tree.
Then a sound of shatter, gentle, subtle, delicate chimes against the wind leading to the sky where you and Mervyn find what you can only describe as a tear. Barely visible, you have to focus hard to be able to see, almost blending with the vast blue sky. The residue trickled down to the ground like embers.
You and Mervyn share a puzzled look, then course to the point under the tear of the sky. Yet when you reach your destination, not a trace of the shattering can be found even as Mervyn prod and pick at the ground. Mervyn scratches his pumpkin head.
“What’s happening Merv?” you ask. Slightly agitated.
“No idea, nothing’s ever happened to the sky before.” He scrutinises the tear. Deep in his thoughts.
“Can you fix it?”
”Maybe. Though how the hell do you patch up the sky?
”Let me help, I'll consult the elder dreams and nightmares-”
“Hey, this is my job. I'll manage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. But I want it roasted with duck fat.” His eyes pointed to the Grouse.
You smile. “Alright. See you at lunch, Merv.”
“See ya kid.” He makes a gesture of tipping his invisible hat to you.
__
You rasped your hand against the door of the house of secrets. Hear the coming steps of its host.
“You’re early.” Abel greets as he steps aside to let you in.
“I got lucky.” you hand him the bag. He rummaged through it.
“Fine catch regardless.” he says as he walks towards the living room.
“You’re welcome.” He places the bag gently on the coffee table.
“I still have papers to finish.” Cain says.
“Can I wait in your office?”
Cain ponders for a moment, then flicks his head to the hallway, motioning you to follow him. You skip behind him happily. Being in Cain’s office is always a joy. House of secrets harbours many things, including magical and mythological items. Gifts from gods, goddesses, mythical creatures, the Box of Lady Pandora has left you stunned, to the Helmet of Rostam, the Gem of Kukulkan, even the flying throne of Kay Kavus.
You can only look, no use for personal interests. A rule that Cain assures no one will break, including him.
But the office is different today. A little sparse.
“Redecorating?” you ask as your eyes gaze around some new items on the pedestals and the walls, many you have not seen before.
“I need the space.” Cain says as he sighs when his body lands on the comfortable chair behind his desk.
There are some things you don’t recognize. Some things you do by reading from the library. All are marvellous and dazzling and glittering in their own right. Myrrh Egg, Uaithne, Demeter’s Cornucopia. You can see the shimmering light inside the golden wood woven horn of plenty.
But the items that pulls you in, catches your eyes with its banality, so ordinary it puzzles you why it resides in Cain office, are old and worn fishing nets on the corner of the room that wafts no magical air nor bear any marks of historical significance.
Still you move closer to it, observe it quietly. Waiting for it to do something or move like some objects hovering in the air. Nothing.
“These are new. What are these?” you ask.
“Nets.”
You roll your eyes.
“I can see that, where does it come from?”
“Britomartis offered at the goddamn crack of dawn.
You’ve heard of lady Britomartis a long, long time ago. Your cousins and sisters whispered of lady Demeter’s new bride to be.
You don’t know if their matrimony continues.
“When? Why didn’t you tell me she came?”
“She didn’t. It was from the waking world.”
“What does it do?”
“Catching fish? Fuck all. I’ve inspected it three times over and nothing came out of it. Born from cryptic hands and incomprehensible and whatever, as all gods. As their kind do.” Cain says a little irritatingly, not lifting his gaze from the papers on his hands.
“Gods and goddesses are pretentious like that.” You agree and you hear Cain snorts.
“Pretentious god is my employer.” Cain said.
You chuckle.
“No, our god’s not pretentious, just… theatrical.” you add.
“Semantics” Cain replies after a grunt.
You have the itch to touch the net, wondering if it bears the same texture as any ordinary nets. But you refrain from touching in courtesy of Cain’s guaranteed wrath, and plop yourself on the chair in front of his desk.
“Do you know that there’s a tear in the dreaming?”
“What?” he looks at you.
”In the sky.” you tip your chin to the window behind him. “There’s a small tear, you can barely see it.”
Cain falls silent. Doesn’t bother to see if your words are true and returns to his work.
”what do you think it means?”
”It means the king needs to come back soon and fix the hole. Or Mervyn could.”
You hummed in agreement. Satisfying yourself by looking around some more.
”Alright, I'll prepare in the kitchen, you just work here.”
”Go on, i’ll catch up.” he mumbles
You mindlessly pluck the Grouse feathers, there’s a little nagging restlessness whispering in the back of your head. Lurking behind you but fractures when you turn. Not to mention what happened back in the woods, the way your body reacted…
for thousands of years in the Dreaming you know him like the back of your hand. A tear is something that has never occurred even once. Not in the books, not in any events.
To simply put, you are unsettled and you wish Morpheus would come back home as quickly as possible.
—
You say goodbye to your friends, each of them returning to their respective stations and duties after a lunch of roasted Grouses, sauteed vegetables and potatoes with sweet port wine and gingerbread for dessert you and the brothers prepared. Without realising all of you had spent most of the evening with each other in conversations between chews and the ringing of the utensils against the plates. The sky wears a beautiful twilight blue.
”You’re coming to the game tomorrow right? I have debts to settle.” You reminded Cain. Cards, you find, is not your particular forte compared to the Senet. And you have lost many, plenty of times.
“Yes, I can't wait to watch you clean Gregory’s shed again.” Abel says as he walks you to the gates.
“I like Gregory, that’s why I let you win most of the time.”
“Oh, of course. You let me win.”
“Yeah yeah I'll shake things up tomorrow.” You waved.
“I’d like to see you try.” Cain returns your wave of goodbye.
—
”Evening boys.” You chirp towards the gatekeepers as you climb the stairs to the palace. Feigning innocence. Morpheus is sure to warn them tonight.
”Gonna doze off in the library again?” Griffin jabs, his cloudy white eyes staring right through your intentions, refusing to open the carved, towering doors.
“I didn’t doze off, I was just- resting my eyes! Besides-”
”The king wants you to sleep tonight. Turn away, (y/n.)” Hippogriff says. Emphasising his words by leaning down his head.
”Oh come on, don’t be like that. I brought you all treats! See?” you take the 3 Grouses hanging on your hip, save the fattest ones for this moment.
”My, that is a fancy looking treat.” Griffin says.
”Only from the best hunter, I’ll let you have some if you let me in, yeah?”
The gatekeepers look at each other in contemplation.
”I’ll make sure he forgets that you let me in.” you push.
”Deal.” The Griffin flies down.
”I’ll take that, and that.” He takes the Grouse's necks on his beak.
”Enter.” Wyvern gives his permission with his gravely voice.
”Pleasure doing business with ya!” You hear Griffin's voice behind you.
“you’re welcome!” You shout.
As you wait for Morpheus’ arrival, you scour the library for any information regarding the tear. But the Dreaming holds the collective formation of living things' progression, and the only accounts of Dreaming’s history was written by Lucienne. Nothing could be found from the many ledgers, nothing like this had ever happened before. You read until your eyes burn red, your yawns overwhelming, until the table is as soft and comforting as the bed of Coontail inside the waters of your lake.
When you wake at the breaking dawn, you find Lucienne’s face instead of the King’s.
“You slept in again.” She tuts. Holding an enormous Ledger between her hands. Pristine as ever with her burgundy coloured coat.
Compared to your sleepy eyes and the imprints of the table’s intricate carving on your skin, You smile sheepishly at Lucienne.
“Where is he?”
“Haven’t returned actually.”
You blink.
Morpheus has never been one to break his words, no matter small or insignificant it is. But perhaps Corinthian might be a little tricky to bring home.
“Oh to be welcomed by your beloved the moment you return home.” Lucienne sighs dreamily. Teases you.
You’re confident your cheeks could fry raw quail eggs right now.
“What are you craving for today?” your voice breaks and you’re rather embarrassed how your friends’ smallest of teasings could affect you.
“How do we feel about Hamam Mahshi?”
“Perfect. I’ll set off to hunt then. I’ll see you later.” You say as you rise from your seat, sling your bow, and squeeze Lucienne’s arm goodbye.
“Later, lovebird.” she teases once more. You bite the inside of your lip, holding back a smile.
You make your path to the nearest woods for Squabs. Finding your thoughts straying to Morpheus time and time again. Recent events itches your palm uncomfortably. If it’s connected to the King, you hope he will be home soon to make sense in it.
Suddenly tears leak from your eyes for a reason that is beyond your capabilities to understand. You become inexplicably sad and tears become sobs. Sobs become dizziness. You have to sit on the ground to compose yourself in the grassland, the woods still a good long walk from where you are. But you can see it in the distance. You find comfort in the breeze slithering in the crevices of your body. Cooling your warm cheeks.
What’s wrong with me? You question yourself. Grasping the grass, it feels just as hollow as the trees in the woods yesterday.
What’s wrong with the Dreaming?
You abandon your hunt, you make your way to your lake instead, realising your Willow is shedding a little more than usual. You drown yourself in the water that feels just as dismal. Even your water weeps with you.
14
You wander under the water in the morning and watch your willow in the night. You count the seconds of his return, ask Lucienne at intervals. Moments that pass are spent in agitation. Your friends sense your restlessness.
You work with Mervyn and try to figure out how to fix the slowly, ever expanding discoloration in the sky. Gradual, inches by inches, but sure to grow. Nothing seems to work, not science, not magic, not the elder Dreams and Nightmares of the Dreaming even knows.
At night you watch it bear a deeper, darker, darkness inside the lines of the discoloration. A creature of primal emptiness. Most times you turn away from it because it infuses dread in your stomach. As if you could fall into the abyss and never to return, unhinging its jaws for you to fall into the dark for eternity.
A dark omen brewing in that very patch of sky.
118
“Has he returned?” You ask the gatekeepers as you climb the stairs.
”Not a grain of sand.” Hippogriff answers. You frown at that, make your way to Lucienne’s office.
“Any news?”
“Not yet, not even Jessamy returns.” she leans back on her chair, you sit in front of her desk.
The state of the Dreamers is puzzling. Some stay longer than they should, some don't return at all. The Dreaming longs for his King, distressed without his presence.
“What do we do? Can we… Can we search for him?”
“This is my post, who else to oversee and protect the Dreaming?” Lucienne answers. Her eyes cast down in regret.
“What about me then? I could swim-“
“No. No, (y/n). You’re not a raven or even a Dream. Without the King you cannot, you’ll destroy yourself.”
You fall into silence. Uneasy in your inaction, in your lack of abilities and magic. Your palm itches.
”What do we do Lucienne? What could we do?”
Lucienne stands and perches herself near where you sit.
“I’ve dispatched Dreams and Nightmares to find him, all we could do is wait for his return.”
You nod. Lost in your own thoughts.
“Some people say he follows in his brother’s footsteps.”
Lucienne paused.
“And do you believe that?” she asks,
“No. The king would never.”
Lucienne nods.
“I believe so too.”
229
The blood stains your skin, but not your Chiton. The earth stains your feet, but not the star-sewn hem on the edge of your body. Morpheus takes consideration of everything when he crafts something for you. Remember how wet and damp you are most of the time. You are, after all, a being of water first.
Amidst the dirt and your blood soaked hand, Cain grunts beside you as he shovels the rest of the soil. Both of you bury Abel into the witching hour.
This has always been a dilemma. You never liked when Cain kills Abel. But you always want to participate in giving Abel a good and comforting grave for his short death. That is how you found yourself burying Abel in a wooden coffin next to Cain for the longest time. Hoping that the dirt wouldn’t find its way into his orifices.
After that, you returned to Cain’s residence.
“Here.” Cain gives a towel, you wipe yourself clean as he lights the fireplace, then you warm your body in front of the hearth. Sitting on the armchair.
Cain heaves a quiet sigh when he sits on the other arm chair just beside you, offers you a glass of whisky which you take heartily.
He is quiet tonight. He’s always been abrasive. Cruel even. But sometimes, you find, his actions contradict the words he frequently spouts. Consideration shows itself in between. Like the towel mere moments ago, the fire. He could just end the night without a wave goodbye, yet he cares. You know he cares. And he is quiet tonight.
“Don’t come to bury Abel next time.” Cain finally opens the conversation.
“I don’t mind.” you say as you sip the liquor.
“Well I do, it’s my job.” he counters. Eyes never stray from the fire.
“Friends help with jobs all of the time. I just helped Mervyn plant Upas in the grove.”
He falls silent. Eyes still on the fire. Then he takes off his glasses.
“You look tired, Cain.”
“You don’t have a single idea of my weariness.” he spat.
“Then tell me, give me an idea.”
A moment of silence passes once more. He looks conflicted even.
“I cannot help it.” He starts.
“Abel, he’s- When my compulsion blinds me, I feel… well, you can’t even begin to imagine.” Cain’s words laced with contempt. Mourns his inescapable nature. Over and over again you wonder how much he has it in him for more kills before drifting away to madness. If he can grow to be blissfully mad at all.
“Go to bed, Cain. I’ll put out the fire.”
“And you?”
“I'll… I'll help Abel wake up. I'll wait for him.”
“What? He’ll be fine.”
You melt deeper into your seat.
“I don’t think I want to go back to the lake.”
“To be frank- I dreaded the lake now.” you continue.
The ache in your heart grows by the day. His absence is a sore within you, a splinter piercing its way under your fingernail.
He grunts in understanding. That your lake has become slightly empty. Your water lilies are dying at the edges. Sometimes you can’t bear looking at it without feeling a little nauseous, a reminder of Morpheus’ absence.
Abel and Cain’s residence is affected too. The bushes have overgrown and regrows as fast in a cut, the mists are slithering in, plunging colder and colder there.
“Shame, other bedrooms in this house have never been used.”
He grabs a bottle to pour another glass.
“You should change that.” he says as he sips. You smile at him. Rest your hand on his arm for a moment and nod.
“Go to bed. I’ll put out the fire.” you say once more.
●
Morpheus doesn’t know how long time has gone. The day passes like any other. The Burgess son is his only clock, an indication of the passing time, for the elder is returning to his youth.
Day by day watching the raving of a mad man begging for what he could not give. Watching his tools be desecrated by a mortal
Morpheus closes his eyes, the only place the mortal cannot take away from him is the palace of his own mind. His bones feel heavier to carry. He pored over memories. Dreaming of the Dreaming. The moons, the endless vast blue sky. He replays over and over again coming to her at the end of the day, where his grief overwhelms him.
She took him so readily, to sit beside him in silence under her tree, the only sound would be shaved wood by her knife carving little pieces of the Dreaming. Deft hands working even in the dim light of the evening sky.
”Move into the Palace.” he proposed. Watching her fingers paused.
”I require water. This lake is as good as the Palace.” she smiled softly at him. Then return to her work.
“There’ll be water inside. Lakes, thousands of rivers, anything you require.” he pressed.
“That’s very kind of you, Morpheus. But… I really like where I am now.” (y/n) said without lifting her gaze.
Morpheus replied with only silence. Strangely upset. Of course, as empathetic as ever, she noticed even subliminal changes in him. She put aside her knife and wood then shuffled closer.
”What changed? Why the palace?” Her voice was gentle, careful.
He paused, unsure whether he could say it at all. But she was patient, waited. Always waiting for him to gather himself.
“I require you closer.” he finally managed.
She pursed her lips, inched even closer until their arms touched.
“I am always here.” She rested her palm on his chest. Where his heart is supposed to be, if he had one. For a moment, she believed enough that he believed it too. He grasped her hand tight in return.
If he were ever to be trapped again, he hoped he’d be trapped in that dear moment of time.
1831
Dreams and nightmares have gathered at the palace’s courtyard, exchanging what information they scraped after long years of searching.
There’s fissures in the palace that even Mervyn can’t quite fix, slithers on the stones like blood vessels. Growing by the day, everything is inching into dispersion in tune with the tear these days. Everyone can see the prominent discoloration inside it in the sky now, an oddity in the vast ocean of blue. An eye of indifference that watches them all.
You sit on the palace’s steps as you watch the information pours from dreams and nightmares, their voices overlapping each other like the drones of the blood in your ears. All bear the same conclusion: Nihil.
”He’s really gone. And he doesn’t want to be found. What use are we in this hollow shell of a place?” one dream says. Their beautiful horns glow in shades of red. Bitter and exasperated by the desertion of Humanity in the Dreaming. Only a few dreams anymore. Some are bound to wander in perpetuity.
”We are protecting this place, our home, that is what we are doing.” Lucienne says firmly, but it goes on deaf ears.
“A home without its host. Why stay when he could no longer tolerate our presence? We are mere tools for the king. It is best we accept this fact at once.”
Elder nightmare, Terrere, said somberly. One of the first elder nightmares created at the beginning of the Dreaming’s conception. The chains’ on his neck coils restlessly.
It is no secret that the King is not beloved by all. His words are absolute, unmitigable. His rules are iron fists. You understand their lack of affection.Yet…
”That’s not true, Terrere.” you chime, holding the baby lamb-changeling in your arms a little tighter. She nuzzles against your neck, seeking your warmth.
”He marvels at you. All of you. You’re everything to him.” You plead. Swallowing nervously as gazes turn to your direction.
They’re my whole being. His words once spoken lingers within you.
”I respect your words, daughter of the water. But his fondness for you surpasses us all. That belief is easy to form when your kinship runs deeper with the king, your perception is coloured.” Terrere replies.
You feel heat creeping up to your neck, to your cheek, burning the tips of your ears.
”I know. I know that. But you must understand that I also know there is a grain of truth in my words.”
Your spoken words did not deter some dreams and nightmares from leaving the dreaming.
Almost a quarter of its populace has left. Those who remain would do so out of a sense of duty. Some remain out of fear.
1878
You sit with Mervyn on the grassland after another attempt of fixing the tear in the sky. Each time a futile attempt. Tomes you’ve brought along you thought would be useful rests idle beside you.
”Do ya really believe he didn’t just pack up and leave?”
The question pauses you. Mervyn merely stares with his hollow Pumpkin eyes. Sometimes you miss his white and green Turnip head.
”Yes.” is the only answer you could give.
He huffs his cigarette for a moment.
”Ya don’t think he’s gettin tired of all this?”
You sigh and tilt your head to the sky, charting the tear.
”let it out Merv”
”It’s just, He’s an Endless. This ain’t the first time an Endless just walks away.”
”He’s not his brother.” You take the cigarette dangling in his mouth and smoke a couple puffs yourself.
Mervyn shakes his head.
”You know, sometimes I wish he was. Like Destiny, I mean. He could learn a thing or two to not blow things out of proportion and leave to god knows where when a minor inconvenience happens.”
“Blow things out of proportion, such as?
“Such as her.”
You ponder his words.You have an inkling of where this is going.
“I like ya kid, i really do. I’ve known you for years and years and, well… the point is- as much as I want to help ya when it comes to it, this ol pumpkin won’t be enough to save ya from a literal goddamn Endless.”
You swallow
“you believe he’d hurt me?”
“I believe he’s got a big nasty pride and you should keep on your toes.” Mervyn takes his cigarettes from your hand.
You understand the sense in Mervyn's words, for the Dream lord is powerful. Terrifyingly so. His paradox of cruelty and kindness, you are fortunate you have only felt the latter side of him.
But perhaps time and longing distorts your memories, because all you can remember was his smile, his comforting hands for you. Gentle and warm.
This you know for sure; not once upon Millenia has he ever touched you wrong.
your eyes water from the overwhelming love. The longing overwhelms you.
“I love him.”
Mervyn’s eyes stare into you.
“I didn't get the chance to tell him, but I have for a very long time. Just like I spent Millenia with you, I spent Millenia with him too. Even after I found out about her. His anger and all.”
“So there ain’t no helpin it after all.”
“No, Mervyn. I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”
Mervyn sighs heavily.
“But thankyou, old man.”
“for what?”
“for caring.”
Mervyn passes you his cigarette. You take it from his hand.
He sighs the smoke from his mouth. “Can’t help it, Kid.”
1881
You drench your body in the water of your lake, freshening your skin from the weariness of the day.
You think of Mervyn’s words, lost in it for quite some time lately. Lost in a memory you’ve replayed from time to time.
Some centuries ago you can’t remember when. Your agitation was felt by the king of this realm. He hounded you.
Even as you navigated through the trees and the bushes, held your bow tight in your hands. When you drew your strings your prey eluded you by the sound of arrival the King indifferently made.
You sighed.
“You are avoiding me.” he stated.
You bit the inside of your lip. Tracked your prey instead of facing him. He trailed behind you.
“Is this a game? Am I supposed to understand the rules?”
You found the hoofprints, then followed on the side of a narrow ravine the deer strayed to. The sound of the rushing water drowned Morpheus’ voice.
In a blink he stands before your eyes. You stumbled back.
“Talk to me.” he said. As if he begged, if he ever begged. You counted the glimmer of stars and the universe in his eyes for a moment. (The revelation of solar systems frequently happens when you stare into his eyes for a little too long.)
”I finished a book a few days ago.” you finally said.
”Was it disturbing? Is that what ails you?” He brushes a leaf from your hair.
”Yes, Morpheus. It is a bitter read that breaks my heart.”
“Tell me which book it is and I shall raze it out of existence.”
Your lips twitch from his care. Your prey had been long gone, slinking back deep within the forest.
“Nada, is the title of the book.”
Him and the Dreaming had paused for a brief second that felt as if it stretched for far too long. The leaves suspended their fall, the water delayed their stream.
“Morpheus…” you started.
“What you did was… unforgivable.”
There was a shadow in the sky threatening to take hold of the sun like an eclipse. His visage was as cold as the startlingly foreign winds of winter enveloping your surroundings. Your shoulders twitched.
“You dare question my judgement.” He took a step forward. The temperature and the shadows of the realm plunged further with it. Fear struck the base of your heart. You persisted your gaze on his as you noticed everything grew darker with each passing moment on your periphery.
But still, you remained without a flinch. You can be stubborn, you’ve played this game well. You learned by his hand.
”Yes, Morpheus. I dare because I care for you. Because what you did was unjust.”
He towered over you. He shutted away the universe and his eyes grew morbidly, stunningly dark.
”What do you know of justice? Have you given it? pass the sentence yourself? You-” His voice dangerously low.
”You asked me of Justice? I who ran for centuries upon centuries, who lost everything and everyone I have ever known by no fault of my own while my tormentor still roams as he pleases, hurting countless others?”
Your throat strained, a wave of anger engulfed you.
Something flickered in his eyes. You grip your bow tight in your hand. For a fleeting, thin moment you almost believed that he might…
But there is restraint behind those eyes. Pain, even. The darkening shadows crawled away.
“I do not need you to question my decisions.”
he left your presence in a whirlwind of sand. The grains found its way into the crevices of your clothes. Lingered on your skin.
A few days later you met him at the library. Neither knew what to say to each other. There is too much pride in him (and you) that stretched into days, into weeks of constant avoidance with only passing glances as some form of feeble attempt at communication.
It wasn’t easy for either of you, that much you know is true. You see the longing in his gaze, his presence lingered a little longer in the library watching you work. You felt the yearning under your skin to be beside him. Your scars itched just a fraction from time to time.
His agony, you found, was a little more overwhelming than yours. It surprised you that he was the one who yielded first. When you sat and weaved flowers at the shore of your lake under the moon, and the stars hanging on the branches of your tree, he appeared to sit beside you. As if he never left.
A smile faint your lips. The king always has a sweet tooth that exceeds anyone you know.
“That’s exciting.”
You noticed his smile from the corner of your eyes. The warmth of his body protruded your skin, you’d love nothing more than to shift closer. Yet…
”I can’t help but wonder… whether you would do the same thing to me one day.”
”Stop.” He chastised as he closed his eyes.
“What if it was me?” you whispered, turned to look at his painfully beautiful face.
”What if Poseidon casts me into Hades to suffer for eternity for rejecting his offer?” your tongue ran dry at the mention of his name.
”I will chain him to a pedestal and carve out his heart for eternity myself. I’ll never let that happen.” His voice softened, careful. His hand reached for your face. At his touch your eyes felt heavy. You blinked a few times.
Dream and his tricks.
”But you let it happen to her.” You almost yawned as he pulled you to his arms, your head drooped on his shoulder. The moon and the dangling universes in your tree bathed him in a soft, heartrending glow.
”Let her go, Dream…” You said against his neck.
”I can’t.” His voice broke from the pressure of his own malady. You felt the ache in it, what in truth is his wounded pride, an eternity of love, an eternity of rejection. Just like his endless kindness, his pride and rage are also eternal. You hate yourself for feeling sorry for his nature. Nada deserves it more.
”You must, one day.” you pushed one more time.
He falls silent for a moment. Lost in his own thoughts.
”Are you afraid of me now?”
”Yes, my friend. I am.” You whispered. An inconsistency of a statement from how much you felt dangerously whole and content in his arms at that very moment.
”I could never hurt you even if I wanted to.” He whispered in your ear.
”Do you want to?”
”Never.”
Your eyes fell closed.
“Will that sentiment change, someday?”
“I am an Endless. My words are binding.” Was his answer. Which is as good as saying I cannot change.
“Do I repulse you?” He sounded somewhat nervous.
“no, not even, I cannot.”
You don’t exactly know how to feel, there is only so much to feel, so much you could process in your small existence compared to him. But you cannot ever forget the abundance of sweetness he gave you in kind.
“What would happen when I repulsed you? When you are sick of me?” You asked in turn.
”An impossible feat for you and me to act.” he said adamantly. He kissed your forehead to sleep as he took you to the bottom of your lake to rest beside you.
●
”Do you ever sleep?” She patter beside him
”Never. I don’t need to.”
”Then… what do you do with weariness, don’t you feel it? How do you alleviate it? There!” She pointed to a bush and skittered away to gather his falling star.
He stayed silent when he took the star in her hands, then hung it back in the sky.
”Was that the last one?” she tipped her head to the sky of the Dreaming.
”That was the last one.” he affirmed
”I could've sworn we did a lot more last year.” She brushed the foliage that clung to her chiton.
He silently realised this too. They did more last year.
As they walked back they took the long path. He tucks her strand of hair behind her ear.
”I come to your lake.”
”what?”
”when… the weariness of my mind breaches my body, your lake, your lake makes me forget.”
Now she fell silent. Then her smile beamed bright for him
“Happy to be of service, my lord.” She takes his hand and tangles her arm around his as they walk side by side
For the first time Morpheus wants to groan like mortals do because it is already a year since he asked her to lose the title but she seems to enjoy teasing him out of it.
But something creeps to him.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Her face scrunched
“Alright, alright, I understand, Morpheus.” She shook her head.
For a brief, rapturous moment, he feels as if he is home inside that prison of glass.
His body longed for the water that bathed his skin in love and comfort. The stooping willow over the lake and the Naiad that resides there, ever warm, ever loving, infinite and beautiful.
Infinite things he wishes to say to her, he is afraid his broken promise in the morning he left would be the last.
But then, hope
Jessamy managed to slip in.
Morpheus, if he had a heart, is sure that it would beat out of his chest. He is overcome with unparalleled joy, blinded with it his fingers shakes, freedom is but a light away.
Easily, his hope is dashed.
All that's left on the ground is the blood and gored, lifeless remains of Jessamy’s. Her bones and blood scatter the floor.
Morpheus mourns his loyal companion. Mourns the lost time he should have spent with his Naiad, mourns the possibility that she thought he abandoned her. He mourns the Dreams and Nightmares restless without him.
But he bites his tongue. He would never give Burgess what he wants, even if it takes him an eternity in that dome. Morpheus will watch him suffer for all the things he did.
His tears fell.
3659
A raindrop falls on your head. One by one, until it is an overwhelming downpour like nothing you have ever seen in the dreaming.
Bewildered, you slither into your lake, overwhelmed by the intensity of the rain that feels so much like rage and sorrow.
When your lake rains, when the Dreaming rains, it is never as violent as this. The water plunges sharp against your skin. As if trying to painfully penetrate. You bear it still.
Why do you cry, my Dream? What has happened to you?
You sleep under the rain with him, until it recedes, the rain takes the whole day, from the night to morning to a dreary twilight
When you wake, you find the rain has almost razed your Willow, the shedded leaves floating about your Lake in droves. Decaying, yellow and brown, no traces of newly budding leaves on the branches.
7601
The waking world changes every day, yet the Dreaming has regressed, refusing to follow Humanity’s victories and horrors.
The palace is disassembling each day, shedding its skin. Its inhabitants too, slowly leaving one by one, no longer stayed behind in the shadow of their fear.
Even so, downstream you wait for his arrival. Floating away every second that passes in the water. Between the shelves of the Palace’s library. Read and read to a dreary, slow time into another world. Stories are your only comfort.
Even in the break of dawn you climbed the palace steps with eagerness.
”Morning lads.” You chirp, your eyes focusing on the chipping marble arc of the palace. You’ll need to work on it with Mervyn soon. (You know it’s a futile attempt, but it’s better than doing nothing.)
But you stop midway, something is amiss. You retreat from the palace steps to take a good look at the Gatekeepers perched on the walls of the Dreaming.
”Wyvern? Hippogriff?” You called. Waiting for them to reply.
”Griffin? Hey!”
They don’t even move an inch.
“Are you all ignoring me?” You shout a little louder.
”Guess you don’t want these birds I fetched you? I’m feeling generous so you can have Mervyn’s portion too!” You put on a cheery note. Coaxing them
But nothing.
“Gatekeepers?”
Silence.
You sit. You feel nauseated. Does this mean your friends are gone? Your hands feel cold and clammy.
You feel a familiar hand on your shoulder.
”Lucie.”
She sits beside you on the steps.
”since when?” you ask.
”last night? Yesterday? I don’t know exactly.” Lucienne said somberly.
”Is this truly the extent of the King’s power? Years where I watched him go to the waking world, there is always a portion of power reserved for the Dreaming.”
“my hypothesis? Either he went to another universe, one where no life blooms, sealed himself like…”
“Destruction.” You continue. Lucienne nods.
“Or…” she trails
“A binding.”
“Yes.”
“No…”
”No, that’s- that’s not possible. He’s… he's an Endless. How could you even enslave an endless?”
“You could enslave a god if you know the rules.” Lucienne says bitterly.
“They never should have stopped searching.”
”That is merely a hypothesis, for all we know, he is entangled in something deeper that he cannot return.”
You stand.
”Where are you going?”
”Where I should have gone a long time ago.”
You run to the chamber of sigils. Panting harshly when you reach there.
”Great lady Death of The Endless, goddess Teleute, i, daughter of Nemea, blood of Potamoi, call to you by the bond Dream of the Endless and I once shared. Bless me, my lady, with an audience.”
You begged the sigil one by one. Desperate. You begged for hours until your voice hoarse, your feet hurt.
You restrain yourself from throwing it to the ground. Restrain yourself from tearing apart Destiny’s book.
The gods are watching. The gods let this happen.
11592
Everyone has reached a consensus that the Dream king has followed his brother’s footsteps three decades ago. You plead in vain to the ones readying themselves for their departure.
“Terrere. Don’t do this. This is your home.” he replies with only silence.
“He could be in trouble! We must look for him.”
Terrere Looks at you with something that makes you want to look away. You don’t know if it’s a look of pity or sympathy. You don’t like it.
”(y/n), he is an Endless. He is the son of age himself. Even if he is in trouble, To be overcome is not in his nature. Everything that is would be his decision.”
You feel tightness in your chest. You don’t know what else to say when you hear the finality in his voice, the resolute belief in other Dreams and Nightmares eyes. What care Morpheus has for them has decayed, and they could spare none for the king.
You swallow dryly.
”Be safe, ancient ones.”
Terrere steps closer and rests his hand on your shoulder.
”We shall try to find ways to transport you into the waking world. We can protect you, and we shall live as-”
“I thank you, but my place is here. Always have.”
Terrere nods. Something sombre about his eyes.
“Your devotion is admirable, daughter of the water. Vast, like the waters in which you were born. I hope he deserves it, should he ever return.”
He steps away. Give one last look over the Dreaming behind you.
”May we cross paths once more.”
—
You stand on the shore overlooking your lake. Ruminate on the half dead lily pads, your Willow with its dried leaves.
“Miss (y/n)!” You hear the familiar voice of a child.
“Frida?” you feel elated, relieved. You gather the little rabbit in your arms. She burrows into your warmth.
“I thought you’d left.” You said.
“I can’t. I won’t know what to do in the waking world. This is the only place I've ever known.”
“Me too. This has become the place I have ever known too. I’ve forgotten what the waking world feels like.”
”He loves us, I know it, he’ll return, won’t he miss?”
”He will. I believe so.”
You tip your head to the sky and watch the discoloration that almost takes half of the dreaming, the realm preparing to receive whatever emptiness that lies outside its boundaries.
15340
For a decade, you have asked for an audience every month in the sigil room at intervals.
Everytime the Endless leaves you with no answer.
You wish the love you bear for Morpheus is enough to push you to beg in front of the endless sigil for eternity.
But you are so tired by the Endless’ silence, their silence to a simple Naiad begging and begging for an audience left something bitter in the back of your tongue. You’d prefer it if they reject you outright.
“ANSWER ME!” You scream until your lungs burn and your throat chafes.
You are always content with who you are, you’ve accepted the fact that you are not talented in magic and sorcery since a very long time ago.
But times such as these make you detest yourself, doubt who you are as a species.
What good are you if you can’t save those who you love.
You slid along the wall. Sitting as you trace the scars on your palm. You kissed it, hoping it would be felt wherever he is.
For almost half a century that feels like millenium, you think you have no more tears to shed. But you feel it falling down from your eyes anyway. The heat is a welcomed comfort compared to the hollow of the Dreaming surrounding you.
18250
The words, when you document everything that happens within the dreaming on to the volumes of papers, are too thin and pale.
You and Lucienne dipped your quill in the ink many times over, just so it could mimic the bold colour of black it usually has.
Your actions are futile.
You watch your friend worry about it until the words are completely gone.
And when it does, your throat constricts at the way she dejectedly sits on the long table, rifling desperately page after page, book after book to find a single character.
When she leans back on the chair and closes her eyes, you never watch Lucienne seem so devoid of life. The library has been her life.
All you can do is hold her hand. She curls her fingers in response. Her lips tremble slightly. You’ve never seen Lucienne on the verge of tears before.
21915
When you wake, your body’s prickled all over. The hair on your neck startles up.
You rise to the Dreaming still wearing its night, caught a shadow at the edge of your vision. It looks like… no, it can’t be.
You follow them to the fields of wheat. The familiar black chiton drags by the rough drooping wheat biting the hem. Your bare feet crushes some, dusting the ground under your soles.
The closer you are, the chiton disappears. Black hair melting into gold. Pale shoulders curling into black feathers.
You stop in your tracks when they turn to you. When you blink, their face merely inches away.
“Hello, sweet thing.” They purr, voice rich and dark as blood. Golden eyes flicker.
“Your Grace Desire.” You curtsy.
They turn their head from side to side, leafing through their surroundings. “My, this place is ghastly.”
“Your Grace, it is an honor. Thank you for answering my call.”
“Whoever said I am here to answer your call?” Desire’s lips pout, mocking you.
Your heart stops for a beat.
“It’d be a pleasure of mine to know the purpose of your visit.”
They look at you for a moment. Taking their fill of you. Measuring your miniscule presence.
“A whim. To command you, that all the useless begging and crying and your pathetic little whimpers has got to stop. Nothing is going to change, sweet thing. He won’t ever come back.”
Your throat strangles.
“You know where he is then? Your grace, tell me and I will not bother you or any other endless again. I swear it.”
They laugh, as if they are laughing at a joke only you cannot understand. As if only the Endless does.
“You know, I can make his desire completely disappear, if it makes it any easier for you to leave.”
You bristle at how much they take lightly of your devotion. Your existence too.
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll return. I'll always wait even if he no longer bears me in him.”
“How loyal, what a dog.” Their face turns still. At that moment you are suddenly afraid of them, realizing just now they could obliterate your existence into dust of wheat just right there.
“But all the whining has to stop, little dog. You’re irritating.”
Your boiling blood scalds you. Or desperation. You know neither.
“You have to tell me now. Tell me!”
They hold your face between your hands, dagger nails digging into your skin. “Or what, runt? You’ll shiv me with your little pocket knife? Shower me with your tepid magic?”
“I will if I have to.” you reply.
They smile at you, amused. Letting go of their hand, inspecting their own nails.
“He doesn’t want to be found. That is all I can say.”
Tears bite your eyes. Has Morpheus really given up on the Dreaming? On you? You swallow your coming sobs. The words startlingly pierces you more than you thought.
Before they departed the Dreaming, you called out to your grace Desire.
“Why me? Why not someone else more worthy of him?”
They smile.
“Mystery of the ages.”
22370
You age, you realise this.
You may not revert to your former growth rate of mortality, but you notice the difference in your appearance.
You age.
There is a mirror inside of Abel’s house. When you pass it, it’s like looking at a doppelganger of yourself, not the image of you that has always been what you perceived inside your head. Your laughing lines start to show themselves more after you smiled for centuries. So thin a passing eye could miss it.
The sockets under your eyes are hollowing themselves more, gently. So thin even an inquisitive eye could miss it.
But your friends notice this. Your friend you spent Millenia with. Friends you’ve seen almost every day of your long life.
It is a curious thing. If Morpheus truly gives up on his faith for you, you understand the growth rate of usual Naiad.
Has he given up on you?
They worry over the candles of your weekly game.
The one thing that keeps all of you sane, a semblance of normalcy where you pretend that nothing is wrong in the Dreaming, inside Abel’s greenhouse all of you tried so hard to maintain as if it is not decaying gently, is shattered by your very presence.
“Yer not gonna die on us are ya?” Mervyn with his bluntness made you snort.
“Th- That’s not nice, Mervyn.” Abel continues.
“If I do, I heard his sister is an absolute sweetheart. At least one of the Endless finally decided to answer my call.”
“That’s not funny.” Cain says harshly. His words stills the room. Your humour is lost to the gravity of reality.
You set your cards on the table.
Lucienne does not say a word, instead looks at you with the saddest eyes. A film over her eyes. Twice you’ve witnessed Lucienne on the verge of tears, this time you feel guilty.
There is a restless cloud hanging over Cain’s brows,
Abel chews on his lips worryingly
Mervyn looks as if he regrets his own statement.
They strip your heart into ribbons.
You swallow. You hold Lucienne and Abel’s hands beside you on the round table.
There are no words that would suffice to comfort them, to comfort yourself. Since he’s gone, everything dissolves away into the black fissure in the sky.
25574
The dreaming has grown silent. Hibernating inside its own disease.
For years in your lake you can only hear the ring of your blood and the ring of your heart. Alone in its cells.
Your lily pads have decayed entirely.
Your willow has lost its colour and leaves. Your water is murked by dead Hornworts and so forth.
When you look up, the discoloration has taken almost the whole Dreaming.
Except the sky above your lake, a patch of Blue, a patch of hope above you. The only traces of life that can be found in the realm of the Dreaming, fighting the illness that threatened to destroy him.
You wonder whether that small patch of colour is a sign of something.
You should’ve looked older. From the day he disappeared you should’ve looked much older.
You look up at the sky once more. You wonder whether Morpheus is trying to keep you alive.
29241
You’re sitting on the Carpet by the fire with Abel, Cain with a cloudy glass of whiskey sitting on the worn out armchair behind you, long after the game has already finished. You do this a lot lately with the brothers. The air surrounding their houses is exponentially colder than what it was.
“I miss your lake, (y/n). I mean, well, back when the water’s blue.” Abel sighs.
you smile wistfully. Remember when the lake used to reveal the Algaes at the bottom of the crystal clear water. The fishes play around the stems of the lily pads and coontails. Willow leaves settle on the surface.
“Me too, Abel.”
“What do you miss?” he asks.
You inhale. Stretch your feet, rest your hands behind you.
““Well, Wyvern, Pegasus and Gryphon. I miss the Migration of the Phoenix every season.”
“Oh me too, All they do is sleep now.”
“And you? What else Abel?”
“I miss baking pies with fresh Raspberries, Peaches.”
“Figs dipped in Honey.” you hum.
“Fresh pomegranate Juice. The sweet Saffrons on your lake.”
“yeah. I almost forgot what it tastes like.” You chuckle to yourself.
“We- we can eat till our bellies burst when he returns.” Abel, sweet Abel, says it as if Morpheus would return tomorrow from a visit to one of his few friends such as Hob Gadling.
“That you can count me in.”
you and Abel giggle to yourself, imagining stuffing yourself fat with pies and fruits and saffrons until your eyes drop sleepy.
“Shut up, all of you.” Cain hisses.
You turn to look upon him.
“What’s wrong?” you questioned. But he merely shakes his head and clicks his tongue distastefully.
“Put out the fire when you leave.” he says as he retreats to his bedroom upstairs.
32872
There is a hole in your chest. You’re afraid it will eat you.
There is a hole in the sky. You’re afraid.
36525
There used to be a meadow not even a mile from your lake filled with flowers that would bloom with pearls inside the Stigma. You used to separate the beads for hours. You’d adorned your carvings with it.
Once, you remember Morpheus sits beside you, crafts you a bracelet with the pearls by the flick of his wrist.
The dreaming is Mania and frenzy and fever rolled into a whirlwind of sand constantly. You love every second when you are lost in it.
Now you almost grow mad from idleness. There is only space, and time. Primal emptiness you once feared when you swam into this place. You reckon this must be what it looked like when Ouranos yawned life into existence.
No. Father Time. Morpheus' father. Not Ouranos. Like the birth of the beginning of all things.
You watch the day away all the time. There is no more library. No more healthy soil for vegetation to grow. The stars have blinked off long ago.
The colours have faded away everywhere you look around the Dreaming. You don’t remember exactly when it started. One of the little comforts you find in the ruins of your home is the patch of colour in the sky that is shrinking and shrinking, corroding by the tear. The colour of a bygone days, by now it is so small you have to squint when you look up.
So small you can’t find any sleep at night, instead watching the luminous dark blue being eaten away by the mouth of Kronos.
When morning comes, that reminder of bygone days is completely gone. The tear successfully replaced the sky of the Dreaming.
There is a sleeping fear within you from this great loss. The dreaming plunges into a strange quietness.
You swallow the feeling away and course to Abel’s house. Not wanting to be alone for the moment, only to find Abel sniffing softly on a stump near the gates of his residence.
”Abel? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, oh (y/n).”
he stands feebly, and you hold him in your arms for comfort, he returns your gesture.
”My dear Abel, what is the matter?” you ask as you lean your chin on his shoulder. He pulls away.
”Cain…”
”Is he hurt?”
”No. He’s- he’s leaving.”
It is strange how much this shocks you, somehow betrayed by this revelation. Your frantic heartbeat disturbs your stomach and you try to stave away the nausea rising.
You briskly walk to Cain’s office, the door is ajar, and you find him filling his trunk with his essentials.
”You’re leaving.”
”I'll have to sew the mouth shut out of that dimwit.”
”Blame it on your brother, like you always do.”
Cain merely glares at you then walks towards his desk, rifling through the papers.
“Why?”
“You know why. Everyone knows why.”
“What about your responsibility? Your duty to this house?”
”My responsibility has been rescinded the moment he left and never to return.”
”So what? Does his kindness mean nothing? One of his antics trumps every goodwill he has ever given us?”
”His goodwill means nothing when one of his antics is destroying all we have ever known!”
“not all.” you step closer.
“Look at me, Cain. I should have looked older by now, a lot more. But I do not wither, he is trying to keep me alive… he has faith in me still… isn’t this fact the antithesis of what you believe?”
“I have never known you for being stupid and yet you’re always fooling yourself for him. Willingly blind to what he truly is.”
His words stuns you. Your throat feels a little heavier.
“There’s nothing here for us anymore. He’s left you here to die. And I’ll not wait around just to watch...”
You swallow. Needles sting the back of your eyes.
”You’re a subconscious, Abel. your place is here.” your voice breaks at the beginning.
”And you’re a spirit of the waking world. But look where you are now.”
Your mouth pulls downwards. Tongue hard as ice.
“It’s time for me to go, before he returns. If he ever would.” he scoffs.
He brushes past you as he puts his quill and papers in the trunk.
As you leave Cain’s house you meet Abel standing at the doorstep, fidgeting.
You shake your head to him, and his face falls all over again. Your heart breaks at the look of him.
”whatever shall we do, (y/n)?
”I don’t know, Abel.”
“Come with me, I don't want Cain to kill you.”
You walk with your arms interlinked with Abel. Deep in your own faint thoughts.
Then, something loud can be heard, like the collapse of a glacier rumbling across the Dreaming.
You see birds fly from the trees, whatever it is that causes it in the distance, the birds storms in a particular direction, to you
“W-What’s happened?” Abel voices his concern, bewildered as you are.
But something awful is settling in your stomach, to the hairs on your arms and on your neck begging for you to avoid whatever is coming your way. You grip tight Abel’s arm.
“I think- I think we should go back.” He senses your fear.
But you are rooted to the ground, hand wet with sweat. You find dread strangling your chest like a coiling rope, your heartbeat fights wildly in response.
Dread, you found, has salt for a smell. Like a memory you flung away for centuries upon centuries ago.
“(y/n), come on.” Abel tugs your arm
The birds fly past you in droves and instinctively your arms shield your eyes, abel turns his head away.
You blink open your eyes.
“Little nymph.” His voice almost spilled the contents of your stomach.
A waning god stands in the distance. Same savage beauty as you remember, clinging desperately at the brink of ageing from his lost worshipper. Beastly on the edges of his unnatural youth. Strained with trinkets of gold shells and green jewels that seem it could drag him down like ship anchors.
Abel grips your fear—addled body by your arms.
“Run.” His wide eyes beg, his voice trembles. You try to drag Abel along but he pushes himself away, to the devil behind you.
”Run!” he screams once more.
The drone of your heartbeat pumps the blood to your ears, you can’t hear a thing. You try to be as fast as you can through the trees and the foliages.
My bow. Heavens, my bow…
You left them by the tree in your lake.
You trip by your own feet and a sharp stone is digging under your collarbone, your blood soaks your Chiton.
Your tears blurs your vision, your stomach boiling and rising and you're on the edge of letting it all go.
There’s only one place you knew that would keep you safe, where no one can enter the same room twice.
You run to the house of mysteries.
You can see the gates of the house, you see Cain holding his trunks in his hand behind it.
Cain sees you, still bears the scowl. Then quickly dissipates when he realises the look on your face, when he sees you running. Sees the person chasing behind you, someone not from the Dreaming
“(y/n)-“
You take his hand to pull him away from Poseidon, like his brother, he stands his ground.
“Egil’s bow in the basement on the eastern side of the wall. Use it.” he says with wide eyes. Egil, brother of Volund. Even in a situation like this, your brain can’t stop from making the connection that you’ve read about him somewhere but can’t seem to recall what he was. You blink your thoughts away as he hands you a key he took from his pocket. You pocket it safely in your Chiton.
“Use it. Go.” you nod and make way to the house of secrets instead.
You hear Cain’s resistance and grunts behind you, and when you look back, he is lying on the grass from his confrontation.
“Cain.” You cried. And the god of the Sea turns before he lands his last blow, smiles satisfied at your desperation.
“(Y/n). The bow.” Cain screams harshly.
Your fingers brushes the doorknob of the front door
But You fall flat on the wooden ground, he has taken you by the leg.
“Little Nymph. Stubborn little Nymph. Do you know how long I have dreamed of this day?” He presses his forehead to yours. Your body recoils from his touch, he smells of rotting seaweed and fish scales it chokes your throat with your own saliva.
“What did it take for me to get here?” He whispers, nuzzling against your neck. You cried. You feel dizzy, your senses are slaughtered by him. The smell of decaying ocean in your nose, the sharp scent of salt on the back of your tongue. His oily, merciless grip on your skin. And the face you wish you’d never see again is lechering down at you. You can barely think.
“Surely you will pay the debt for me? Water’s where you belong. And I will brine it with salt.”
He reaches for the hem of your Chiton, terror lashes you like a whip across your lungs and skin, bile rises in your throat. In response you lift your knee and kick him on his groyne as hard as you could—your knee pained by the trinkets—just enough for the impact to give room for you to take the small knife inside your pocket.
You push through the blade to his side. He strikes you across the face and you cry out. You feel blood trickling from your nose.
He rises to his height, hissing as his hands hover over the blade.
“What goes on in that stupid little head that makes you think you can harm me?”
He spits as you scamper away, finally able to get inside the house, for Cain’s basement.
You reach for the door, rummage through your pocket. Your hands shake terribly; the key slips from your hand and falls to the floor. You curse and hastily collect it and push it to the slot, in the corner of your eyes you see him drawing close.
Click.
He manages to grab your elbow and pushes you through the door. You fall against one of thousands of piles of towering objects.
The base of your skull hits something blunt and thin, stars burst behind your eyes, disorienting you. You think you feel something wet on the back of your head
your tears leak in streams as you watch him step closer, your knife still hangs on his side.
No. No, Morpheus… help me.
You raise yourself with your arms, your head pounds.
You eye the blade still lodged between his ribs.
Dream lord, help me, come home, help me. You scream inside. Wishing, begging.
Still, you stand. You’ll die in the fight if you have to. You need to make way for the bow. You need to be slippery.
With all your strength you bolt away. Slithering through the maze of piling objects. Evading him behind you. Ignoring his impending footfalls. Your collarbone throbbed a vicious pain. Your head and nose pounds. But you run, and run, and run around the neverending basement. As Theseus in a labyrinth.
Cain didn’t mention that the basement stretches on and on and on. Finding the bow is a circle of hell. But on and on you run, your lungs decaying with dust.
Until you see Egil’s bow hanging on the eastern wall of the room. You dashed for it.
“We can do this one more time. I know you just love the chase.”
You reach for the bow, climbing a throne and chalices and paintings and hear his ragged breathing behind you.
“There is no place where you can escape, your king has left you to rot!” He howls, madly. Pacing around like a beast, like a Minotaur. Your knife dangles between his ribs like a proud medal he had adorned. Your hand brushes on the silver material of the bow.
“I am the blood of Chaos, I am the only life you could never destroy, I am a force you can never escape. Abysmal and rebirth are interlinked within my very being and I will erode your faith until i become your only god-“
Once you grasp the bow you draw the strings swiftly, an arrow, translucent and silvery, appears between your fingers. When you let loose it barely graze Poseidon’s shoulder, he laughs as he evades it with ease. You can feel sweat and blood running down your back. The tears running down melting into your blood—caked nose and mouth.
You dash away as fast as you can. Twisting your body at every turn of the Labyrinth and towering trinkets. Curse at the way your heart jolts every time his voice bellows behind you.
But you know there’s really no escaping him except deciding to be brave enough not to run anymore.
You stop running and turn to look upon your terror in the distance. You hold your bow tight despite the wetness of your palm. Ignore the blood pounding at the back of your head, the sweat varnishing your body, and steady yourself to watch him closing the distance between you.
A few feet away, just enough for him to reach out to your neck, you take steps back as far as you could and pull the bow, shooting an arrow directly into his heart.
Another to his stomach.
The impact is enough to stagger him backwards.
Another, then another. You will your hands to be as fast as biting thunders.
Then you see Cain behind him, a flash of gold covers Poseidon and he howls in pain.
Cain traps Poseidon’s head inside a net. His hands flail about in a frenzy and confusion. He takes this as an opportunity to pull the silver arrows from him and bind the sea god’s body in another net. When he falls into the ground, Cain binds his feet.
“Wretched, demented, abomination of a creature, I swear you’ll never soil our doorstep again.” Cain hisses.
Poseidon squirms on the ground, contained within the nets.
Then Cain, terrible and lovely Cain rushes to your side. Asks if you’re alright when his own face is blotched with bruises.
You nod. Swallowing the dry in your tongue.
You watch Poseidon thrash about, groaning and panting. Yet every time he moves the Net shocks him to the flesh and he is left strangely paralysed within it. You’ve never seen this kind of magic, the kind that captures a god alive. Reduced them to no less than a mortal. To an animal. Lower. Lower than that.
What did Lady Britomartis do to attain such a high form of magic?
You don’t care what she did. You care that he finally suffers before you. You care that his eyes now look the part of a mad man dancing wildly under the woven strands.
You kneel beside him, remove the trappings from his head, then dislodged the knife between his ribs.
When he opens his mouth again you prevent his coming words by pushing the knife in his eye. The blood that bursts is blue and smelled like Oysters.
Then to his other eye. Over and over again.
But the god you puncture only laughs in return.
“Don’t you know you can’t kill god?” he smiles with blood on his mouth, looking at you without his eyes.
You can’t remember when your every line of vision turns bright, violent red. When your hand saws his neck with your blunt knife. When Cain helps beside you with his own blade. Both of your hands soaked in Poseidon’s dark blue, wicked blood.
When your knife and blade finally separates his head from his body, Cain is quick to wrap Poseidon’s head back in the net. Fasten every fibre tight. Then carry it away.
You sit beside his squirming, headless body. Centuries of exhaustion passes through you. Then as if you were struck by a flail, you realise it was over. No triumphant bells or crowning laurels for you. Or winning speech too. Just blood and sweat lathering your face and body, cold by the slightest change of wind or temperature.
You feel hollow.
Cain returns without the head.
“Come.” Cain settles his drenched hand on your shoulder, locks the basement behind him then guides you out of the house. Where you find Abel hanging on Mervyn and Lucienne's shoulders.
Lucienne removes herself, Abel leans on Mervyn, limps a little, a bruise about his one eye. He finds relief when he sees you as his eyes are smarting.
You trudge down the stairs of the porch and Lucienne holds out her hands to help you, she envelopes you in her arms. You melt in her warm, homely, embrace.
Indifferent to the blood staining her pristine coat.
“Come on kid, sit down.” Mervyn says as he sets Abel to sit with you on the stairs. The Pumpkinhead stands before you.
“God, you’re hurt.” Mervyn says somberly.
“But I hurt him too.” You reply.
“You did.” Cain confirms behind you.
You nod. Your heartbeat starts to quicken again, your tears fall. Your fingers shake. Sobs clawing out of your mouth.
Lucienne holds your hand, Mervyn settles his gloved palm on your shoulder.
That night you sleep with Lucienne beside you, holding your hand from the restless night to the new morning.
It feels as if you don't want to be alone again from that moment on.
36526
You woke up to a perpetual cloudy day. The soft bedding and silky sheets unfamiliar to your skin in the morning haze of the dreary world.
Your limbs ached, your nose, cheeks, and the back of your head throbbing viciously. Your collarbone stings at the slightest movement.
Even though you don’t want to, you force yourself to get up. Wondering where Lucienne has gone to.
After you trudge down the stairs of Cain’s house, you see Cain and Lucienne sitting on the dining table.
“Look at you, sit with us.” Lucienne calls out for you. You comply and sit yourself before them as you observe the gruel on the silver bowl.
“Is that rice?”
“Eat up.” Cain said.
You take a small scoop and bite the edge of the spoon, your mouth stiff from the pain. You thought the gruel would taste bland and ashy just like the food in the Dreaming these days. But you are startled by the warmth and the richness of the grains as it melts in your mouth.
“This is extraordinary. How?” you ask them.
“Cornucopia.” Abel answers.
“In your office?”
“Yes.”
The trinkets, the offerings, and the magical objects from the relatively good to unmitigable evil have always been under the protection of Cain so it would never be misused by the other creatures.
You are tired of crying your skin raw. But you found yourself almost spilling more tears at Cain’s change of sentiment.
“We have scattered Poseidon's body to the four corners of the Dreaming With the nets. No one will ever find him.” Cain continues.
You fall silent for a moment.
“What about the Pantheons? Won’t they look for him? The Ward’s gone. They could be here at any moment.”
“Yes, I suspect that was a protective Ward the king made.” Lucienne chimes.
“They can try. I’ll scatter their bodies just like that filth.”
“We’ll think of setting the wards back again.” Lucienne, for once, said something naive. Perhaps she’s as desperate as you are.
You close your eyes. You don’t know what the future will hold, whether the Pantheons will hunt you down as well.
You are afraid for them.
“Don’t do this. You need to leave the Dreaming. I’ll handle the Pantheons. This mess is mine, and it started long before I knew any of you." It sounds more foolish when you say it out loud. But you don’t care in the slightest. You will never line your friends for the impending Gallows.
“I appreciate your concern but no.” Lucienne says.
“I will never leave before the King returns. I have a post to keep.”
You sigh.
“Cain. You’re all packed, no?”
“I’ll be damned if I leave the house to that dimwit.”
You laugh.
“Gods, Cain.” you mutter.
“Mervyn and Abel then-”
No rumbles of a glacier, no thunder across the sky. But all of you shared a look, that all of you felt someone had entered the Dreaming once more. Someone familiar. Ancient, like the home you once knew.
Your heartbeat beats in your throat as you walk to the door.
Outside around you, you can feel the faint movement of the trees breathing in.
TW: mention of losing family members, death of parents, smut, +18, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), mature content, suggestive parts, lots af romace and fluff, slowburn (?) I tried.
this is a reader insert story. I tried not to use Y/N anywhere and, for plot purpuses, reader is a female and is described to have medium/long hair. Reader is also said to wear period appropriate dress which is the one of a working class women from 1880s.
Everyone told you it was not a nice place to work, not a place fit for a young lady given the closeness to the woods and the long way in between other tall pines and oaks to get there. Still curiousness brought you to the door of this manor a month and a half ago already and it was a great decision that I took. On the outside it looked dark, hunted, as if its walls hid something so dark that once discovered only God could have saved you. But such brooding, imposing gothic beauty hid an elegant interior, dimly lit at every hour of the day by candles or oil lamps, most of the light natural and cast by the tall windows scattered all around the walls. Ebony and mahoganies doors, tables, bookshelves and furniture kept that dark yet warm and familiar design you had grown so fond of during these few weeks.
Black was the most prevalent color, but it did not take away from the deep, wine reds and dark navy many rooms proudly showcased.
Oil lamps cast long shadows when night falls or during the shorter days in winter, the already dark colors deepened, and the shadows looked like they could swallow you if you didn’t pay enough attention. But not in a scary way, more like a cozy and comforting way, hiding you away while keeping you safe.
Night here were probably cozy and very quiet given the lack of people infesting the streets at every hour, even late at night. Lucienne, you had grown to understand, was the only one who spent the night at the manor. Always.
A gentle but cold breeze reminded you, along with the shadows getting longer by the minute, that not only would it have been better to go back inside but also that soon you would have to go home.
You gathered the basket with the clean laundry and headed back inside, placing it in the changing room at the second floor and leaving as quietly as possible, as to not disturb Lord Morpheus.
Then you made your way back to the ground floor to take your things and went to the library, looking at the tall and golden engraved clock on your way there to catch up with the time.
Knocking twice on the door of the library you waited for a response that came soon after.
The place was lit with the golden light coming from the setting sun and an equally warm one coming from the fireplaces. The smell of ink and paper was always welcome like the tall windows and heavy, velvet curtains draped over them, now gathered aside by a thick ribbon.
The ceiling-high shelves seduced one inside, knowledge, history, romance, war, mysteries all in those small, hand-bounded volumes.
《 Are you leaving? 》 Lucienne asked form behind her big, worn and filled with books and papers desk, not really looking at you, just a glance.
《 Yes, and I would like to return these. 》 you said, taking out a couple of books and handing them to her.
《 Already? Didn’t you take these about a week ago? 》 she asked surprised. You sighed dreamily, a small smile stretching your lips.
《 They were so beautiful I couldn’t stop reading them every chance I had. 》 she nodded, before placing them aside and leaning back on her chair, hands interlocking in front of her, looking around before looking at you with those sharp eyes of hers. Since you first saw her eyes, they have always captivated you: they held knowledge and her equally intelligent tongue would let you know soon enough.
She looked out of the window before getting up and grabbed another couple of books and extended them to you. Your hands reached out before placing the books in the small leather bag you carried around with you.
《 If you want tomorrow, we can talk about them in front of a cup of tea. 》 she proposed to which you smiled widely and agreed. It was a thing of yours that you started doing when taking books with you at home became usual: first it was for the city, you wanted to know more about it and the various routes. Then it became sitting in the unused tearoom and discuss about it for an hour or so, drink a cup of tea in front of the fireplace and then go back to work. It was a wonderful thing.
As you were walking to the doors a soft tapping on the glass redirected your attention. There stood Matthew, the raven of the house used to send and receive messages. He was a funny little thing, but also a sweet one at that.
Lucienne went to open the window to let him in for the day. He hopped inside before taking off, circling a couple of times and cawing. Then he lowered back again on the edge of the desk looking at the both of you.
《 Hello Matthew. 》 and then a caw.
-
《 I will see you tomorrow then. 》 Lucienne bid on the edge of the door before closing it. You nodded before starting to walk away.
Suddenly you felt observed and looked around before your head snapped back to the manor and a faint light illuminated a figure by the window. A shiver ran down your spine before you hugged your scarf tighter around yourself and bowed your head turning around and walking faster towards the carriage waiting for you a few steps ahead. Once you were in, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
As you sat down, more like ungracefully let yourself fall into the seat for the rush, your surroundings started moving with the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves.
-
The faint scent of bread welcomed you back to the apartment you were renting; the sweet lady downstairs, Miss Martha, probably just finished a batch. You took off your coat and thought back at what happened. Was that…? Well, without a doubt, unless someone you were not informed of lived in the house, that was Lord Morpheus himself. Maybe.
Shrugging such thoughts you changed into a simpler dress before making way downstairs to take a bath in the new bathroom Martha kept for the ladies paying rent here which made it much more comfortable than going to public ones.
Taking the rest of your undergarments off, you left your nightgown close and immersed in the floor pool, the hot water making your muscles relax instinctively. Closing your, eyes you savored the quietness of such space, often filled with the other women living under this same roof.
When you heard the clock struck nine, you deemed it was enough bath time and got out, drying yourself at best you could, slipped on your nightgown and headed back upstairs.
Sitting in front of the vanity you took out your hairstyle, soft waves covering your back briefly only to be put back up to maintain the curled motion. With a warm, wet towel you cleansed your face, removing anything that could have remained before you went in the bathroom.
After that you threw a couple more logs of wood in the fire Miss Martha kept on for you during the day and took the new books with you on the bedside table as you laid under the covers and tuned on an almost burned out candle.
You took both books and read a few pages of both selecting the one you liked a bit less and started reading.
As your eyelids started to fell heavy and the candle light flickered more than usual, telling you it was almost completely out you turned it off, placed a book mark and went to bed.
-
The next morning a soft knock on the door woke you up.
《 Time to wake up dear! 》 Marthas sweet voice called from the other side of the heavy wooden door. And then she went away. You turned in bed a bit more before getting up. Sitting at the vanity you let my hair down before applying a bit of make-up and getting up to go get breakfast. Before you went you grabbed a shawl and covered your shoulders and arms.
Miss Martha was a kind lady in her 50s, widow and with five children all grown up. She was already a grandma, her loud nieces could be sometimes heard during summertime, their laughter echoing through the house. They were kind children, very polite too. She was just the sweetest lady, you brought an alarm just to be asked by her no less to throw “that infernal device made to pierce through your ears” and then she offered to wake you up since she got up very early anyways.
《 Good morning dear, would you like some porridge and a cup of tea, perhaps? 》 she asked, her body towards the stove. She cooked all the meals for every girl in the house, her mother instincts taking you all under her soft wing. Once, after a couple of drinks with her and two other girls she confessed how, for her, you were all like daughters. And in between you residents was a rule: always help Miss Martha. Some would buy vegetables telling there was a good offer, some would take milk and eggs, some, those who earned more, sometimes brought home sweets. Everyone did their part and you were all an harmonious machine.
When Miss Martha got sick, you all took turns into helping to manage everything was done: meals, laundry, groceries, tea, soaps, chores, fireplaces on. Once she recovered she was moved by how you all made sure she could take it easy as she was recovering.
《 Yes, please. To both. 》 you answered and got up from your chair to take a cup for yourself. Martha gave you a glance before taking you in better and smiling.
《 I have never seen this one on you, is it a present? From a boy, perhaps? 》 she inquired, a mischievous smile on her face.
《 Miss Martha! No! How can you think something like that – your cheeks got red at the implication. The nightgown you had on was a floor length with a little trail in the back. Both the back and front had a V shape, the back one deeper, trimmed with delicate lace. The skirt had a full hem, giving it a nice bell shape. Lace cut through the panels on the gown. The warm white color gave it an ethereal look. – it was my mother’s 》 you added and went to sit back down at the table, sipping on it and sighing at the warmth.
《 Oh, dear. It is beautiful. 》 she said with an apologetic smile. You just smiled back brightly. The memory of your late parents was not something that saddened you anymore, it made you happy you still had their memories to carry. When they passed, you were their only daughter and all of what should have had been yours went to an avid cousin that threatened to send you to take vow as a nun or to marry you off. More the former than the latter, that meant money. You escaped both and with the little money you could get, got as far away as you could and got in this small city. For a while you were in another place but it was too loud and the job you took before this required early mornings. So when possibility raised, you went away and came here.
《 Thank you. 》 you murmured as Miss Martha put a big bowl porridge in front of you, some berries to the side to add if you wanted. You ate in silence as the other girls got downstairs and had breakfast too, a soft and chittering murmur filled the kitchen.
After a bit, and with breakfast done, all the girls, whom before whom after, started to get up to go to work thanking Miss Martha before going. You too went back to your room to change.
First you put on your pair of combinations, then your corset and closed it normally, not too tight to have the right support and breathability. Then a petticoat, the corset cover and the clothes themselves: a cream shirt with high sleeves and a little puff at the end, a dark brown walking skirt, black boots and your hat. As the last touch you added a burgundy ribbon around the collar of the shirt and made a small bow. Then you sat at the vanity again and made your hair, twisting and pinning a few strands before making a braid with the rest of the hair and gathering it at the top of your head in a flat bun.
Giving a quick overall you took your coat, scarf, bag and wore your gloves before heading out.
《 See you tonight Miss Martha! Have a good day. 》 you said loudly and she came out of the kitchen hugging you and waving you off.
And then got to the designated place for the carriage to bring you to work.
-
After another thirty minutes and a little reading, you got at the mansion. As you walked to get in your eyes glanced at the window and no one was there. Scoffing you got in through the secondary door where the lockers were and got changed in your work uniform: a black dress, black slippers and the white apron. And then you were off to the library and had Lucienne hand you the list of chores for the day.
With your surprise and delight you also had to water the plants in the glass house. You decided to keep it as the last chore for the day and got on with the rest.
-
You, Lucienne and Taramis were sitting in the tearoom, sipping a warm concoction, its scent one of vanilla, cinnamon and something else way too complicated to name.
Two types of biscuits laid in front of the three of you. You and Lucienne just finished discussing the books she so kindly gave you and that were brought yesterday night along with some other reading you had, a couple of words were threw in by Taramis as well from books she also knew. The cook of the house didn’t joined you and the librarian every time you did such thing but it was nice to have her.
Then a still and cozy silence covered you like a warm blanket in the depths of winter, the only sound filling the space the cracking wood in the fireplace. You stayed still in the silence looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows giving on the balcony, the sun casting a neutral tone in the room.
《 Would you like something for lunch? 》 she proposed, getting up and fluffing her skirt. Both you and Lucienne were okay with pretty much anything and so Taramis went. Couple of minutes later the two of you were out of the tearoom to keep working.
-
After dusting, taking the sheets out to get some fresh air and redoing all the beds you could, you moved to the Parlor to sweep the floor.
Taramis called you and Lucienne for lunch and once you were done you went to the second floor, again as quietly as you could and cleaned up the small kitchen, doing the dished there before heading back downstairs and grabbing what you needed for the glasshouse.
Despite the cold wind moving the trees surrounding the mansion, the glasshouse remained warm and humid making your uniform stick slightly to my skin.
You got out to grab a bucket of water from the house before going back in and filling the watering can and starting.
The beige rock pavement was a delicate touch of color in between all the different shades of green and colorful flowers. When you were done you sat under a small gazebo to rest. Whilst there you also took out all the weeds and unnecessary bits form plants, dead leaves, dead flowers or petals putting everything in a bag bringing it close to the entrance. Since this was the last task of the day you took your time enjoying the colors and warmth before going back out to the crisp autumn air.
You don’t know how much time you spent just looking at the glass ceiling, at the sky and its changing colors but when you came to your senses it was already looking a red shade already. Then you deemed time to get up, brushing the skirt and apron for any dirt. As you lingered you started to feel observed and your head looked left and right for anyone but came up empty.
It was probably just your imagination because of last night… right? When you turned around a plant was moving, as if someone just brushed past it, the leaves swaying gently.
《 Lucienne? 》 you called out. Maybe you lingered so long she came to look for you?
But no one answered only the faint closing of the door could be heard so you started heading out, your steps fast but once you were out there was no one. You looked around, breath heavy, but there was no one.
“Could it be me…? Am I imagining things?”
You jumped out of your bones, heart skipping a beat when you heard a loud “caw!” from above your head.
《 Matthew! My heart almost gave out! 》 you yelled at the poor bird as he made a slow descent to land on your shoulder, its sharp talons gripping softly. You sighed and made your way inside ruffling Matthews fathers.
-
Over the next three weeks similar episodes happened, not many times but enough to make you start to wonder if this place was really hunted or if there was a resident enjoying scaring people. But you never gave it too much thought.
As you logged the fire, the rumble of a thunder could be heard from afar. Light voices filled the air of the Parlor with their soft chatter. Lord Morpheus decided to host a small gathering with friends but was still nowhere in sight.
《 It’s best you start heading home. 》 Lucienne murmured to you as you moved to stand in a corner of the room ready if anything was needed. You glanced at the window and she was not wrong, the sky was a dark grey even darker now that night was falling.
《 Are you sure you won’t need help with anything? 》 you asked even if you agreed with her.
《 Yes. Do not worry, head home. It would be a shame if you got sick over such a silly thing. 》 she added as you made your way to the door and head to the lockers to change back. She was at the door, waiting for you to bid goodnight and you did the same, hoping tonight would be an enjoyable one for her too.
And off you went, hugged in your coat and heavier scarf along with a pair of gloves. You felt a cold shiver run down your spine and made your way to the carriage.
Halfway you turned around to glance at the house for the last time today and the Parlors windows shined of a warm yellow. Another light caught your eye and when you glanced up, the same dark shadow was standing, observing. You turned towards the house and gave a small bow to the shadow before going to the carriage and go back home. The shadow in the window didn’t scare you anymore, in a strange way, it was almost made you feel safe.
-
《 Hey, Lucienne. Who was that sweet lady that just went away? 》
《 That, Mister Hob, was Lord Morpheus’s new cleaning lady. 》
《 Well, isn’t she rather beautiful? 》 he interjected. A small smirk forming on his face.
《 I suggest you don’t say such things in front of his Lordship – Lucienne warned, sighing right after knowing Mister Hob would not listen to her. – He seems rather fond of her. 》 ”for how fond and interested her Lord could look like” she thought.
《 And where is the fun in that? 》 Hob added, a chuckle escaping his lips. Right after the very Lord who hosted the event entered the room, his dark attire elegant as always, his blue eyes looking at everyone in the room. And Mister Hob started to head his way, grabbing another glass for his dearest friend.
-
With a candle lit you started reading again, this time a more simple reading, more like a re-reading of Wuthering Height. In these almost two month you have read many books, and pretty complicated ones about philosophy, from the more old ones like Thales up to Freud with his studies on aphasia and hysteria.
It was a book you already read when you were around eighteen and was running away. You managed to bring with you as many books as you could fit into your bag. Your copy was worn, the leather cover scraped and scratched from handling it. The pages were starting to get a more yellow tinge to them. So you asked Lucienne if you could borrow the copy at the mansion, scared yours would come apart if you abused it once more.
So you sat near the window, your hair already made for the night, a new nightgown, more white, hugged your form gently. Your legs covered by a heavy blanket, the candle sat beside you on the vanity. Before sitting you put some logs of wood in the fireplace so that it would not burn out. And then you started reading. You always enjoyed how this book was written because what right did Miss Dean had to picture the story like that. If it was written by Catherine point of view or even Heathcliff the story would have been completely different. You always wondered how he felt when he heard Cathrine and what could have happened if he stayed there until the very end.
Being a reading you already had, you got to a little less than half the book in a little time. When you glanced at the clock it was almost midnight. You sighed deeply before getting up, stretching your stiff limbs and walk to the fireplace to throw in a bit more wood for the night, only then making your way to your bed and going to sleep.
-
《 Miss Martha, I’m heading out! 》 you called halfway already out of the door.
《 See you tonight dear! I can’t move right now. 》 she called back.
With a smile you went out.
About half an hour ago you received a message from Lucienne, thanks to Matthew, that today you would start a couple of hours later than usual, which seemed strange since yesterday night there was a party and probably a lot of cleaning to do. But you did as instructed and went shopping.
First you went to the library to see if there was anything interesting to add to your small collection which paled in the face on Lord Morpheus’s one.
Then you went to the fabric store to see if there was something you could grab to make a new shirt, skirt, summer dress and nightgown for the summer. You added a little bit of lace to the nightgown portion.
For the shirt you choose a cream colored cotton, with the lightest floral print. For the skirt a heavier, navy cotton that you could use for winter with petticoats but that was sill light enough to wear in the summer. For the summer dress a light blue cotton and for the nightgown a white silk.
For last you went to the market to grab some vegetables and other things that were finishing at Miss Martha.
Walking back to your logging house you briefly saw a familiar carriage and soon heard the bells struck eleven. You hurried back, leaving the vegetables on the table and bringing the fabrics and books back to your room before grabbing the one you were reading last night and hurrying back down once again before going back to the carriage.
Today the carriage was moving much more slowly than it did the other days.
“Maybe some guests lingered for the night?” the question popped in your mind, but it wasn’t your business really. You only had to worry yourself about cleaning. Once you got there you easily got off the carriage, the movement a practiced one at this point, and made your way inside. The house felt warmer and a wonderful smell filled the air. You changed fast to be able to have a peek in the kitchen and saw Taramis hover on a big stock pot.
《 Good morning Taramis. 》 you announced myself.
《 Good morning, I am preparing turkey stock. Do you want it for lunch? 》 she answered to a question you hadn’t even had the time to ask. With a bright smile you nodded before also saying an enthusiastic ‘yes’.
《 Well, I’ll see you later then. 》 she said, dismissing you and going back to her pans and pots.
You closed the kitchen door before making your way to the library and taking a quick look at the Parlor to assess how much you had to do. You stopped when a figure caught your attention, standing with their chin towards a painting hanging on the wall. He was a tall and broad man, his brown waves brushed back in a neat style. His clothes complemented his naturally brownish complexion, all dark brown and soft oranges.
The opening of the door caught his attention, a sweet smile and a kind pair of eyes fixed you.
“Could this be Lord Morpheus?”
《 I’m sorry my Lord, I did not mean to disturb you. 》 you rambled quickly. A full laugh filled the air, his laugh. You looked at him perplexed.
“Was the something on my face perhaps?” A hand reached up to lightly touch your cheek.
《 I am not Lord to you dear, I’m simply Mister Hob Gadling. Come on in. You weren’t disturbing at all, I was just admiring this beauty. 》 he reassured and turned back towards the painting. Hesitantly, you approached him, standing a few meters away and also lifted your chin to be met with a painting. Your breath caught at the beauty and at the memory of it, you only ever saw it in small, stylized pictures before.
《 The Isle Of The Dead. 》 you whispered, feeling Mister Gadling eyes shift back to you.
《 You know this painting? 》 he asked, a mix of amusement and curiosity in his tone.
《 Yes, form Böcklin. 》 you added.
《 Correct again. It was made in 1881 if I’m not wrong. 》 he continued. You tensed wanting to correct him but not wanting to disrespect him. He definitely had a higher education than you, given his acquaintance with his Lordship, but this painting always fascinated you and you knew it like the back of your hand.
《 Is there something you would like to say dear? 》 he asked, glancing at you.
《 I don’t want to sound disrespectful at all, Mister Gadling but it’s actually from 1883. There are five versions of this painting. Made when he was in Italy, inspired by the English Cemetery in Florence, where his very own daughter was buried. The white figure on the boat is interpreted in many ways: a vestal, a priestess of the goddess Vesta, whom had to keep her fire burning, some think is an apparition, some a mummy and other think it’s Charon and so the statue of the lion should be Cerberus. 》 your checks became as red as tomatoes, you looked opposite to him, realizing your rambling.
What you could not see was the awe on his face. As the silence stretched on you dared glance at him to find him already looking at you with mischief in his brown eyes. Almost as if this was what he wanted all along and then you actually realized: this was exactly what he wanted.
《 Thank you for your correction Miss… 》 he added, thoroughly amused by your embarrassments.
You turned towards him, and with your head low, made a bow, introducing yourself.
《 Very well. You have quite the knowledge dear. For a mere cleaning lady. No offence. 》 he said, looking back at the painting once more.
《 No offence taken, Mister Gadling. I was once a lady too, before my parents passed. 》 you confessed, admiring the painting your parents taught you among many others, their love for art alive in you after all these years.
《 My condolences. 》 he said, a sad and knowing smile on his face.
《 Thank you. 》 you whispered and a simple silence fell over you as you both kept admiring the painting.
After a bit more he sighed dreamily before clapping his hands.
《 I believe my dear you have work to do and I have a long journey ahead of me to go back home. 》 he announced and you turned to each other to bid farewell. He took your ungloved hand in his gloved one, bowed and gave it a feather light kiss. You felt your checks get red once more but said nothing as he straightened back up, your hand still in his, you bowed again like you were taught as a child.
《 Until next time, my lady. 》 he said, and gave a cheeky wink to which you giggled. He seemed such an easy and kind person, respectful too.
Both of you got out of the Parlor and bid farewell once more, going your separate ways.
-
《 Your cleaning lady seems well educated. 》 Hob said to his friend as they stood one in front of the other at the carriage that would take him back home.
《 I beg your pardon? 》 Morpheus asked perplexed.
《 I said your cleaning lady not only is beautiful but also intelligent. 》 Hob elaborated and Morpheus fixed him with a glare because of the compliment. He would never tire of this type of entertaining. Before he could say anything else he bid a warm farewell and promised to meet again and write letters to each other. Once Hob was comfortable in the carriage he looked outside the small window and gave a last wave to Morpheus who replied with a bow of his head. And with that the carriage took off.
-
《 Mister Gadling is quite warm, is he not? 》 you asked Lucienne as you put away some of the books she gave you.
《 You know Sir Gadling? 》 she asked, incredulous.
《 I met him just this morning and we chatted a bit about a painting in the Parlor. 》
《 Really? – she asked more to herself – well, he can be rather kind, yes. But he can also be annoying, giving his teasing nature. 》she added. And you agreed, having experienced such part of him this very morning. More than annoying, you found him warm, effortlessly so.
《 He also seems very open minded too. 》you added recalling how, even if done on purpose, he didn’t chastised on your correction this and instead took what knowledge you could offer.
《 Oh, he is. To be able to talk to a man that doesn’t see you as inferior just because you are a woman is very refreshing. 》 she sighed happly.
Then a beat of silence passed a question on the tip of your tongue.
《 Is Lord Morpheus like that too? 》 you asked quietly.
《 Yes indeed, he has his own way of seeing and doing things, which sometimes makes him incredibly hard headed, but he doesn’t really look at your gender, if you said or did something stupid, he’ll say it to you no matter what. Same thing if you prove to be intelligent: gender is not really important. He will look at a woman the same as a man if he is impressed by either. 》 she said fondly. And you then realized that someone as Lucienne would have never put up with someone who disrespected her for her gender, with the brains she had, no matter if Lord or King.
You just now noted how you have never have seen his Lordship yet, only a few times as a shadow in that window and that time in the glasshouse. But that was the closer you had got to him in almost two months now of working here; if it actually was him. Maybe he was just shy or liked privacy. “Or maybe he was just ugly?” you thought to yourself, rearranging some books.
You were helping Lucienne out of pure boredom since all your tasks had been done for the day and instead of slacking around you decided to help Lucienne until the end of your shift today.
《 I think we should arrange for you to sleep here. – she then said out of the blue. You almost lost balance on the small ladder you were on – for when the weather gets truly bad. Storms and snow. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck in a carriage all night because of the muddy terrain. 》 she added and it didn’t sound bad at all. It actually sounded magnific.
《 And Lord Morpheus already agreed to that. 》 ”it was him who proposed it, actually.” Lucienne thought.
《 Oh, very well then. I should arrange to bring sone nightclothes. Thank you Lucienne. 》 you agreed, although nervous.
When you were done with your part a little piece of furniture caught your attention: a small box with a cone on top that was looking towards the direction of the room. On top of the small box was an elevated circle, a bar or wood and iron parallel to it with at the end a needle looking towards that same elevated circle. At the side of the box a handle.
《 Lucienne? What is this little thing? 》 you asked without looking at her.
《 That, my dear, is a gramophone. It’s for music. – she said looking for something and came up with a disk the same size of the one on the small box. – and this is a shellac disk. Here are some incisions that will allow us to listen to music. 》 she explained before preparing the machine and turning the handle to make it start. From it a wonderful sound started to play, piece of classical music.
You looked at it in awe, the music filling the space.
《 Lord Morpheus is fond of inventions and this one in particular caught his eye. – she said. – he likes to work in silence but also to listen to music. And playing the piano while working isn’t very practical, so when this little machine came out, he tried to obtain it as fast he as he could. To fill the silence a bit. 》
You understood perfectly. You, too, liked music and having it play in the background while reading or sewing would have been amazing to fill the silence and quiet the mind.
You got back to work quietly, Lucienne giving you more books to sort out. And when it stopped you almost felt sad.
《 Would it be possible to listen to it again? 》 you asked, a little bit embarrassed by how much you enjoyed it. She nodded and went to put it on again.
Sure, it wasn’t like listening to an actual piano, the sound not as clear, but it was close enough. And it has been so long since you listened to a piano, let alone play it, that your eyes glossed a bit. The last time was right before your parents passed away.
When the sound played again you let out a shaky sight and tried to compose yourself again as you put away more books.
Not too long later you heard the pendulum clock sound in the hallways, sign that your work day was concluded and you could now go home. And so you did, you changed yourself, went to a last goodnight to Lucienne and went out in the pouring, steady rain. Since this morning rained a bit too you had an umbrella with you so you wouldn’t have to run under it and drench yourself anyway. In what was a habit now, you turned around to look up to the window, the same now familiar shadow looking at you, as always.
You bowed, as always. And, at last, went to the carriage, as always.
A small smile on your face as you recalled how, no matter what, when you were going back home, that shadow always looked over you like it was its own way of saying goodbye. It made you feel giddy for no reason at all, maybe a dumb one you couldn’t find or just didn’t want to name.
When you went back home you made sure to warm yourself up and after quick dinner, you directly went to bed, the pattering of the rain making you feel sleepy. So after a few logs in the fireplace, you snuggled under the heavier blankets Miss Martha brought.
A few minutes later and darkness, aside from the fireplace, surrounded you, your eyes closed.
-
Another couple of weeks went by raining almost every day. You started to spend more time at the manor, sometimes storms keeping you there for the night.
Taramis would prepare dinner for everyone in the house, bring Lord Morpheus his share and then come back to eat with you and Lucienne. Then you would go to your assigned room: it was in front of the bathroom and next to the tearoom. The only window being a French one, high and wide, giving right onto the balcony. The canopy bed, adorned with heavy, dark blue silk sheets and an extra black wool blanket was the most comfortable, softest and fanciest bed you have slept on since you had to run from home. Placed on the right corner of the room, the feet of the bed looked towards the fireplace, placed on the left side of the room. A relatively small bookcase next to it then, a desk at the right of the very same window. Near the fireplace a short but pretty wide table sat with a couple of big, soft chairs and an equally soft sofa. On the angle next to the French window sat a beautifully decorated wooden screen, the night sky with clouds, brightly painted.
Given the amount of clothes you possessed and needed for work, a closet would have been a waste. Still a dark chest of drawers sat silently to welcome any of the clothes you had, the drawers large enough to have the clothes stored inside without folding them too much.
You had quickly grown to love such space, even if you only used up a few times during the two weeks since you started sleeping occasionally at the mansion. You noted how the room was never really cold, Lucienne probably keeping the fire at night and early mornings whilst you were away and you tended to it during the day. At the same time you didn’t kept it too much not knowing when you would spend the night here anyway. It made you feel welcomed and you enjoyed spending nights there. They were quiet and completely undisturbed giving the location of the mansion itself. Sometimes in the city drunk people would sing, more like scream words of some songs, at three in the morning making every non-existent murderous intent rise into you. For how comfortable Miss Marthas place was, the insulation was old and of course would give out for the loudest sounds.
Matthew was great company too, sleeping the days away into the library and hopping outside to freshen up. Sometimes he would slowly fly into the corridors of the house, the soft sound of his wings announcing whenever he was near. He ate a couple of times a day, most of the time a little more as you would sneak some seeds to him when Lucienne was not looking. When you were in the library, sometimes just reading he would perch on the back of the chair and spy what you were doing. Sometimes he would hop on the armrest or on your shoulders and take naps.
Sometimes Lucienne would have to go to the city to take care of somethings such as groceries, buying supplies of any sort and take care of all the correspondence, to send and to take back home if it didn’t make it with the postman.
Today Lucienne went out to the city rather late, the rain in the morning making it impossible to even think of going out. In the early hours at noon it subsided enough for her to take a trip to the city. Merely two hours later a storm started raging outside, making even the windows tremble. You found myself jumping out of your bones a couple of times because of the thunders.
Toward the evening a soft pattering on the window made me turn around. Matthew looking at me with those big, beaded eyes as I rushed to open the window to the poor creature that had to fly into this weather. With a soft towel laid nearby for him I dried him at best I could before taking the note attached to his little leg.
The weather is rather impossible for me to make it back tonight.
I’m truly sorry, I hope you’ll be able to take on in the library.
-Lucienne
You folded the note back and rested it on the desk, looking around at the books scattered around in piles on small tables and on the floor. You looked for the notebook in which Lucienne would write what to do for the day and looked over what she had to do. It was mostly sorting out papers and organizing books back on the shelves where they belonged.
Right before you started you went to feed Matthew and to the kitchen to feed yourself. Once you finished you went back to the library and started working. The hours passed and when the pendulum struck around eleven you went upstairs to change into your new nightgown and took a shawl too. You undid your hair, gathering loosely in a black ribbon only half of it to keep them off your face, mostly. Once you were ready you put some pieces on the fireplace and headed back downstairs.
You started to work again, glancing a at the gramophone every once in a while. As you stood in front of it you bit your lips looking over at the shellac disks on the side. You looked around to see if anyone was looking and decided to delve in. A disk caught your attention, it’s label saying Chopin. Curious to which one of his compositions was, you put the disk on top and imitated what Lucienne had done many times before. As it started you were immensely happy it was a Waltz, Op. 64 n.2. One of your favorites and probably the only play you could still perform for how many times you played it back when you were young. A sigh of nostalgia left you as you went back to work.
The hours passed slowly with that wonderful melody on repeat. Then you sat on a chair next to the fireplace and to read a bit. When you got bored you started walking around the library, your hands delicately touching the spine of books as you read the titles absently only a few registering in your mind.
《 Lucienne? 》 a voice called out. So immersed in your walking among the books you didn’t hear the door open.
You stopped dead in your tracks, your heart beating loudly in your ears. You never have heard that voice before. But you could not keep hidden, it would have been childish and simply ridiculous.
When you stepped out to see who was talking you hugged your shawl tighter around yourself. When you saw him a quiet gasp fell off your lips, leaving them parted in awe. In front of you, a floor lower, stood a beautiful man, his hair as dark as Matthews feathers, looked like they were even softer, messy strands falling in all directions elegantly and almost purposefully. His eyes were a light blue and even in the dim light shone as if jewels were in them. His squared jawline, the strong line of his nose and full, pink lips made him look like someone you would see paintings of. His attire was elegant even if a few pieces were missing, showing a pristine white shirt and a dark as only the void could be waistcoat. A pair of slacks and polished shoes on. His attire made you feel aware of how little and inappropriate your own nightgown and shawl was, your hair loosely tightened with a ribbon, some strands still falling out. Was this man the Lord of this house?
《 Is Lucienne here? 》 he asked, his voice low and soothing, like hot water on sore muscles.
You gulped before answering.
《 Unfortunately Lucienne is not here, My Lord. – you informed, giving him a little bow for etiquette – she was held up in the city because of the storm. Matthew came in many hours ago with a message for Lucienne herself. 》 you added, making your way down to the desk and grabbing the neatly folded piece of paper and handing it to him. He was much taller than he looked like from up there. His intense gaze moved from the note to you and pinned you in place.
《 Very well then, since Lucienne appointed you to take care of the library, I am in need of the books I requested for tonight. 》 he broke the silence. You looked at him with a perplexed look on your face. Books to bring to him?
《 Sorry, My Lord, books that you requested? 》
《 Yes, they should have been brought to my study about an hour ago now. 》 he explained.
A beat passed before you moved, excusing yourself to go to the desk and look through Lucienne’s notes. And there indeed was a voice that said to bring to his study books with the precise titles listed aside.
You felt your face grow warm, your cheeks undoubtedly becoming as red as tomatoes. Embarrassment washed over you as you looked back up at him.
《 I’m truly mortified My Lord, there is indeed a voice that states as you said. I might have had overlooked it. It was not my intention to bring you away from your work. 》 you apologized as you started to gather the volumes needed, your head hung low. He looked at you as you walked around, probably judging your choice of garments. You chastised yourself in your head for being so dumb, who would have thought the mysterious Lord of this house would have come out of his study tonight, and not only that. Who would have even imagined he looked that handsome?
《 It is no problem, maybe it was a sign to conclude my work for today. But Lucienne always brings me the books I require, so something must have happened if such task could not be concluded. 》 he added looking around.
You already had three books in your hands, and on your way to the fourth you put some more wood on the fire. When you had to go up the stairs bringing you to the second floor of the library he followed you, his steps silent. As you went for the last book, you had to stretch upwards but could not reach it. Not being able to, you blamed it on the other books in your hands so you placed them down, near your feet and tried again, failing.
“Oh, come on. Really?” you thought to yourself, as you went on your tip toes to try and grab it before a presence was behind you, taking the spine with much more ease. His fingers brushed mine in a scandalous touch since you both weren’t wearing gloves. A shiver ran down your spine as you felt a new wave of warmth lick at your body.
《 Thank you. 》 he whispered. And you looked at your feet.
《 I should be thanking you My Lord, for the disturb. 》 you murmured and reached down for the other books, before turning towards him, your bodies so close you could feel his warmth. Before you could get thoroughly distracted, you started to make your way down, waiting for him to then lead the way. And he did. Up the stairs to the last floor, through the corridor and to his study. He opened the door and let you in first to place down the books on his massive ebony desk, the legs and sides refined with extraordinary detail circling around the shape of the edges and the legs.
Your attention was caught by the window giving on the front or the house and a giddy smile made its way on your face. So it was him after all. As you turned around to discreetly, your curiosity gnawing at you, you noticed a painting.
Without noticing, your feet brought you in front of it.
《 The Nightmare. 》 his voice announced from beside you.
《 I had only seen it once and could not stop to admire it. It truly is astonishing. 》 you whispered in awe.
《 You know this painting? 》 he asked, a shade of curiosity latched in his tone.
《 Yes, it’s from 1791, am I correct? 》 you asked.
《 Indeed it is. What else do you know about this painting? 》 he asked. Since his dear friend Hob suggested his new cleaning lady was and educated one, he wanted to test it and see it for himself.
《 Well you already said the title, “The Nightmare”. 》 you added nervously.
《 Mhm, correct again. Go on. 》 he encouraged.
《 It was made by Fussli, again in 1791. The woman is asleep and having a nightmare, the monster on her stomach a visual representation of it that is also causing a feeling of choking, she is having trouble breathing because of it. The horse is simply interpreted as night horse, the artist playing with the words “Night” and “Mare”. I also heard there is a different interpretation but was never taught. 》 you explained, the informations easier to recall than you thought. His expression was neutral but his eyes held curiosity and a tinge of admiration that made you stand a little bit taller, prouder.
《 I have to say I am quite surprised, Miss. You are very prepared on the subject, and there indeed is a different interpretation. One that was probably not deemed appropriate for a lady to learn. 》 he sighed.
《 Could… could you teach me, perhaps? 》 you hesitantly asked, wanting to know more about this painting if there was more.
《 Perhaps I could. There is a more… suggestive interpretation. – he said, leaving a beat of silence so to let you back down. But you did not and so he went on – some say than the woman is climaxing, her relaxed and slouched pose telling that much. Whilst the horse, well... – he seemed to not be able to find the words, his lips forming into a pout. – the horse represent the act, when a men and a woman… 》 he trailed off, more embarrassed in not knowing how to phrase it. A small laugh escaped you, he looked endearing with that pout on his lips clearly trying to not make you uncomfortable. He then turned to you and you kept a smile on your face.
《 I understand. – you simply said – thank you for making me learn something new. 》 you said, a light blush still dusting your cheeks. A beat passed before he answered.
《 You are very welcome. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. 》 he added.
《 Not at all, it’s art and art is never uncomfortable, for me. It’s how we view it that may make it uncomfortable or even scandalous to talk about, but that is also the nature of art, is it not? 》
《 Indeed. 》 he agreed, thoroughly impressed by you. He looked back at the painting wondering how such a simple girl, one working as a cleaning lady in a mansion, have acquired that knowledge from. It made him all the more curious about who you were.
A peaceful silence fell over you two, before you interjected, and adjusted your shawl on your shoulders.
《 Very well then, I think it’s best for me to go to sleep, it is rather late. 》
《 Mhm, should I accompany you? 》 he asked, already extending his arm to you but you respectfully declined.
《 It is very kind of you My Lord but I am quite fine. You should get some rest too. 》 you said, and started walking towards the closed door.
《 Then I shall bid you goodnight. 》 he opened the door for you, and you took a step out before turning around.
《 And I you, My Lord. 》 you added, his fingers delicately but firmly took your hand, so he could bring it to his lips without bowing, his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath itched as you stood there, frozen.
《 Goodnight. 》 he whispered, your hand still to his lips. You gulped, your whole body feeling warm and your cheeks even redder.
《 Goodnight. 》 you said back, almost choking on the word, and with that you retracted slowly from his kind touch and started making your way to your room. Only when you were on the stairs you heard the door close and dared look back.
As you went back to your room you felt your legs trebling a bit. Once inside with the door closed, leaning on it for a bit before you were on your bed, face into the soft sheets.
Letting out a sigh, you turned your head to look at your hand, the one he gave a small kiss to. And you smiled, feeling giddy all over. And you let yourself be, without embarrassment for there was no one who saw or knew. Just you.
-
The next morning the rain subsided, and you expected Lucienne to come in at any minute. As you swept the floor you heard the front door open.
《 Lucienne? 》 you called out and she appeared in the corridor, heavy coat draped over her arm.
《 Good morning. 》 you said, as you approached her, abandoning your chores for a bit. She sighed as she hang her coat, and smiled tiredly at you.
《 Good morning. How was the night? 》 she asked, worried about her dear library.
《 It went well. I did all I could in the library. 》 you reassured her. She looked incredibly tired.
《 Good, good. I forgot how it was to sleep in the city. 》
《 Was it loud? 》
《 Extremely, someone started to scream at a God forsaken hour and went on for what felt like forever. The worst night of sleep I had in a long time. Could you care for the library today too? I’ll ask Lord Morpheus if I can rest today. 》 she said, and only now you noticed how her clothes looked still damp, her complexion not as bright as usual.
《 I’ll do it. If the Lord allows, go rest. I know what it means when they do that. 》 you gave her a knowing smile, remembering not very pleasantly those nights and then waking up at dawn to go to work after sleeping maybe four hours.
But that was a conversation all for later.
《 Thank you. 》 she said before dragging herself upstairs.
Half an hour later you went to the kitchen to ask Taramis if she could prepare tea and something to eat for Lucienne, and that you would bring it upstairs.
You went into the library to assess what else you could do, before the bell from the kitchen rang. You took Lucienne’s notebook and went to grab tea and snacks.
《 Come in. 》 came her muffled voice. She was sitting on a big rocking chair, draped over her a deep green silk robe, loosely tied to the front as she looked at the fire. She looked incredibly regal like that. Her skin was still a little damp form the bath she took. As you approached her to leave the tray of goods on the small table in front of her you discreetly looked around the room: she too had a canopy bed, white and wine red sheets covering the soft mattress. She too had a black wool blanket at the end of her bed. The rest of the room was very well lit thanks to the three windows looking directly at the door. The bed was on the left, the foot looking towards the opposite wall. A big desk sat in front of the central window, many bookcases, big and small, everywhere in the room. The desk full of papers neatly stacked. It looked very Lucienne like.
《 Oh my, thank you dear. 》 she said grateful, taking right away the cup of tea and sipping it, melting into the chair.
《 No problem. I will have to bother you with work for just a few minutes. 》 you said placing her notebook next to the tray, explaining the chores you accomplished and what you could not do in the library, leaving out your meeting with the first meeting with the Lord of the mansion. She explained everything you didn’t know how to do in detail and listened, memorizing everything. After around fifteen minutes of questions and explaining, you got out to start on my chores for the day, which were completed in about an hour before taking over in the library and doing what Lucienne told you to: cataloging new books and make sure everything was in its place.
You admit you had to sit at her desk and practice on a few blank pages of paper found in a neat stack, embarrassed on how your handwriting could look like after so many years of barely signing documents. For a moment fear took over you, fear of how child-like and messy your handwriting would look next to Lucienne’s practiced and elegant one so you started simple with just my name. And the messy doodle along with a big dot of spilled ink made you red to the tip of your ears. Ashamed, you kept trying until you remembered how to keep a quill in hand, how to dip it in ink and apply the correct amount of pressure for the metal tip to write a fine, regular line. After almost two hours of tries, feeling like a toddler, trying not only your name, you took another piece of paper where you wrote more simple phrases, and happily made it without spilled ink or messy lines. Those few pages found a place on the circular side table to burn them later and you got to work, cataloging and rearranging. Still you relied on a pencil, just so that if she wanted Lucienne could erase it and write it her own way.
Hours passed as you wrote, went on ladders, down the stairs and placed books in their rightful place. Some books had to be placed on the big desk, a stack of ten of them sitting there because you didn’t know where to place them.
Suddenly you heard the door open and without looking up from the pages of the notebook you called out.
《 Lucienne! There is a stack of books on the desk, I can’t find their place, I’ve tried everywhere twice but some books I have no idea where to put them- 》 you stopped talking, almost dropping the notebook as your eyes met with light blue ones. You gulped before bowing your head.
《 My Lord. 》 you whispered.
《 Hello. Which books are you having trouble sorting out? 》 he asked looking around and noticing a group of papers on the side table by the fire but didn’t say anything for now. His eyes then moved back to you and a blush dusted your cheeks.
《 I wouldn’t want to trouble you My Lord. I can check another time. 》 you said, nervous.
《 Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask if it troubled me. 》 he reassured, his voice deep and seducing as he moved over to the desk and taking some of the books off the stack. As he read the spines for the titles and recall where they should have gone you shifted closer to him to peek at the title too. Then he took off and you followed him to see where those books should have been placed back before checking them out. And so he went on for all the ten books that were momentarily stacked on the desk.
《 Thank you, My Lord. 》 you said as you ticked off the tenth book and closed the notebook. Those being the only thing left to do.
《 Glad I was helpful. And I also came to gather some more books. 》 he added. And you nodded as you asked the titles and went looking for them.
Lord Morpheus had more than enough books but curiosity was gnawing at him for those papers close to the fire for the handwriting there didn’t follow any document and had some dots of ink on them. And so whilst you were not there he went to them, amused to see Lucienne’s name, Matthews one, Taramis and his too in a messy and dirty disorder. As he looked through them they were suddenly snatched from his fingers, and when he turned around you were standing there, your face red almost down to your neck, the paper a bit crumpled for how hard you were clinging them to your chest, away from his judging eye. An amused smirk sat on his face.
《 These are nothing, My Lord. 》 you rumbled.
《 They don’t seem like nothing, seeing how you are protecting them so fiercely. 》 he said turning toward you, stepping closer. You couldn’t move, your mind spiraling, he saw. He saw, your messy handwriting, how terrible it looked, and probably judged you. His handwriting was probably so neat and elegant. A shaky breath escaped you and you felt thoroughly ashamed, eyes cast down. It was a silly thing but you were also a lady once, and having a messy handwriting was something to definitely not be proud of, that is what your teacher always told you as a child.
《 You intended to burn those? 》 he then asked.
《 Yes… 》 you mumbled.
《 Did you write those? 》 he asked again, ever so calm and composed while you were crumbling.
A beat of silence went by and you even considered to lie, but what would have brought you? And definitely after such a reaction it was useless.
《 I did. 》 you confessed at the end.
《 You know how to read. You are educated in art too. Why would you be so ashamed?》 he stated.
《 My knowledge will never be as deep as yours is or my handwriting elegant or beautiful. 》 not anymore anyway. That thought stung more than expected. And a new wave of shame washed over you but for a different reason: you let you parents work go to waste by not practicing writing. And you deeply hoped they could forgive you, they could understand why. You felt your eyes gloss with tears but refused to let them fall. His hand reached softly, slowly for yours, detangling the crumpled paper and taking it in his.
《 Don’t burn them – he then whispered – they might not be beautiful but they are testament you are trying. And trying doesn’t have to be beautiful. You are human, just like me and Lucienne and Taramis. It’s in our nature to make errors, to produce things that are messy. There is where the real beauty begins. 》 he reassured you, and surprised himself too. For he was not one who comforted often, but something about this girl’s smile felt distant and deeply sorrowful.
《 I’ll keep them safe for when you need to remember it. 》 he declared, leaving no room for argument. And went out.
When he got out, tears fell from your eyes but you brushed them away. You cried enough of them already. Tears would solve nothing, so you got back to work.
-
That night you had to stay at the manor, for another storm raged outside. Lucienne was still resting in her room, so you sat in the library again, in your nightgown and a worn robe to cover it. A cup of tea sat beside you on the small table, a bit of liquor you snuck from the kitchen in it.
The sweetness and warmth of the tea along with the faint burn of what you thought was whisky ground you in front of the fireplace. Drinking so close to the fire was not a great idea since the warmth would make it spread faster. And soon you felt a bit lightheaded, not being a drinker of any type and since the last time you even looked at alcohol was when your parents were still alive the effect was pretty fast.
It felt like lifetimes passed but it only really had been… three years? Maybe closer to four. And you couldn’t even go visit their graves, to place a small flower. A bitter laugh escaped you, you didn’t even know where they were buried, were they even buried, or your cousin denied it too? A knot formed in your throat, and you almost choked on it. You sighed as tears fell from your eyes. In the haste of escaping you couldn’t even assist at the funeral. Say your goodbyes.
A sob left your lips.
Right when your cousin heard of your parents deaths and you being the only heir to their fortune, he came right away, wanting to be your savior. But he only wanted to imprison you, use you as a deal sealer to one of his rich friends to get a share of more money. The only thing he saw. The only thing he wanted.
You stayed there, looking into the fire and trying to understand what you could have done so that none of this could have happened. And you saw so many things you felt selfish. But you were also young and your parents wanted to protect you, not making you marry out of duty, because they didn’t marry out of duty. And forcing it on you would have been simply absurd. But you could have, kept the house, the fortune, raise your children and live a lavish life. Instead you cleaned a house that was just like yours, where you spent your youngest days playing hide and seek, looking at a mother and a father that loved each other deeply and in return love you.
So who was more selfish: you, for not choosing, or your parents from protecting you from that same choice? But trying to pin the blame on someone would be wrong, because they never thought they would die so soon, leaving you so harshly. Having sickness take them away would have been painful to endure, for them, and to watch for you. The pain wouldn’t have been less but you could prepare. And they could prepare you too,
The more you thought the more consciousness escaped you and soon you were asleep.
When you woke up, the tea on the side table was still there, and a soft pattering, calling you to the window, Matthew perched on it as always. You got up hastily, swaying a bit to get there, then you opened the window. Matthew threw an accusatory caw your way and you smiled.
《 I’m sorry, my friend. 》 you said as you dried him, cuddling him in the process. A sob left your lips and you covered them, tears streaming down your face. Your legs gave out under you and you fell on your knees, a trembling hand keeping you up from collapsing on the ground as you cried. Matthew flew to the ground and hopped in your direction, and then flew back up to your shoulder, giving you a more soft caw and bumping his small head on the side of yours. You returned the bump and kept sobbing.
At a certain point you got up to gather the tea cup and go to bed, what you failed to notice was the tea cup itself: for you left it on top of the small plate that came with it and not beside it. The bottle of liquor was also gone but in your sadness and haste to get to bed you didn’t really notice.
Still you brought what you had in hand to the kitchen and went to bed, Matthew still perched on your shoulder. Since he looked like he would not leave your side you left the door ajar, so that he could move it or pass easily. And like that you went to bed, your small feathered friend on the bedside table, looking over you.
-
The next morning you woke up feeling hollow, empty, as it happened years ago. You sat up and passed a hand down your face, a shaky sigh leaving you. Your eyes fixed on the rain outside the window and you just stared at it. You had no idea what time it was. Ironically at that moment the pendulum clock resounding in the house told you it was only six. You laid back down, eyes fixed nowhere on the ceiling as you thought about last night. But before you could spiral again into that sorrowful place, Matthews beaded eye came into view, inspecting you and making a chuckle leave your lips.
《 You are right, Matthew, I shouldn’t. 》 you said to him before ruffling his feathers and changing into your work attire. You gave a rinse to your face to hopefully reduce the redness and puffiness of your eyes. Before doing your hair: choosing to leave them down today, even if you should have put them up but the familiar twisting and pinning today would have undone you, reminding too much of how your mother taught you, so a simple half up to keep the most of it out or your face but some strands, shorter ones escaped the hairstyle framing your face. Once you went out the clock struck once, signaling it was six-thirty. You quietly made your way downstairs, the raven came with you and you let him go into the library to eat before entering the kitchen only to find Taramis already there, mixing different herbs in different glass jars.
《 Good morning, Taramis. 》 you said, taking place at the table, already full with vegetables, other herbs and things you never saw before. The kitchen was an incredible earthy space, thanks to its tones and the smell.
《 Good morning to you too dear – she said without looking your way. – would you like some tea? 》 she asked, already putting on the fire the kettle.
《 Yes, thank you. 》you answered and fought to not let a heavy sigh out of your lips. And you waited, looking around the kitchen to take it in some more. It was such a simple place, the table not decorated or fancy, just functional. The chairs too, and then the tiles a copper brown that, I’m sure would look like the most beautiful shade of orange in the summer. The walls were an old and dirty white, the ceiling had its wood supports shown. It was simple yet beautiful.
Soon Taramis placed your tea in front of you and then, after taking a quick glance at you she got to the pantry and took a jar of cookies, putting five on a plate and placing it in front of you. Looking up at her you asked what you had to do with them.
《 Eat them, looks like you need them. 》 she said and went back to work. You looked at them and started eating them, your eyes getting wet at the corners. You loved how she took care of others by giving them food, it was a different way of caring for others and a delicious one at that too.
As you finished your breakfast, Taramis too finished preparing the tray she would than bring to Lord Morpheus chambers, as you learned the first few weeks.
《 I can bring it upstairs for you. 》 you proposed. Lucienne was probably still asleep at this hour and since you had nothing to do, for now, why not. She looked at you like you offered her a great deal, probably not wanting to part with her dear concoctions. Setting the tray on the table she explained what was everything: there was the teapot, inside spearmint tea. Another three containers had milk, honey and white sugar. On a beautifully decorated plate sat different types of biscuits, including what you ate yourself. Then she told you to ask if he preferred honey or sugar and to add two directly into the teapot. A few leaves of fresh spearmint sat in the angle and for those too you had to ask if he would have liked them added, this time in the tea cup, before pouring the tea. Then leave everything, only bring back the sugar, the honey or milk depending on which he didn’t choose.
And off you went with the tray up to the second floor of the house. You knocked on the study door at best you could without dropping anything. A muffled “come in” had you opening the door clumsily. His Lordship was leaning on his chair, hair more a mess than then two times you had seen him, a cloth on his eyes. Legs stretched in front of him, his hands interlocked on his upper stomach. He looked tired so you placed the tray down and felt bad you had to ask questions when he obviously didn’t look like he wanted questions on tea, or anything else for that matter.
《 What would you like in the tea, My Lord? 》 you murmured. He tensed up, slightly but still visible enough, clearly not expecting you.
Before answering he stretched, like a big cat after a long nap, and removed the cloth form his eyes, looking at you. When his eyes met yours, you cast them away, bowing your head a bit to try and conceal the state of them, masking it a as a greeting.
《 Honey. 》 he then simply said and you obliged. Even such a small word, pronounced by his deep timbre was soothing. His eyes never leaved your hands, as he sat up better. You did as Taramis did, mixing the honey into the tea pot with the second spoon.
Once you were done you put the lid back on the tea pot, and proceeded with your second question.
《 Would you like more spearmint leaves? 》 you asked not looking up, instead busying your hands with the container of the leaves.
《 Mhm. 》 was the only answer you had, and so you took three of them, putting those in one by one, slowly so that he could stop you just in case. But he didn’t and, once you were done you took the tea pot, putting your fingers on the lid so it would not slide off, and poured it.
The scent of the spearmint filled the space, your eyes fluttering close for just a second. It must have tasted delicious. As you finished, you took the tea cup and placed it as close as you could to him, navigating the scattered papers. As you were retracing your hand he stopped you, taking yours in his warm palm and placing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes closed. You breath hitched and a silent gasp left your lips parted when he opened them again to look directly into yours. After some time, when he felt satisfied of your flustered state perhaps, you pulled back you hand slowly and he let you. With more trembling hands you also took the biscuit plate and placed close to the cup filled to the brim with the warm liquid.
《 Sit with me. 》 he said.
《 I- 》 you stuttered.
《 Please, indulge me. Which one is your favorite? 》 he asked, referring to the cookies that sat in front of him. And so you obliged moving a chair closer to his desk.
《 I already had breakfast, My Lord. 》 you interjected, trying to shift the focus from you.
《 Just one. 》 he said again, even if it came out more as a plea. You looked at him hesitant before reaching out and taking your favorite biscuit from the plate, taking a bite as you leaned back again. The biscuit melted in your mouth, buttery but not too much and not too sweet, probably a preference of the Lord of the house itself. Your posture remained straight, as you were being observed.
The small sound of porcelain scraping porcelain made you know Lord Morpheus was sipping his tea, and so you dared glancing at him. Piercing blue eyes looked at you, making you blush to the tip of your ears. You averted your gaze.
He deliberately choose to say nothing about your red rimmed eyes. As he also choose to not say anything about finding you in the library, or the bottle of liquor he took back to the kitchen.
You had an elegance on you he only had really seen on ladies. Yet you somehow managed to be completely at ease in that elegance, it was not rigid or imposed, it was natural, as if deeply woven into your being. And so he observed, ever more curious.
You, on the other hand, kept your eyes outside the window, today the clouds gave way to some rays of sun occasionally. And you somehow relaxed, eating your cookie silently.
Once you were done, you brushed over your apron to occupy your hands before getting up.
《 I really should go to Lucienne for today’s chores My Lord. Is there anything else I can do for you before departing? 》 you asked.
He finished the tea, before looking over at you.
《 Why yes, there is. 》 he said before getting up and going to grab a small piece of paper, placing it in your hand. Before you could open it and read, he talked again.
《 I would like you to buy these things in the city. I would like you to come back here before going out. 》 he instructed and you nodded.
《 Very well then, My Lord. Should I change when I go out? 》 you asked, referring to your uniform.
《 You may do as you please. 》 he dismissed and so you went downstairs, leaving the honey and the tea pot on the desk, taking with you what he didn’t need.
First you went into the kitchen to give Taramis those and then you rushed back upstairs to change in your everyday attire: your long dark brown skirt, a white shirt, and your burgundy ribbon. You also wore a pair of gloves, both for fashion and to keep warm. Your coat and scarf were downstairs on the hang. You fixed your hair, twisting them up in a loose bun, instead of the half undone braid you had all night, for them to be more presentable before going back upstairs.
You knocked on the door a couple of times before entering the room. He was now standing by the window, looking outside.
You waited for him to turn around and give you other instructions. He stood there a bit more before turning around and approaching the desk, taking a pouch. He then stood in front of you, handing you that same pouch.
《 These should be enough to buy everything on the list. 》 he told you and you took the list from your pocket and placed it inside the pouch so you won’t lose it. With everything you needed ready you were about to head out when you noticed his expression fixed on your hands as if they thoroughly displeased them. With a confused expression you looked at them too and found nothing wrong. Before you could ask he reached out, taking your hand in his and taking off the glove, carefully so. He slowly pulled at each finger, looking straight into your eyes and you couldn’t pull away. They were magnetic, pulling you in and pinning you in place not letting you go. This was somehow more intimate than anything. Once the glove gave out, coming off your hand to reveal your hot and trembling fingers, he gave you a small grin, before bringing your hand up and kissing your knuckles.
You felt your face become red and managed to pull your eyes away from his, to which he chuckled before lowering your hand and putting your glove back on for you. It was un unexpected sound coming from him, but not an unpleasant one.
《 Be careful. 》 he whispered before letting you go.
You only gave a small nod and bow, before exiting the room, feeling like your voice might betray you.
“If he keeps this up, my heart is going to give out soon” you thought as you went down the stairs to put on your coat. You forgot to ask him if you could go to see Miss Martha. If you finished early enough you could go to greet her. After all you haven’t been back in a bit.
With your body nicely covered up, you went out. The carriage was waiting for you right in front of the door this time so you easily went in and off it went.
-
《 Could I have four bottles of ink, - you asked the vendor, glancing down at the small piece of paper before continuing – five metal tips and three stacks of paper please? 》
《 Right away. 》 he said, before preparing everything for you.
Next was the library for some ordered books. The woman working there looked you up and down, something close to fear in her eyes because of the rumors about the manor. She either thought you a monster too or that you would lose your sanity before long.
The books were placed in a bag, and there was still space so you thought to put your previous acquisitions in the same bag but then, scared the ink could spill even if closed you kept it separate. What you didn’t keep away was the mail which you put on top of the books in the bag. Between the letters was also a small box and on the front of it a familiar name that involuntarily caught your eye: Hob Gadling. A smile made way on your face as you recalled your interaction with him.
You kept reading the address, again and again and then once more. You were tempted to even ask some passerby’s if you were not going crazy. The last stop of your commissions apparently took you to a dress shop. A women’s one. If you were wrong you could always ask to the adjacent shops, maybe Lord Morpheus got the number wrong. So, putting the note in your pocket, you went in.
A bell chimed above your head, announcing your arrival.
《 I’ll be with you in a moment! 》 a woman’s voice called from the back of the shop. You took a few more steps inside to close the door and keep the warmth of the local inside. Then you looked around, colorful fabrics everywhere, mannequins filled the space, some with almost finished dresses some had just fabric draped on them. And you felt like a little girl again, when you went to dreaded appointments to have beautiful dresses made for you. Dreaded because having to stand still for hours was not exciting. Especially as a kid.
After five minutes a young woman, probably around your age came out from the back, tailors measuring tape around her neck. A beautiful gown covered her figure, one she probably made herself. And you stood there baffled before remembering why you were here in the first place.
《 I came here to collect an order, from Lord Morpheus. 》 you said, at least your tone confident. The girl looked at you, an unreadable expression on her face before she disappeared without a word in the back.
《 Here. 》 she announced, coming out with a dress in hand. And oh, didn’t it look stunning: the top portion of the bodice had fabric draping from a very delicate heart-shaped neckline. The bodice was smooth, and a floor length skirt, draped in the back and front made it look absolutely stunning. Then the color, black as midnight, gold embroidery all over it. The girl packed up the dress as you took a look around. A particular design caught your eye: the top portion had a delicate, see-through fabric that covered the neck and shoulders, coming to a stop when the main fabric of the dress started. Buttons aligned in the front and the skirt had a smooth front with a voluminous back. The dress was a navy blue, with darker flowers painted all over it. You admired it a bit more before sighing and going back to the girl who just finished packing up. You paid her and left.
With no more hands to your disposition you went to Miss Martha for a quick greeting before going back to the carriage and go to the manor.
The short trip brought you to overthink about the dress, whose box you were looking at with bitterness. Maybe it was just who he actually was? You probably were just a plaything to him to pass the time before he met with the lady to whom this dress was for. And you looked out of the small window, now incredibly mad. At yourself, at him, at everything really. And after basking in that anger for a bit. You sighed again, exasperated with yourself for how silly you were for getting angry over a dress.
As you arrived back, your mood was significantly worse. You got out with all the bags and the boxes, whom now seemed to be heavier than before.
First thing, you left with Lucienne the books, part of the mail she had to take care of and the writing supplies after greeting her and talking for a while. Then you got upstairs now only the rest of the mail and the infamous box in your hands. Plus the little one form Mister Gadling.
You knocked on the door for the third time today and this time you didn’t have to open it. Lord Morpheus moved to the side for you to enter his study once more today.
You placed the box on the chair, the rest of the stuff on top of it, and took out the pouch with the money in them, placing it on his desk. And then nodded to yourself as he got the mail, particularly curious about the small box. He opened it and read the message on the small note left inside, his jaw tightening. You approached carefully and took a peek of what was making him so angry: a gold necklace sat there, the pendant enclosing a pale ivory stone. It was simple but incredible. Delicate but definitely wouldn’t pass unobserved.
《 Turn around. 》 he ordered and you did so, waiting. Soon you saw the necklace pass in front of your eyes, and panicked, you whipped your head around, a questioning look on your face. But Lord Morpheus offered no response and simply clasped the necklace close around your neck.
《 M-my Lord…? 》 you asked, incredulous.
《 A gift from Mister Gadling, a thank you for your lovely talk. 》 he said, lips tight. And you looked down at the necklace.
《 It rather suits you. 》 he then murmured defeated, taking the charm in hand and lifting off from the fabric of your shirt. You looked at him and before you could lose yourself in his eyes a question bubbled from your lips.
《 What am I to do with the dress My Lord? 》
《 Wear it. 》 he stated, matter-of-fact.
You looked at him, a long silence stretching. Then a disbelieved laugh left you.
《 I beg your pardon, My Lord? That is a dress for a lady. 》 you retorted, yet his expression clearly told you, you were right where he wanted you.
《 And you will be. – you are he wanted to say then took what looked like an invitation from his desk – and as intelligent and prepared Lucienne is, she is not fond of art. And so, unprepared on such subject. You, on the other hand seem rather educated on it making you the perfect companion. 》 he concluded, his words final.
You stood there, reading the invitation he handed you over and over as if suddenly you forgot how to read all together. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Suddenly your brain flooded with all the etiquette that was taught to you, and it seemed not enough to be a good companion, let alone the perfect one, as your Lord said.
《 Is there no one else that could do this? Someone more suited? 》 you asked him, still in shock.
《 Someone else that could do this I could find anywhere. But not at all more suited. 》 he reassured. Then you looked at the light yellow box, a big red bow on top of it. You looked back at the invitation, then at him.
His eyes held resolution and you definitely could not back down from such request. Still incredulous you asked
《 When is the event going to take place? 》
《 Two weeks from now. – he answered even if you could just take a look at the invitation still in your hands. – you will have nothing to worry about, you’ll stay close to me and everything will go just fine. The event will take place a bit far away from here, it’s going to take two to three hours by carriage still. We will sleep in the host house once the event is done. Our journey will start around three thirty, but I would like you to be ready by three. You can take another gown to change into and a nightgown. The rest is up to you. If you are in need of anything for this event, accessories, shoes or make up, refer it to me, I’ll provide. Are there any questions? 》 he informed. I took a second, elaborating.
《 I do not think I have any questions, My Lord, about the event or preparation itself – he looked like he was about to agree but you hadn’t finished. – however I would like to know about the attendance of a guest in particular. Is Mister Gadling going to be there? I would like to personally thank him for this much appreciated gift. 》 you asked, and saw a displeased pout for in his face. He looked adorable and you tried not to be obvious about how much you enjoyed that look on his face.
《 Yes, Mister Gadling is going to be there. 》 he said truthfully an thoroughly displeased. You let out a breath of relief and then gave back the invitation to the owner. Then a question raised in your mind making you frown.
《 How did you know my size? 》 you looked at him, and you could not explain it. Had Lucienne taken your measurements whilst you were asleep?
《 Your uniform. 》 he simply said and it clicked: you did gave Lucienne all your measurements when you applied for the uniform to be made accordingly. You simply nodded.
《 Then I’m going to go My Lord. 》 you added having no questions and really wanting to try the dress on.
《 Of course. And again if you need for anything extra, you will tell me and I shall assist. Understood? 》 he asked, a veiled threat to his voice. You gulped and nodded.
You grabbed the box containing the dress and the one for the necklace and went down stairs.
-
《 Wow… 》 was the only word that you managed. The dress was even more beautiful on even if you couldn’t manage to close a couple of buttons at the very top in the back. The fabric draped beautifully around your shoulders, leaving your neck and collarbone exposed in the most elegant way. The sweet heart neckline covered just enough, leaving space for any jewelry. The fitted bodice had flowers and patterns connecting them, embroidered in gold. The skirt was smooth and also nicely embroidered, like the bodice, with Gardenias, keeping a connection with the black, heavy fabric that resembled night itself. With the dress came a pair of black gloves that covered up until over your elbow, the same Gardenias wrapping around your arm and a cream petticoat also decorated in gold flowers, meant to be shown when stepping on stairs or when dancing. You let the fabric fall back down to cover the terrible and worn out boots you were wearing.
You bit your lip as you thought about asking for a new pair of shoes. Make up you had, but shoes were something lacking. For a second you thought about wearing your work slippers but you remained insecure with such choice. If any dancing was required, your shoes would be on display and least you wanted to do was embarrass your Lord. And so, after you changed back to your work uniform you went upstairs, standing in front of the door debating if you should knock or not. He did say to inform him if anything you needed came up…
For a second you thought about just going in town. After all tonight you would go back to Miss Marthas if the weather allowed. You could wake up early and go see if you could find a decent pair of shoes. But the way he told you to tell directly to him… you had more than enough money on you to provide for a pair of shoes, after all the pay for this job was high enough for you to save for probably a hundred pair of nicely done shoes.
But defeated you knocked. Again. You had never seen him so often as today. Once you heard the come in you opened the door uncertain.
《 Yes? 》 he asked, keeping his eyes on the papers scattered about.
《 My Lord, I… 》 you bit your lip, looking out of the window. You didn’t know how to put this even if it was a simple request.
《 It appears I am in need of a pair of shoes to go with the dress, but I have enough… 》 you trailed off.
Only then did he look up from the papers, his expression a mix of amusement and seriousness, a hilarious oxymoron.
《 You can go first thing tomorrow morning. As I said I will take care of it. 》 he said, his tone sharp. And you stood there nervous as he took out the pouch with the money from earlier and placed it in front of him on the desk. You took the pouch and bowed.
《 Thank you My Lord. And my apologies for disturbing your work, again. 》 you mumbled, you head still low.
《 No worries. 》 he assured as you went to the door.
《 Have a nice rest of your day. 》
《 Thank you. You too. 》 he said and watched you leave. You went back down stairs to place the pouch in your room and sighed deeply. For a moment you thought about using your own money and leaving the pouch at the manor, give it back to him and tell you found nothing. But a chill ran down your spine at the memory of his promise? Threat? Both? And so with another sigh you settled in your room for a while.
-
《 And then, I had to go to the library but could not make it on time, since the lady at the post office decided that giving me a disgusted look was more productive than doing her work. And right when I was about to try and get something at the market the rain started to pour down. I had to take a room at this inn, which was not the worse, yes the food hadn’t the best of looks but was edible. Then I went to my room and everything went well until three when this- I can’t even begin to describe them, decided that screaming was the best activity. And they went on for at least a couple of hours, I think maybe less, maybe more. I was too tired to look at the time. 》 Lucienne told you and Taramis, sitting in our usual places in the tearoom, about her misadventures. You felt sorry for her, knowing exactly what that meant. You talked a bit more before Taramis got up to go to the kitchen, a warm silence filling the space as they sipped their tea for a while.
《 So how is the dress? 》 Lucienne asked, and you chocked on your tea, your cheeks becoming a bright shade.
《 How do you know? 》 you asked, still coughing.
《 Lord Morpheus designed it but I am the one who placed the order. 》 she explained.
You mouth fell open in disbelief: he designed that wonderful dress sitting in your room?
Then a teasing smile spread on her lips.
《 So? How do you feel about it? 》 she asked, eyeing me from the corner of her eye.
《 Well the dress is rather astonishing. It is truly a wonderful piece. But I don’t think I’m suited for such thing. 》 it has been too long you wanted to add but kept quiet.
《 And why is that? – she asked – you know about art, and in case you don’t remember or feel usure about something we also have art books and some from Lord Morpheus schooling years too. They were rather effective and complete. 》 she said. And suddenly you felt lighter.
《 Can we please take some? 》 you whispered.
《 Yes, sure. But they are not in the library. They are actually upstairs, most art books are. To make space for some more important volumes, work ones, Lord Morpheus choose to move those, sadly. But they are also closer to his study so maybe it was for the best. 》 she informed getting up.
《 You should ask him the key. He is the only one who has it. 》 she added. You got up too, pondering if you should start tonight with your revisions or ask him first thing tomorrow. You choose to go at it tonight, so that you could already start. And maybe go to bed more at ease if you saw you remembered enough.
-
《 Come in. 》 came his muffled voice.
And you opened the door. You already changed from your work uniform, ready to go home. After completing a couple of tasks Lucienne gave you, the time passed by easily, making it just right to go back to Miss Martha.
《 Good evening, My Lord. 》
《 Good evening, is there something to matter? 》
《 Yes actually, – you informed – I would like to know if it’s possible to take some art books with me. To reassure myself. – and to not embarrass you. – Lucienne told me you have the key to the room where such volumes are. If it is not too much of a trouble could I take a look and take what I could require? 》 you proposed, hoping for a positive answer.
《 Yes, of course. It is no trouble. 》 he said producing a key from one of the various drawers of his desk. A small steel key, with a decorated handle. Instead of handing it to you he got up, stretching his arms over his head.
《 My Lord? 》 you inquired, even if you already knew what he going to say.
《 I’ll come with you. A small pause will only be beneficial. 》 he said, already by the door. You could only agree and when he turned around, giving you his back a small smile tugged at your lips. You passed only a door after his study before he inserted the key in the lock and opened it. He went inside and you followed suit. As he opened the window you took a look around: books were everywhere creating messy piles all around the room, but the bed, the only book free space. Said piles laid on top of a thick cloths.
You took a couple of books from some of the highest piles, both in perfect shape save for the layer of dust on them, which didn’t go unnoticed, couldn’t really.
You opened one of them, the title giving away the subject. Art. A deep sigh of relief left your body, your shoulders relaxed as you started to turn some more pages. A lot of text but also some images. Your smile widened.
《 Did you find something you like already? 》 his velvety voice spoke from beside you.
《 Mhm, if most of these are art books I think I will be just fine. For a lifetime actually. 》 you whispered.
He kept looking at you as you turned the pages of the book, scanning quickly the very few images before moving on. He then went to take some the books he knew could help you. When he came back to where you were he found you sitting on the ground, now four books splayed in front of you. You looked at all them with patience, turning the pages every once in a while.
He came beside you, setting the books on the floor. You then looked up, sighing. When your head turned to look at him his hand was already out for you to reach. Your eyes then moved upper, to his eyes, those two wonderful skies looking at you. Forgetting the books for a bit you took his hand as he helped you up to your feet. He tugged at your hand, making you take a step closer to him. You held your breath as he did, your ungloved hand still in his gentle grip.
He then lifted it gently to his lips to give it a long kiss, eyes closing, his long lashed brushing his cheeks. When he opened them again they looked like stars were just born, sparkling. He lowered your hand, stroking it with his thumb. Your heart pounded in your chest.
《 You can take as many books as you see fit. But you don’t have to impress anyone. I’m not bringing you to take a test, I’m taking you to enjoy your company and for you to enjoy a, hopefully, wonderful night, in between people who love art as much as you do. Don’t push yourself. 》 he whispered. A small nod was all you could muster as your eyes cast down to the side, a pink flush dusting your face. The reason you wanted to read this books was obvious but the fact that it didn’t go unnoticed made your heart flutter.
《 Mhm… – was all you managed to get out, adding a – thank you, My Lord. For your concern and kindness. 》 you whispered back, not wanting to break the moment. A small smile tugged at his lips, his thumb gentle as ever.
《 Very well then. And I should be thanking you for indulging me and be my plus one at the event. 》 he said, tone gentle and calm.
You smiled at him before slipping your hand away, to which he seemed reluctant. But eventually let go. You picked up the books from the floor and he did the same, passing his choices to you.
《 Thank you My Lord. 》 you beamed, now materially reassured you could make it. Meanwhile he closed the door once again.
《 Could I ask a question? 》
《 Go on. 》
《 Why do you keep this door closed? Why not the library too? 》 he smiled at your inquire, small and soft as he glanced back at the door.
《 In here are volumes very dear to me, old versions that you cannot find anymore and also books that are very worn out. I keep them here because I sometimes fear some could steal them from me. It had happened once and I don’t want it to happen again. As I said these volumes are not only a prized possession but also a very valuable one. Some volumes in here had been out of print in years. 》 he explained and you looked down at the books in your hands. You knew the value of books, not only for the knowledge they brought but also for the monetary value they held.
《 Then why do you keep them like that? 》
《 Because the moving of these books had been made in a haste and then many other things came in the way and I never managed to arrange them better. 》 you nodded at his answer looking at the door then back at him.
《 If it puts you more at ease I could take one book at a time, or leave them in my room here, in the manor. 》 you proposed.
《 You have nothing to worry about, I trust you. 》 he said and it filled your heart.
《 Yet you supervised. 》 you inquired. A flicker of surprise passed on his face, before amusement took over.
《 I suppose you are right. Maybe I still need to reassure myself like this. 》 and silence fell for a bit as you looked at each other.
Then he bid you goodnight and you too. As you went down the stairs, you felt his gaze on you and only when you were half way on the stairs you heard the soft click of his door closing.
-
《 Miss Martha! I’m home! 》 you called closing the door.
《 Welcome back dear, how was your stay at the manor? 》 she asked, ushering you to the kitchen for a warm cup of tea. You obliged and sat down, placing you things on a chair nearby.
《 It was… – you hesitated for no reason, really – good. 》 but it came out more like a question. And you thought for a bit, not understanding why such hesitation. Could it had been crying for your parents, the reason for your hesitation? It had been years since you cried for them last.
《 Are you okay dear? 》 she asked concerned.
《 Yes, absolutely. I don’t know why I answered like that. 》 you said to her. It was a good stay, aside from the memories. But it wasn’t like you never thought about your parents. Suddenly his face popped in your mind. And you felt your cheeks flush a bit.
《 Oh… is it a boy now? 》 she teased, a wide smirk on her lips. She had her years and experience on her, she saw many girls and could tell.
《 I- I don’t know… – you murmured. She just smiled sweetly at you, let you drink your tea. – he is very kind, and incredibly handsome, but he is also my employer and I’m just a cleaning lady, Miss Martha. I clean, there is no way he could be with me or even remotely attracted to me. 》 but you didn’t sound so convinced.
《 What makes you think that? 》 she asked.
《 My status. We both know that I was not always like this, but now I am, and nothing will change it. 》 you said defeated.
《 Love, your status can make you think all you like but attraction, romance even love don’t look where you are in society. From which country you are, how much money you possess. If he is attracted to you, then so be it. If he courts you, let him. 》 she advised.
《 But he could have a much better marriage, a more convenient one. Marry a rich lady and expand his fortune. 》 you argued. Afterall that was what man and women, more their families, were after: money, for a better life, a stable one.
《 And what if he doesn’t care about money. What if he has enough and just wants a real connection that doesn’t require material things but only another soul? 》 she argued back. And that made you fall silent. All your life you had been surrounded by people of your status whom saw marriage as an economic gain, something convenient. But your parents taught you otherwise. Maybe he was too surrounded by such people. Or he was a sore thumb in his group. That you didn’t know.
《 Also… he invited me, to an event… – Miss Martha looked thrilled and nudged you to keep going – and he made me a dress. 》 you finished looking down at your hands, nervously folded in your lap.
《 Love, if this doesn’t tell you enough I don’t know what could. 》 she said, emotion latched in her voice.
《 Would you like to see it? 》 you suggested. She whipped her head in your direction and nodded frantically, her eyes sparkling as she got up and pushed you upstairs with all you took with you.
-
《 Oh my… 》 she said as she finished lacing the dress and making you spin.
《 This dress is absolutely breathtaking. 》 she commented, looking at the fine details.
《 He designed it. 》 you said, proud.
《 Him?! Who could have thought such a scary man could be capable of such beauty. With all the voices going around town it’s hard to believe he is actually such a gentleman. 》 she considered out loud. And you nodded. Miss Martha was one of those people who told you not to get this job, it would only have been dangerous since no one really ever saw this phantomatic Lord. And yet here you were, wearing a dress made of midnight and stars, excited to see some art, to see paintings and enjoy an evening like many before but that were now just memories. Happy, wonderful memories that ended too abruptly.
《 So when is this event going to be? How many days will you stay there? Do you need help with anything? 》 she bombarded you and you chuckled.
《 In two weeks’ time. I think it’s going to take a day or two, no more. And for now I’m just fine, I do need help in getting out of this dress. 》you laughed and she helped you. After you took it off you placed it back in its box with the intention to bring it back to the manor tomorrow and leave it there, least you ruin it.
You put on your nightgown and sat down with Miss Martha.
《 Is he a fine looking man? 》 she whispered curious.
《 Miss Martha! – you reprimanded, laughing – but he is. My, if he is. You could come to see me off. After all it will be the first time I stay so far away from here. 》 you added.
《 If it is allowed. 》 she added, a big smile on her face.
You agreed and went back downstairs to drink some more tea before going to bed.
-
The next two weeks were a blur of cleaning, studying, going back to Miss Martha and re-learn etiquette for the event. You took extra-long baths and used some products she gave you to make your skin look beautiful for the upcoming event. You also tried different hair styles, make up, perfumes. The shoes were ready in a three days’ time and they fit perfectly. They resembled the dress, black with golden embroiders. They were small heels, comfortable and practical but nonetheless elegant.
And yet panic was like a long shadow always following you. You hadn’t seen Lord Morpheus a lot during this time. He was probably working as always.
Lucienne asked you multiple times a day if you were all right, telling you to just relax. And you would always tell her that you would. But you really couldn’t, the fear, almost bordering on terror to embarrass him, was what kept you wake at night.
You remembered, between all the thinking back, hearing your parents talked about him. You already once heard his name and they talked highly about him. So that added to the panic.
《 If it is no problem I would like you to stay here the night before the event. 》 came his voice as you dusted the library and almost fell off the ladder you were standing on.
《 Yes, of course. 》 you agree, voice clipped, shoulders tense. Your eyes looked hollow and dark bags were becoming more visible by the day.
He observed you and it unnerved you beyond what you could have ever had imagined. Usually you would have just kept going but you were already on a thin thread.
As you turned towards him to ask if you could do anything else for him, he talked.
《 I would like you to follow me please. 》 he demanded, standing still. He looked so sure and calm whilst you looked like a rag.
You carefully stepped off the ladder and followed him.
《 Go to the tearoom, I will be there shortly. 》 he said as you started climbing down the steps.
You sighed and did as said. Going up slowly, least you hurt yourself two days before the event. The two week you had seemed enough at the time, and they were, now it was just you being paranoid about anything going wrong. You knew what you were doing and yet you didn’t. That is what annoyed you beyond belief.
You let out a groan as you unceremoniously dropped to your usual chair and closed your eyes. You opened them again as two hands rested on your sagged shoulders, jolting slightly.
《 Don’t worry – came his voice, somehow deeper? You didn’t know but you calmed down, still tense – I want you to relax now, you can just sleep for the rest of the day. 》 he whispered, his hands squeezing your shoulders softly to relax them.
《 I want you to think of nothing, all right? Just sit here, enjoy a cup of tea, nothing else. 》 and silence fell. And you finally relaxed a bit.
《 I’m sorry… – you confessed softly – I just don’t want to embarrass you. 》
《 And that is exactly why I told you not to push yourself. You could never embarrass me. 》 he affirmed and you tensed wanting to get your back straight and argue but he didn’t allow. With soft pressure he made you desist, and you rested again against the plushy chair.
《 It is not fair. 》 you teased.
《 I was never to play fair with you. – he murmured close to your ear, a shiver going down your spine. – now rest. 》 he said final and you obliged. Soon your eyes fell close and darkness engulfed you.
When you woke up you were in your room, a cup of warm tea by the bed side table. You were feeling incredibly refreshed and very disoriented. So you got up, took a sip of tea and stretched.
《 Have you slept well? 》
《 Oh my God! 》 came after your scream, your heart in your throat as you turned around, Lord Morpheus sitting in the chair at your desk looking towards your bed. Your breath came fast as you leaned on the canopy bed structure. You felt like you died inside for a second.
《 I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. 》 he said, but the amusement is his tone definitely didn’t go unnoticed.
You glared at him before sipping more of your tea, thankful you didn’t spill it everywhere.
He then got up and got closer to you. You hugged you tea cup closer.
《 So? 》 he asked. To which you confusedly frowned. Then it clicked.
《 I have slept well, very well. How did you do it? 》 you asked, vaguely remembering his hands on your shoulders in the tearoom.
《 There is a pressure point here – he said, raising his hand towards your neck and moving away a few strands, making you self-conscious of the state of your hair after such a deep nap – at the base of the skull, behind your ear – he described and applied a gentle pressure, your eyes fluttering as you melted under his touch – that helps relaxing. 》 he concluded, his hand lingering on your warm skin.
Your head tipped forward as he massaged the spot a bit more. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep you from making any sound. Slowly he stopped massaging, his hand lingering on your neck before retracting. When you met his eyes again he was closer, but you didn’t mind. Almost as if reading your mind or expecting the question he spoke.
《 A friend taught me that. 》
《 Was it Mister Gadling? 》 you asked purposefully to see that adorable pout form on his lips. And there it was, his eyes narrowing.
《 You seem rather fond of Mister Gadling. 》 he grumbled. And you did everything in your power not to smile.
《 Well, he did gift me a beautiful necklace. 》 you said, placing down the tea cup. He looked like he wanted to say something but desisted, sighing instead.
《 Don’t push yourself. – he said suddenly – it is not good for your health. I don’t want you so worried for such a small event. There aren’t going to be that many people either. 》 he reassured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight.
You nodded before going to the vanity and taking out the pins from your hair, loose curls falling messily. Then you tied them with a ribbon. It felt incredibly intimate for him to see you with your hair down like this. And you liked it, the silence and his attentive gaze fixed on you. Admiring.
Then you stood there, waiting. A confused expression formed on his face, questioning.
《 It’s almost time for me to go home, My Lord. I have to change. 》 you added with a smile, your face still dusted in red.
His eyes widened, a pale pink on his cheeks. Then his mouth opened but no words came out.
《 I- I’m sorry… I’ll go. Now. 》 he stammered before rushing out. A small laugh left your lips as you took your day clothes and went to change. “That was new”.
As you went out of the door you gave it a glance to make sure everything was in place. The box with the gown on the bed, away from the fire that was almost dead too. You would have had all tomorrow to take care of it for the night.
You went down the stairs, and at the door he was waiting for you, you said goodbye to Lucienne, who was working in a high stack of papers. And then you were on your way.
Stopping in front of him you looked up at his eyes.
《 Goodnight then, My Lord. 》 you bid with a small bow.
《 Goodnight to you too. And sleep tonight. Don’t worry your pretty little head, you will be amazing. 》 he said opening the door for you. You went, hesitating a bit. You would have liked to stay but also wanted to spend time with Miss Martha before your departure.
《 See you tomorrow. And thank you for letting Miss Martha come to see me off. 》
《 Of course. 》
And with that you went to the carriage and back to the city.
-
The next day you went to the manor early, Lucienne gave you a list of chores and said Lord Morpheus wanted you to make only a half day today so that you could take care of any preparation for tomorrow.
And so you did, you take care of those small chores, and soon enough you drank some tea, talked Lucienne ears off with your worries and then went to bathe. You entered the bathroom right in front of your own room and there was already steaming water leaving the air humid. You melted into the water relaxing as much as you could since the event was tomorrow and it dawned on you more than ever. When you came out, you gently dabbed a towel on your skin, keeping it moist as you applied a cream and oil to perfume. Then wore your robe, tying it loosely around your form since you would only lounge in your room as you waited for your hair to dry before putting them up for tomorrow.
As you waited you decided to go through some books, most of the pages went by fast, information you remembered and barely looked over at. Some of the more interesting parts you would read precisely. And like that time went by fast. Making it dinner time. So you went to collect a quick snack, nerves making your stomach tight.
《 Do you need some help? 》 Lucienne asked as you fought with your hair while she placed a tray with tea and something to eat on your small table.
《 Yes please, they are not collaborating. 》you whined. And so she stood behind you, brush in hand as she worked your hair how you directed her under her request. Once you were done you both sat down to eat.
《 How are you feeling for tomorrow? 》 she whispered by the fire.
《 Nervous. Less than a few days ago but definitely still nervous. 》
《 Do you feel more sure about yourself? 》
《 After going through at least twenty books, yes. I’m feeling much more confident. 》 you sighed, enjoying these moments of peace.
《 Very well then, and remember: enjoy yourself above all else. I once attended those gatherings and they can be very nice. So drink a bit, eat some too, look pretty and go to bed. 》 she said nonchalantly. But for you it ran a little deeper.
You hummed and then a nice silence fell over you, keeping you company.
Soon you went to bed after Lucienne left you with yourself. You changed in your night gown and slipped under the covers.
Then a knock on your door. Confused you said come in. Lord Morpheus was on the door step, looking like he was also about to go to bed, a dark, beautiful robe hugging him loosely, his pale skin peeking out.
《 Yes, My Lord? 》
《 Tomorrow we will depart a couple of hours earlier. The weather seems to not be on our side. I already sent Matthew to Miss Martha to tell her of this change of plans. That is all. 》 he stated.
《 Very well then. 》
《 Goodnight. 》 you too bid him goodnight before laying down again once the door was close.
For a while sleep didn’t came, but after a bit of tossing and turning your eyelids finally fluttered close.
-
The next morning you woke up just right, and started preparing.
In a small suitcase you placed your fancier nightgown, the one that was your mothers and some other some utilities you could use during your stay, even if a very short one at that.
Then you started dressing up: your drawers, a pair of stockings and your beautiful new shoes. Then you wore the dress. The top didn’t need a corset having a built in bodice to do such work. But you still wore a thin camisole and slipped off the shoulders. The bodice would hide it.
You admired yourself in the mirror, not over the beauty of such gown. You also annoyingly admired those few buttons you couldn’t close.
You did your hair as usual, taking extra care with every strand to make it look clean. Careful in staying away from the dress you wore your perfume.
Last you took care of your make up, light and natural. Once you were done, you took the small purse you would have on you during the night and placed a fan inside along with some make up to touch up.
At last the gloves and with that you were ready. By midday you were ready to go.
《 Wow… you look absolutely stunning dear. 》 came from the door, Lucienne came inside with a tray in hand, eyes wide as she looked over at you.
《 Thank you. But it’s mostly Lord Morpheus work. 》 you said referring to the stunning dress.
She shook her head and came inside, placing down the tray. You made small talk as you ate a bit, then she helped you close the last few buttons. When you got up it was twelve thirty so you went to say goodbye to Taramis too and then headed outside. On your way out you looked at the pendulum clock, striking fifteen to one. With the only little things you needed, you headed out. But soon Lucienne took it from your hands, insisting you don’t ruin the dress with dirt on it on anything else. And so she went ahead of you. Once you were out both Miss Marthas and Lord Morpheus eyes were on you, from the former coming a gasp of surprise. You smiled sweetly as she came up to you and gave you a tight hug, beaming.
Meanwhile Lord Morpheus looked at you, stunned. He had seen many ladies but none were as beautiful and elegant yet soft like you. You were radiating and he was basking in that radiance.
When you parted from your hug, he was right by your side, hand ready to escort you to the carriage.
《 Miss Martha, it was truly a pleasure meeting and chatting with you, but I’m afraid we have to start our journey. Until next time. 》 ever so polite, pressed his forehead to her hand.
《 For me too, Lord Morpheus. It was a pleasure to see all the rumors in town were fake. Just gibberish. – she said. Then turned towards you – as for you my dear, have fun. You look absolutely stunning. 》
《 I do have to agree with Miss Martha: if I’m not careful enough in no time you will be surrounded by both men and women alike and I won’t be able to enjoy your company. 》 he agreed, giving you a subtle once over.
Then Lucienne called her Lord to asses a couple more things.
《 My dear, have no doubt, that young man is all over you. The way he looks at you… and also the way you look at him. 》 she trailed off, a serious expression, yet her tone held no sternness. Your cheeks became red at that. You didn’t think it was that obvious.
Then Morpheus came rushing back to you, taking your gloved hand to guide you to the carriage.
《 Miss Martha, until next time. 》 he greeted, bowing his head.
《 Until next time, Lord Morpheus. 》 she greeted too.
《 Travel safe. 》 she then said as you walked to the carriage.
Lord Morpheus opened the door for you, helping you up and in the carriage, following suit. You waved you hand at Miss Martha hoping she would see you and she did too, reassuring you. Then you settled in your seat.
In your nervousness you did not take into account a small detail: you would ride with him for many hours in such a small space. Without a chaperone too.
《 Have you slept well during the night? 》 he asked.
《 Yes, My Lord. Thank you. 》 you answered looking outside the small window. The positive thing about such a small place was that cold shouldn’t have been a problem. A thick blanket laid on the side, you noted.
《 Very well. 》he then relaxed in his seat too but didn’t look any less regal. It was hard to keep one’s eyes off of him: he too was clad in black and gold, a wonderful pair of trousers, a shirt, a waist coat and a jacket on top. The trousers and shirt were decorated only at the edges. Most of the embroidered detail on the waist coat and some on the jacket. A heavier coat neatly folded by his side. The hours went by as you napped, stretched your legs and arms and adjusted again in your seat. Meanwhile he looked at you, looked outside and occasionally asked how much longer it would have taken. At a certain point during the travel you draped the heavy blanket on your shoulders, just to keep warmer.
You basked in the silence and calm, revising in your head again.
You woke up from another nap when you saw Lord Morpheus talk with the coachman, his voice too low to understand.
When he turned back towards you, he smiled, soft and small.
《 We are almost there. 》 he stated. And you never felt more awake. You started getting antsy in your spot adjusting your posture, fixing inexistent strands of hair, smoothing creases on the skirt of your dress.
He then reached for his watch pocket, producing a wonderfully decorated gold watch.
《 And we are right on time. 》 he commented.
Sooner than you would have liked the carriage stopped. After the coachman communicated our arrival, Lord Morpheus got up in the low roof and went to the small door opening it and getting out, waiting for you. You took a deep, shaky breath and went too. His hand firmly squeezed yours as you got out, balancing you.
When you lifted your gaze you were met with a masterpiece: the sky was dark already and the structure hosting the event huge, warm yellow light spilling from almost every window, the latter’s tall and decorated. The exterior was in light colors, reflecting the light beautifully. The path to the entrance was lined by trees, oil lamps illuminating the way. Bushes full of flower of many types lead the way, a pleasant perfume welcoming the guests.
Your mouth was left agape. And suddenly you felt like an impostor here. But just as you began to spiral, his hand rested on the small of your back, grounding you.
《 I would like to give you this before we enter. 》 he said, catching your attention. A simple, small ring was in his hand. He took you right hand and placed it on your fourth finger. The fit was perfect, thanks also to the gloves you were wearing.
《 And why is it, My Lord? 》 but you already knew the answer.
He stayed quiet at that, taking your arm in his, and began walking towards the palace. Many people were around you, chatting lively. You noticed beautiful gowns all around and yet no one was wearing black like you and your Lord.
《 You look so beautiful I’m almost jealous. – he whispered in your ear as you walked down the tree path – everyone will see you dressed up like you belong in a painting and yet you wear my colors. These emotions are really reassuring. 》 he confessed. He knew exactly what it meant to wear his color, you too, and you saw him stand a little taller, chin held up high. You blushed but also felt a wave of confidence run through you. And most of your worries dissipated once you were inside, the air warm and lively, music and chatting adding to the atmosphere of the party.
《 It’s beautiful… 》 you murmured, looking at the intricately decorated walls and ceilings, chandeliers hanging producing wonderful specs of light.
《 Perhaps, – he commented – but you look far more stunning. 》 he lowered his head, his breath fanning over your ear, making you shiver.
《 The same came be said for you My Lord. You said you would have to be careful not to lose me but I also will have to keep an eye on you, least some beautiful lady snatches you when I’m not looking. 》 you grumbled with a pout, your face feeling warm, a telltale sign you were red as a tomato.
He took your hand, a displeased look in his eyes, and kissed it.
《 As long as I have your eyes on me, I am more than satisfied, no matter the mean to it. 》 he said, looking into your eyes, and you felt yourself get redder than before. He was much bolder than when you were at the manor.
Soon enough someone, the host of this event welcomed you, giving you an itinerary of what you could do during the night. The majority of the structure had been dedicated to paintings, a part for refreshment and, whoever wanted to dance a ball room was waiting.
《 Where would you like to go first? 》 he asked, a hand on the small of your back.
《 Could we go to the refreshment? I’m starting to feel quite hungry. 》 you proposed.
《 Whatever you want, my lady. 》 your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked at him. He had this amused expression, a grin on his lips and you thought he looked even more handsome.
-
After eating different varieties of food, mostly those you remembered liking and also something new, with a your second glass of white wine you started your exploration in the wonderful palace, you ventured close to the ball room, music pouring out of it and filling the rest of the place creating an atmosphere that seemed to belong in a memory. The wine was also making you feel light, contributing to such ambience. Various groups of people were gathered, some in front of paintings, some in the rest of the ample rooms, commenting on painting or simply chatting and laughing. As you admired a painting you felt his hand slipping upper on your back coming to a stop at the edge of the bodice. You entered various rooms hosting many beautiful paintings: Böcklin, Friedrich, Millais, Caravaggio. And every single one was more stunning than the last.
《 What about this one? 》 you murmured. You took a liking in asking about the paintings and let Lord Morpheus explain them to you. He brought them to life, his story telling abilities incredible.
《 Would you like to tell me the title? 》 he asked glancing at you.
《 Wanderer above the sea fog. 1818, by Caspar-David Friedrich. 》 you said.
《 Mhm – he sounded pleased with your answer – apparently the subject is Friedrich himself. The subject portrayed like emphasizing the solitude of mankind. The fog wants the observer to look more into it, to try and see what is beyond what the eye can see. 》 and you were left fascinated. Books never put paintings in such a poetic light, just notions. You moved further, your dress trailing behind you and you just loved it. Being the only ones dressed in black made many head turn towards you, making you a bit nervous. But his presence calmed you.
《 And these? – you pointed at a series – Times Of Day, made between 1821 and 1822. Correct? 》
《 Indeed. This series shows us how nature is a physical manifestation of the human spirit. It also gives us a whole cycle, including growing, maturity and, at last withering and dying. 》he said solemnly. And then you moved forward again.
《 Sea Beach in the Fog, 1807. 》 you started.
《 The atmosphere is mysterious and gives the reading of humanity contemplating their insignificance compared to nature. At the same time the vessel, hidden a by the heavy fog, but still visible, tells us about how humanity leans to the infinite. 》 and this little game of yours continued for most paintings: you would say the title, he would tell you the story, you would admire the painting a bit more and move on. Then you noticed his attention being caught by something or rather someone.
《 I have to do a little thing, it won’t be long, can you wait for me here? 》 he whispered even if there was no need, you would have heard him just fine.
《 Yes, of course My Lord, I won’t venture far. 》 you chuckled, the wine making you feel fuzzier. He bowed, before going to do whatever he needed to, maybe he saw a friend and wanted to greet him quickly. Your eyes fixed again on a painting: Millais’s “Ophelia”.
《 Could you tell me the year of this painting too Miss? 》 a familiar voice said mostly from your side. A smile spread on your lips as the figure came to visibility in your peripheral view.
《 Mister Gadling, what a pleasure to see you once again. 》 you greeted. Like the gentleman he was, he guided your hand towards his bowed head, without giving it a kiss.
《 You are a sight for sore eyes. Beautiful does not even come close to describe your radiance tonight. 》 he dramatically announced but you knew he was sincere.
《 Well you too, kind sir. I hope you are leaving some of the ladies to the rest of the gentlemen’s present here tonight. 》 you said, dramatic laced in your playful tone. He beamed at your response. His eyes then fell to the necklace around your neck.
《 I see you wore the necklace. 》 he noted.
《 Yes. Thank you for such a kind gift. It is much appreciated. 》 you thanked, giving his a small bow too.
《 So, – he said turning towards the painting and you did the same – can you tell me the year of this painting? It seems to have escaped my mind. 》 he said, playful and definitely remembering the date.
《 1851–1852, kind sir. Inspired by Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. Truly a tragic story. 》 you said confident.
《 You impress me, my lady. It is indeed correct. 》 he laughed. Then a warm silence settled over you both.
《 Where is Morpheus? 》 he suddenly asked. Surprised he was with such friendly terms with your Lord, you answered him without missing a beat.
《 My Lord had something to –》 you started before feeling a hand slip around your waist, a presence behind you. On Mister Gadling face a look of pure mischief formed.
《 I’m right here, Hob. What do you require? 》 his velvety voice asked, bringing you closer to him, protectively.
《 Ah, my dear friend. I was just talking with this stunning lady, is she in your company? 》 you felt his hand tighten around your waist, coming to the front of your bodice to rest on your covered belly. Mister Gadling was obviously teasing his friend, the only couple wearing all black was more than enough to tell everyone you two were in each other’s company.
《 Yes. 》 he answered. You took a sip of your wine, the tension hanging between the two with you in the middle making you incredibly nervous and shy.
《 I’ll leave you two to more… exploring then. 》 he said, obviously implying something else.
《 Have a wonderful night, dear. 》 he said referring to you and bowing dramatically. A small chuckle escaped you as you too bowed and bid him a wonderful night. Then he was gone, your Lord hand still tight around you.
《 Are you mad, My Lord? 》you asked, teasing. To which he only remained silent. Then he moved, walking with you still in his arms. Soon the music was louder than before and before you could understand where you were going you found yourself in the dance room.
Waiting for the song to finish, you squirmed a bit in your place. Then as you looked around, you found Mister Gadling eyes. He give you a nod of acknowledgement. You acknowledged him too, a small bow of your head and the arm around you tightened.
He was teasing him and was so incredibly amusing you almost felt bad for your dear Lord. Almost.
Before you could think of how to tease him further you were in the center of the ball room. Your hand in his, an arm around your waist and your hand on his shoulder. You were closer than what was considered appropriate but you didn't really care.
And then you started dancing.
He spun your around expertly and you allowed yourself to be guided in a dizzying dance, you twirled and then he brought back to you.
He moved elegantly, precisely but his dance was not without feeling. In fact you felt your heart pound more for how he was holding you than for the dance itself. Your eyes stayed locked with his for almost the whole dance.
You saw the jealousy simmering behind them. And your heart skipping a beat at that. Miss Martha was so spot on with her observation. So you decided to play with such knowledge: you stepped closer too, moved your hand higher on his neck, brushing the edge of the collar and occasionally his skin. His hand slipper higher too, sometimes resting between my naked shoulder blades, there for a fleeting second and then back to an acceptable position. He squeezed your hand tighter occasionally. So you let yourself be guided more, melting into him. As the dance started to slow for the finale, your steps did too, your touches now more lingering.
His eyes occasionally left yours, a smug expression on his face before he looked back at you. You guessed he looked at Mister Gadling. The funny thing was he fell right into his trap. But here was the catch: with Lord Morpheus it was hard to tell if he actually fell into the trap of if he voluntarily walked in it. Seeing his reaction it seemed more like he let himself walk into it, even if his reaction amused his friend. He gave him a victory, not wanting to risk anything.
A surprised yelp left you as he let you fall back. When he brought you back up your breathing was fast, your heart pounding out of your chest as you took your breath. You were sure your cheeks looked red for the movement, maybe some strand of hair a little looser.
Then his face came closer to yours, and for a moment you froze thinking he would have kissed you. But he didn’t, he moved to the side and whispered in your ear
《 You look even more beautiful when a little disheveled. 》 then he pressed a light kiss right under your ear, making you close your eyes, a shaky breath leaving you. The hand still on his shoulder squeezed as pleasurable shivers went down your spine.
Just like he was there, he was gone, your hand still in his as he guided you to see some more paintings, the tension between you thick. You commented on them but not for long and honestly, more than looking at those you looked at each other, and you were surprised no one came to tell you to get away from the public by that point. People started to disperse more and more, most going to sleep.
《 Well my friend I bid you goodnight, to you and your lovely companion. 》 Mister Gadling said after a while of towing with you too. And then was gone. You explored the palace a little more before you also retired for the night.
The room you would stayed for the night was beautiful: a big canopy bed, enough to fit at least seven people laid against the wall that was next to a tall window. The room had light colors filling the space, the only really dark element in the room a neatly folded heavy blanket at the end of the bed. Your suitcase had been placed close to the closet, letting all that was inside in its place.
The beauty of this room was that it had a small but very welcoming resting area: a fireplace, a sofa, two other chairs and a table sat all grouped together. The rest of the room decorated in light yellows, light browns and gold.
On the adjacent wall were two doors: one to your room and one to Lord Morpheus’s one.
As you changed in your night gown, you noticed how the light colors, of the whole palace really, looked almost out of place when it was your Lord manor that was the exception. You smiled at that and finished changing.
Since sleep still was not clawing at you, you choose to lounge by the waiting area. You also took the light blue foulard to drape over your shoulder. Your hair undone and free from all the pins.
You closed the door behind you and when you raised your head a black, fluffy mass could be seen on the couch. You got closer, clutching your foulard tighter around you as you took a seat on the chair.
《 My Lord. 》 you greeted.
《 My lady, did you have an enjoyable night? 》 he whispered.
《 Yes, it was more than just nice. Thank you for letting me tow with you. 》 you relaxed in your seat, letting the warmth from the fireplace seep into you.
《 I’m glad. 》 he added. Then he got up and you looked at him, as he got closer to you.
《 Are you going to bed already? 》 you asked. He didn’t answer, extending his hand for you to take, which you did without hesitation.
《 Would you give me the honor of another dance with you? 》 he whispered again, even if it was loud and clear. You nodded and got up.
You assumed the same position as a few hours ago now, after moving to the more spacious and obstacle free part of the room: your hand in his, his hand around your waist and yours on his shoulder.
But it felt different this time, more intimate, a lot more than when you were in between strangers. Then he started moving, one step at a time, slowly. And you followed.
The steps were as earlier, and you felt your breath catch, knowing. Occasionally you would fix the light fabric around your shoulders. The hand behind your back was touching your skin, the low cut not leaving a lot of covered space. And where he touched your skin felt on fire.
You moved slower, more sensually, every touch lingering, now away from judging gazes. As you came to the end of the dance you braced yourself.
He tipped you back once again, but this time you felt his soft breath on your neck. You eyes widened as his other hand went to your back to support you and you squeezed his shoulders with both of them now free.
Small kisses were littered all over your neck, wandering even lower thanks to the foulard slipping off one of your shoulders, letting a big portion of your skin exposed to his ministrations. You let your head relax, falling even more as his lips made you feel dizzy, one of his hands keeping still while the other wandered upper, resting between your shoulder blades. Shaky breaths left your lips as he kissed closer to your ear, shivers running all over you.
《 I hope you had your fun playing with me along Mister Gadling. You seemed rather amused. 》 he reprimanded, and before you could answer he scraped his teeth over the sensitive flesh. You bit your lip, whatever smart remark dying in your throat. Then his lips wandered lower again, and you would have fell on the ground if he did not keep you up right, your knees buckling.
He then brought you back up, your head still dizzy. You looked up at him, cheeks red and hands trembling a bit on his shoulders where you were not squeezing as hard now.
His hands rested on your hips and waist, running up and down in a soothing motion.
《 I think I should bid you goodnight My Lord. 》 you whispered and went to your tip toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. You lingered there for a second, his hands squeezing your soft flesh.
When you retracted he looked at you so intensely you felt weak in the knees once more.
《 Very well then – he said – goodnight to you too. 》 he whispered, giving you the same kiss at the corner of your mouth.
He took your hand, giving it a kiss and didn’t let go until you were too far to keep holding it, you fingertips warming each other.
Then you were in your room. You went straight to your bed and went to sleep giddy and happy for the evening. Even if it felt longer, like a whole day. You turned in your bed for a bit, incredibly excited and eventually fell asleep.
-
The next morning you woke a bit confused by your surrounding but then you settled. Stretching, you remained laying down, eyes closed as you recalled last night events with fondness.
You don’t really know how long you stayed there, just breathing as if nothing has ever happened.
A knock on the door brought you back to reality and you allowed, hopefully loud enough, as you sat up.
《 Good morning, miss. Breakfast is served. 》 a sweet girl, younger than you greeted.
《 Thank you. 》 you thanked and got out of bed. Out of curiosity you opened the closet in the room to find a robe made of ruby silk waiting and a note that read this clothes were to the guest disposal.
And so you wore it. It was comfortable, and incredibly luxurious. The red becoming almost a wine color in the deeper folds. You twirled in it a little, liking the flare and how a good portion of the hem laid flat on the ground pooling at your feet.
Then you got out of your room, Lord Morpeus sitting in the chair facing his door, a cup of tea already in hand. Hearing the door opening he turned towards you, his eyes widening, his mouth slightly agape.
《 Good morning, My Lord. 》 you said confidently, walking to take a seat, basking in his attentions.
《 Good morning… 》 he said softly, still surprised by your attire.
《 Where did you get the robe? 》 he then asked, composing himself again. His eyes trailed over your figure slowly, as if memorizing every detail.
《 It was in the wardrobe, a note said it was at my disposal. Why? 》 you explained, taking a tea cup of your own sipping on it and looking at him. He gulped uncharacteristically, only adding
《 It looks good on you. 》 and his eyes moved to the fire. Yours did too, but not before reaching over for a biscuit. You felt your face flush a bit but didn’t want to give him such a victory, not after the way he looked at you.
《 Will you wear the black dress today again? 》 he asked after a while.
《 Yes? I didn’t really bring anything else with me. 》 you said, confused and hopefully you didn’t make a mistake.
《 That’s good. 》 he answered, still not looking at you, with a grin on his lips. Your face reddened suddenly when you looked at his lips, remembering once again last night.
After you were done with breakfast you both sat there quiet, enjoying the warmth of the fire a bit longer.
《 We can enjoy the garden for a bit before going back, or we can go see the paintings we haven’t seen yesterday night. What would you like to do? 》 he informed as he got up.
《 Is it possible to do both? I would like to spend a bit more time in the garden if it’s possible. 》 you requested.
《 Yes. I requested us lunch for today. Is it all right with you? 》 he asked.
《 Absolutely. 》 then you thought about outside and how the terrain could ruin the dress.
《 Actually could we see only the paintings? I wouldn’t want to ruin the drees with dirt. 》
《 Whatever you prefer. 》 he said, a small smile on his lips at your consideration.
Then you retired in your respective rooms, getting dressed for the day. You had to ask him help with those famous last buttons on your back and he obliged, his hand lingering.
You enjoyed the paintings you had yet to see and some you already saw yesterday in a different light. Then you ventured outside on a rocky path but it didn’t last more than a few minutes, as you were too scared to ruin the dress.
Mister Gadling came to have a chat before saying goodbye, expressing his wish to see you both again, possibly soon. He also proposed to stay together a few days to know each other better. You enthusiastically agreed, his presence a funny and very welcome one.
Soon lunch time came and you were back to your shared room, eating silently. Every bite melted in your mouth, flavorful dishes presented to you and yet you missed the simplicity in Taramis cooking.
Around three it was time for you to depart once again.
So you took your things, left your suitcase with a servant to take care and went back to the carriage, ready to go home.
As you sat in the carriage you looked outside one last time before the journey started again. Your heart leaped in your chest when Lord Morpheus sat beside you, not in front of you.
Soon enough you draped the blanket over you once again. Your hands were worrying with your gloved hands, nervous from how close you were, but you tried to stay composed, your back straight, your head trained on the view outside. You occasionally scooted closer to the wall of the carriage, putting some distance between you two, to no use.
《 Why are you scooting away from me? Have I offended you? 》 he pouted, glancing at you. Caught red handed, you lowered your head.
《 No, My Lord. It’s just… 》 you trailed off, not knowing how to finish your sentence.
《 Are you feeling shy about last night? – he asked close to your ear, making you shiver all over. His hand slipped slowly behind your back to bring you closer, – Do you need a replica? 》 he whispered making you gasp and become all red in the face. He gave you a small kiss, and when you did not push him away he kept going, every kiss more intentional. Soon both his hands were on your waist keeping you in place, your head leaning on the cabin wall. Your hands squeezed his shoulder, slowly trailing for his hair. His hand caught yours, a pout on those sweet lips.
《 These – he said referring to the gloves – for how beautiful they are, they have to go. 》 and he removed one, kissing your hot palm, trailing to your wrist, never once leaving your eyes.
He nuzzled a bit in your palm before his head fell on your shoulder.
《 Forgive me, I should have asked for your permission first… 》 he murmured almost ashamed. Maybe he saw something in your eyes you weren’t even certain was there. Or felt the tremble in your hands.
《 It’s all right. There is nothing to forgive. 》 you mumbled and relaxed completely, letting his warmth seep into you through the blanket.
And just like that, with his head on your shoulder and you naked hands on his you fell asleep.
When you woke back up, outside was dark, the pattering of soft and light rain accompanied you. Your head was resting on his chest and you stayed there.
《 Is it going to take much longer? 》 you asked, your voice heavy with sleep.
《 No, since it didn’t rain for most of the journey we managed to make it quite fast. Only another hour maybe. 》 he whispered. And you remained awake, cuddled up to his side. The air in the carriage was warm but sometimes shivers of cold ran down your spine so you kept close.
Soon the familiar path to the manor came to view and a small smile formed on your face. When the carriage came to a stop he got up, went out and waited for you. You abandoned the blanket on the seat and got out. You took your things and made fast work of getting inside, some raindrops already falling from the sky.
Once inside you exhaled in relief, the familiar surroundings and dark walls welcoming you back home.
《 I thank you for your wonderful company during the event. It was wonderful to have you – he dramatically announced – and nothing bad happened. You were amazing. 》 he concluded, softer now.
You nodded and he gave a peck on your cheek, making you blush.
《 I should be thanking you My Lord. It was a wonderful experience and I had a lot of fun. – you smiled sweetly. – would you like me to bring you some tea to warm up? 》 you proposed.
《 With pleasure, would you like to drink with me? 》 he asked and you just nodded.
You both went to your rooms, changing out of the fancy clothes. At least, you wore your uniform. Then you went to Lucienne to greet her, she gave you a quick hug and you chatted a bit whilst you waited for Taramis to prepare the tea.
《 The house felt empty without you, I missed you. For how Matthew and Taramis are great company, you have an energy they both lack. 》 she confessed, Matthew cawing accusingly at you both. You laughed at that.
《 How did it go? 》
《 It went well, I had a lot of fun. And the paintings were absolutely exquisite. 》 you said, recalling the beautiful art.
《 I’m happy you enjoyed yourself. Did you meet anyone? 》
《 Yes, Mister Gadling, he was very kind, and I had the possibility to thank him for a gift. 》 you said as you took the necklace out. And that also made you remember you had the ring to give your Lord back.
《 Please take a seat so we can talk. 》 she said, already walking to the chairs by the fireplace.
《 I would love to but I have to bring Lord Morpheus tea, and… – you trailed off, felling a flush color your cheeks. Lucienne looked at you, a grin already on her face – he requested I keep him company. 》 you murmured the last part. But she heard, loud and clear.
《 Oh, – she started, amused and happy – so you will drink tea with him. 》 she repeated.
《 Did something happen that I should be aware of? 》 she inquired. And you became even more red in the face.
《 I knew it! 》 she exclaimed.
《 No! It’s not what you think, whatever you are thinking… we just danced and- and then he, well- he almost kissed me… 》 you said as if realizing it just now. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, her arms crossed on her chest, knowing I was leaving out details.
《 It’s best if I go for the tea, Taramis is probably waiting for me… I’ll tell you, tomorrow. 》 you promised and rushed out.
《 Tomorrow then. 》 she said and you were gone.
You entered the kitchen, grabbed the tray and promised Taramis you would talk with her tomorrow. It was already pretty late anyways and the rain became a pouring that would keep you here for the night.
As you went upstairs you also grabbed the ring from your room and went to his study.
《 Come in. 》 a reply came. So you opened the door, placing the tray on the desk, cleaner than you had ever saw it. But also before it didn’t look that bad or messy. Placing the tray on the desk just like the first time you asked what he would have liked and prepared his before yours. And then sat down across from him. You also passed the ring to him and he looked at you confused before taking your right hand and slid it into place, his gaze telling you it was a gift.
《 You enjoyed the event correct? 》 he asked to make sure.
《 Yes, immensely. 》 you confirmed.
《 Would you like to come with me for future event of the same nature? 》 he was inviting you, his eyes so expectant and hopeful of a positive response. How could you say no?
《 Absolutely. Do you also plan to also be meeting with Mister Gadling, as he proposed? For a simple tea perhaps? 》 you asked just for curiosity. After all Mister Gadling seem like a very nice person and he was a friend of your Lord.
《 Probably, when the weather is also kinder. Mister Gadling lives pretty far away from here, wouldn’t want to discomfort him when the weather is so unpredictable. 》 he answered and you kept sipping on your tea silently.
The next months leading to December became a blur of events, dances and laughs. You started to spend a lot more time at the manor, Miss Martha sometimes coming to visit after Lord Morpheus allowed it. Lucienne became fond of her too, sometimes asking you if she would join us for a tea that day.
Lord Morpheus had two more gowns made for you, but you would have had more if you didn’t pester him about not making any at all. The black gown with the Gardenias was all you needed and more. But he insisted. So you had a gown made with navy blue silk, the cuffs of the large sleeves and shoulders lined with soft fur. The gown also had fitted black undersleeves to keep you warm. The skirt was more fitted but nevertheless beautiful and embroidered in shiny black beads and golden motifs. The shoulders were still dropped. A soft fur accompanied it to wrap around your naked neck and shoulders. White gloves finished the look.
The other one was black, simpler, embroidered in the same black shiny thread of the previous gown. The hem had beads trailing towards the waist as if forming a night sky. The gown looked like a piece of night had been taken from the sky and wrapped in a gown.
《 Do you design all these dresses? 》 you asked him once when you were heading to another event, navy blue silk draping beautifully on you.
《 Why? Do you not like them? 》
《 No, it’s just- it amazes me how you can create such wonderful gowns. 》 you confessed.
He just smiled, proud of his work and how good it looked on you.
And just like that you were coming closer and closer to Christmas, many of the girls staying at Miss Marthas already fled to their families. You weren’t sure where to spend the holidays since Miss Martha too was planning on leaving to see her nieces this year. And so you asked if you could stay at the manor.
《 Thank you for allowing me to stay here for so many days. 》 you thanked Lucienne.
《 It’s not like you have never stayed here, it’s all right. 》
《 Yes but I never stayed so long, only when the weather wouldn’t allow me back. So I think thanking you all is the least I can do. 》 you said, insistent.
《 As I said you do not have to worry. – she said before a smirk formed on her face – Lord Morpheus doesn’t seem at all disturbed by your presence, quite the opposite. 》 she teased and you still were not used to it.
After the first event you attended with him nothing more happened, still lingering gazes and teasing touches remained, stolen kisses when he would whisper something in your ear or on you hand when he could get them without gloves. And with these sweet affections your feelings for him grew slowly, making your heart race when he was near and giving you butterflies when his gaze met yours. And you adored this feeling as much as you adored him.
You went to town a few times to buy presents to all the inhabitants of the house, yes, Matthew too. For Lucienne you managed to get your hands on a very special edition of a certain book she mentioned reading once, before working here; Lord Morpheus also helped out. For Taramis you brought some varieties of tea when you were at events.
For your dear Lord, you brought a black intricately decorated pocket watch, the quadrant deep blue with gold written numbers. A red ruby in the middle. For sweet Matthew you brought a soft blanket where he could nuzzle in winter.
For the first time since you started working here you saw all the inhabitants of the manor reunited in front of the fire in the living room. You had all already had eaten in the dining room, and now you were sitting with some sweets in front of you, waiting for midnight to strike and open the presents. Taramis prepared some liquor based sweets and, being the delicious treat they were you ate one to many, feeling light but perfectly sober. You also felt very warmed up. Lucienne was reading, Taramis was mixing up some other concoction in the back, Matthew was sleeping and you and your Lord were simply admiring the fireplace, sometimes glancing at the snow falling silently outside. You sighed deeply, enjoying the blanket draped over your legs.
After hours spent in the simplicity of each other’s presence, the pendulum clock struck midnight. All of you stilled, waiting for it to finish its own ritual before everyone bid a Merry Christmas.
Trepidation for the present could be felt in the air as everyone kept their gifts close, ready to give them personally. You were the last one before Lord Morpheus to give out your gifts. All their faces lit up or smiles formed and you were relieved your presents were appreciated. Lord Morpheus took the watch you gifted him and placed in his pocket right away, the softest of smiles you have ever seen softening his features.
Then his turn came. He gave presents to everyone, you being the last one. As you opened the small box a beautiful black ribbon came into sight, along with a black and gold ring. You let out a surprised gasp, and when you raised your head to thank his lordship, you were met with a bouquet of asters, in the middle a red chrysanthemum. Your eyes watered as you took it with shaky hands. Then he sat back down, by your side. You looked at him, disbelief written all over your face.
《 Is this really what I think it is? 》 you whispered, referring to all the presents you had. He simply nodded, taking your hand and putting the ring on your index finger on your right hand for you, kissing it right after.
《 Yes dear. I want to court you, will you allow me to? 》 he whispered, but everyone could hear. The lack of reaction around you made you look around.
《 Did you know about this? 》 you asked, now crying your eyes out for the emotion.
《 Mhm. 》 was Lucienne’s answer, a big smile on her face along Taramis one. You turned back to your Lord, the man you slowly started to grow so fond of and whose affections made you inevitably fall for him.
《 My lady? – he called to you, soft voice reaching your ears – would you allow it then? 》 he asked again, maybe a bit anxious too.
《 Yes. 》 you said and then cried of happiness. Your arms went around his shoulders and you hugged him tight, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist.
A small round of applause erupted and even Matthew cawed at you two, maybe his own way of congratulating you.
《 I also have another surprise of you, later all right? 》 he whispered between the chaos. You nodded and hugged him a bit tighter before letting go.
You all spent your night celebrating such wonderful news before going to bed early in the morning.
-
《 Wow… 》 you whispered once the lid of the box on your bed had been lifted. You turned to look at Lord Morpheus standing beside you as you opened your other present.
《 You are spoiling me too much. 》 you admitted, lifting the fabric: a wonderful burgundy robe, way longer than your height presented itself to you.
《 Is it… 》 you asked recalling your first event together.
《 Yes, you looked just too stunning for me not to attempt to get a replica just for you – he confessed and you felt tears pool in your eyes again – and after the present I received from you I won’t feel any less. 》 he declared, patting his jacket softly where the watch rested, safely tucked in his pocket.
《 Asking to court me is more than enough of a gift to last me a lifetime. 》 you said. You placed it back down, drying your eyes.
《 I also have another present but you will get mad… 》 he laughed fondly, going to take out another box form a corner. You glared at him, your arms crossing on your chest.
《 How many times do I have to tell you I do not require any more dresses? I have more than enough. 》 you argued even if you felt a warm feeling spread in your chest. Still he came closer, handing you the box, and you took it with a huff, almost scared of what you would find inside.
A beautiful dress presented to you, a black one again and very elegant: from the neck to almost your chest delicate lace was stitched in a V-shape to a gathered fabric with other lace at the end. The sleeves had high shoulders and a fitted arm opening in a large and flowy forearm with, again, lace decorating the edge. The skirt was made of asymmetrical panel with, once again, lace at the end of each of them. You held your breath, gold and blue embroidery resembling brighter and more diffused stars.
《 You thought it would not have enough lace? 》 you asked but there was no bite. You absolutely loved the dress and the recurring motif of gold embroidering and stars, or flowers.
《 Is it not to your liking? 》 he whispered. Placing a hand on yours.
《 Do not even think for a second I don’t absolutely love every single dress you gift me, but they are expensive and I have more than enough. After all a good dress is one you can wear on more than one occasion. 》 you said turning towards him, still emotional to his request in courting you.
《 I want you to look stunning to our next event. 》
《 You always say that. Do I even look decent in these dresses? 》 you said, jokingly.
《 I cannot take my eyes off of you when you are wearing the dresses I gift you. And I have no desire in doing so. I gift you these to enhance what is already there. You would look splendid even in the plainest of dresses. 》 he said seriously, looking into your eyes.
You blushed and looked down at the dress.
《 When is the next event going to be? 》
《 Right after the festivities. 》 he announced and you couldn’t wait.
The holidays went by slowly, sitting at the fireplace, reading, and enjoying the snow. Sometimes taking short strolls outside to enjoy the harsh bite.
《 Will the journey be long? 》 you asked as you finished applying your lip tint, Lord Morpheus standing by the door waiting for you.
《 Hopefully not. Even in this weather I would say around an hour, maybe an hour and a half. 》 he said. You fixed your dress, grabbing the fur from the other dress and wrapping it over your shoulders. You looked at yourself in the mirror one last time, checking a couple of strands and the line of lips for any smudges.
Then you turned towards him, a smile stretching your lips.
《 Ready. 》 you said, getting closer to him. He looked at you, then your lips, his tongue wetting his own.
Oh… he seemed rather distracted. You would use that information for your advantage tonight. Lucky for him you brought that lip tint with you.
You walked past him and he followed. He was dressed in midnight as always, but his waistcoat was of the same blue color of the decorative threads on your own garment with additional gold decorations.
He looked absolutely stunning. As always.
As you entered the carriage, a strange feeling settled on your shoulders but you didn’t give much thought. You looked outside at the scenery slowly changing.
《 You seem distracted, My Lord. Is there something to matter? 》 you asked glancing at him from the corner of your eyes, feeling his gaze on you as you walked up to the grand house hosting this event.
《 No, not at all. I must admit, even if at my own disadvantage, that you lip tint is rather… distracting me. 》 he admitted carefully.
《 And why is that? 》 you asked innocently. He bent down a bit by your side, his own lips close to your ear, telling a secret he wanted only you to know.
《 Because they look incredibly kissable and it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to do so. 》 he admitted. You got used to his bold declarations and liked this side of him, along with the touches he regarded you with. He never made out of place comments or too bold ones, just appreciation and telling you how he felt about you.
《 Really? – you softly inquired – I have to admit I do not understand tho, I don’t think I have ever expressed to be against the idea. 》 you whispered too.
《 My lady, please, do not tease me. I want to do things right with you. 》he sighed, a small chuckle following it.
《 I know, but a stolen kiss never hurt anyone. 》 you tried to seduce him and when you saw him tense slightly, you smirked.
《 That is exactly the problem: I don’t think myself strong enough to stop after just one kiss. 》 he almost whimpered. You always looked stunning but tonight seemed different, was it maybe the fact that he asked to officially court you? Did you feel more secure about your feelings and his too?
You were a little different, more confident, more seductive but most of all, more radiant and beautiful.
And so another wonderful night began for the both of you. Your usual routine of refreshment, looking at paintings and dancing when possible, enjoying laugher and conversations. Talking with Mister Gadling when you could find him at events.
You were laughing at something Mister Gadling said before you felt a hand around your wrist, tightening is a too familiar way even if it happened only once.
Mister Gadling looked at you concerned, the color on your face draining completely and terror filling your eyes.
You tuned around, praying on whoever was listening for it to not be him. Everyone but him, please.
But your prayer were not answered and you met a face you hoped to never see again: your cousins one. The man who took everything away from you. You tugged away but his grip only tightened as both anger and relief went on his face.
《 Cousin… 》 you whispered.
《 So this is where you had been hiding huh? How many men did you bed to be able to wear such a dress or even stand here? 》 he mocked you and nausea hit your stomach. You wanted to scream, no one, no one. You had to work hard, because of him, you lost everything, because of him. And then you got lucky.
As you were about to say something he talked again, tears stinging your eyes.
《 I bet now you are just a whore, bedding whoever. Well, it’s your lucky day: there is a friend of mine who would like to meet you. He doesn’t really care if you had been bed already, as long as you can bear heir. 》 he snickered and started to pull you with him. You resisted, whimpers falling from your lips. No, no no no. No! Someone, anyone-
Your eyes met with a wall of darkness, you wrist finally free. Mister Gadling was beside you, his breath short as he stood defensively, a hand on your shoulder.
《 Lord Morpheus – you heard him greet him with respect in his voice – what a pleasure seeing you here. I’m sorry I was about to take this easy woman to a friend. You know, for business. 》 and then he laughed, but Lord Morpheus shoulders only tensed as he stood ever so tall, so elegant, so calm. But it was a scary kind of calm.
《 Mister Ronan, what a pleasure. May I ask you what do you have to do with this woman? 》
《 Oh nothing really. As I already stated, my Lord, she is for business. A dumb cousin who escaped her duty many years ago and now has to pay for it. She probably had been living in the streets, bedding whoever paid more to survive. I’m trying to give her a better possibility at life. It’s been four years now and she never tried to contact me for help or to fulfill her function. 》 he added. And from you peripheral view you saw Mister Gadling fists clench. Lord Morpheus turned towards you a confused and angry expression on his face: the former for you and the latter for that disgusting men you had the displeasure of being related to.
《 And pray tell me what is her function? 》 he pushed, ever so poised and polite.
《 To be wed and carry heirs. 》 he answered.
《 You said she had been working on the streets as a whore these past years right? 》 he asked and you flinched at the word.
《 I cannot be sure, but what else could a woman do to be in such a place with such a dress? Only a slut would, disgusting things, but they do know how to fuck no? 》 he pushed and you were finding it hard to breathe.
Lord Morpheus tuned towards you, urging you forward, and, for a moment, you thought he believed him and wanted to hand you to him, like an object.
But he only took your hand, the one with the ring he gifted you and kissed it making sure it could be seen, you raised you head and saw the arrogant smile on your cousin face crack.
《 The woman you just called a slut and disgusting thing – he insisted on that word like it profoundly disturbed him to hear someone refer to another human being, let alone a woman, no matter the social standing, as an object – is my fiancé. 》 your head whipped in his direction before looking back at your cousin: his face pale, cold sweat breaking on his forehead. Mister Gadling gasped behind you.
《 I would appreciate greatly if you could address her more respectfully. 》 he continued, keeping you close.
《 I’m truly sorry, I- I didn’t know. I- I thought- 》
《 You thought wrong to insult my lady in front of me. I suggest you disappear before I take action in my own hands. 》 he warned.
《 My lady, shall we? 》 he then referred to you, already turning to get somewhere else. You just nodded and went away on the balcony, Mister Gadling right after you. Once outside you almost collapsed if it wasn’t for your Lord keeping you up right. You quickly found a seat, your breath ragged and fast.
《 My dear, look at me, please. 》 came his voice above all the chaos on your head. He knelt in front of you, took your ring and gloves off doing the same with his to ground you. You looked at him, eyes full of tears.
《 Could you explain? Can you do it? 》 he asked softly. And so with a shaky sigh you spilled everything: your parents, their death and how he intervened, how you escaped and then the life in the city before him. For the whole time he traced slow circles over your hands.
《 Please don’t send me with him. 》 you sobbed. Lord Morpheus, ever so delicate kissed your hands.
《 Do not worry. I have no intention in doing so. And, if it can reassure you, I don’t believe a word he said. I believe you. 》 he said and you nodded, relaxing in the chair you were occupying.
《 I feel like I might faint. 》 you chuckled, feeling your head dizzy and your body light.
《 By the way, fiancé? You never uttered a word about it. 》 Mister Gadling accused.
《 Because it is not true. – a beat of silence – yet. 》 and then he explained how he just asked to court you.
《 I said out of necessity and emergency. It is not time yet. 》 he added. On Mister Gadling face a smirk promising trouble appeared.
《 I’ll go to grab something to drink and eat for the lady. Don’t do anything you lovebirds. 》 and then he was off.
You felt a pair of lips on your forehead, and your eyes remained blissfully closed. You tried to breathe slowly, relaxing in your seat waiting for Mister Gadling.
《 Did he come to call you? 》 you asked.
《 Yes, I’m sorry for not being there. 》
《 You were there, you came. That is way more than enough. Thank you. 》 you whispered.
Then Mister Gadling reappeared with something for you to drink and a bite to make the dizziness go away.
《 Do you want to go back home dear? 》 he asked once your breath wasn’t ragged. Your heart fluttered hearing him call you “dear”. It sounded incredibly good and sweet on his lips.
《 Honestly, no. I want him to watch me be happy and have all the money he already robbed me of, along with happiness. – you said, getting up. Determination burned in your gaze. – let’s give him a show. 》 you smiled. So you went back inside, not okay but refreshed and more lucid.
You decided to have fun even if in more than one occasion you felt his eyes on you but you didn’t let it bother you. You stayed closer to your Lord, laughing, smiling and enjoying the evening like you were supposed to.
《 Can I talk to you? In private. 》 came that disgusting voice. You turned around after a second, looking at him trying to not let fear overcome you. A hand came to steady you on your lower back.
《 I don’t understand – you said, mockingly innocent – what is there that you have to say that my future husband cannot hear? Do you intend to insult me once again? 》 you pushed, the knowledge of being untouchable under Lord Morpheus protection spurring you.
《 It is a matter of urgency, please. 》 he insisted.
《 Whatever you have to say, he can hear it too. Go on. 》 you smiled, finally a victory in your book against him.
《 Dear cousin, I want to apologize for how I behaved earlier, had I known- 》
《 See that is the problem – you interrupted – had you know, what exactly? That Lord Morpheus is my fiancé? As a direct relative do I not deserve respect from a family member that should have stayed by my side after my parents passed away? But you are only after money and if you think I’ll listen to your incredibly pathetic excuses you are sorely mistaken. We could have shared the fortune but you wanted to get your greedy hands on all the money you could to go and fuck whores whenever you please and use me as a breeding mare to keep living a life without responsibility and you come here, during a party, to talk to me about responsibility. You are truly dumber than I thought. 》 you spilled, venom laced in every word, every letter. Words you have kept inside for four years now and that you only dreamed to say to him.
Silence fell. You knew he was angry and could not say anything because Morpheus was there.
《 Pray tell me – you inquired, trying to keep your voice steady for the next words – did you at least bury my parents where they should have? Or did you not even grant that out of greed? 》 the hand on your lower back had now a firmer pressure.
《 They were buried where they had asked. 》 he hissed. His whole face was tight in anger. Then, you took a step forward, whispering to his face
《 How does it feel when they take away your voice? Your choice? Please indulge my curiosity. – you saw his hand twitch and chuckled at that. – do you want to hit me? Go on. It’s the last thing you will ever do in your life. 》 you said, serious now. No trace of amusement left on your face only burning fury.
He turned around and marched off. You shook your head before turning around to your Lord.
《 Did I say something wrong? 》 you asked and when no answer came you looked at him. His gaze observed you, hunger and pride filling it, his lips curved in an amused smirk.
《 Quite the opposite, my lady. You confronted him remarkably. 》 he complimented, and butterflies erupted in your stomach.
《 Thank you. – you shyly said – I think I’ll have to use the ladies restroom. 》 you whispered.
《 I’ll come with you. I don’t want you near him. I’ll stay at a safe distance. 》 and then you were off to the restroom. You refreshed yourself as best as you could, taking some deep breaths, reapplying the lip tint. When you got out of the restroom, you spotted a mass of black and bee-lined to him.
《 I’m back. 》 but his eyes went directly to your lips. He looked around before doing the unthinkable: he kissed you. A quick peck, some of the still fresh tint staining his already naturally pink lips.
《 I’m sorry, I could not help myself. 》 he apologized but it didn’t seem all that heartfelt.
You didn’t utter a word, couldn’t. Words would not form in your brain. Then he took your gloved hand and placed it on his forearm bringing you back to all the movement and party. You made a note to yourself wear that lip tint more often at the manor. And the party went on with a couple more interactions and disturbances from your cousin before it was time to go back to the manor.
It was pretty late when you entered and made quick and silent work to your rooms to sleep.
-
Your teasing went on, for a whole month you wore the infamous lip tint and robe he gifted you more occasionally. You could see his resolve slowly crumbling and you adored every little bit of it.
《 My Lord? I have the paper you requested. 》 you knocked, a stack of papers in your left hand as you knocked with the right one.
《 Come in. 》
And so you made your way inside, for a bit his eyes were focused on the desk as you waited for instructions on where to place the papers. When he lifted his head he squared you up and down. Then he got up, coming in front of you, taking the stack of papers into your hands and placing it aside.
《 Is this amusing for you? 》 he suddenly asked.
《 What is, My Lord? 》 you asked innocently.
《 All this – and then his hands were on your hips and he pushed you back, towards the desk. – torturing me, knowing very well I have to work. 》
《 Well sometimes breaks are necessary, don’t you think. 》 and with that you felt the desk behind you, a little gasp leaving your lips.
His eyes looked at them, fluttering visibly as he got closer, as if the promise of what is to come was already so sweet.
《 May I? 》 he asked. He looked like if you said no he would be physically hurt.
《 I don’t know… should I say yes, My Lord? 》 you teased and he almost whined.
《 Please… 》 he whispered, and got a little closer. You let a beat of silence pass before giving a quick peck on his lips. He sighed when you pulled away, but only a second later he was chasing you, his kiss more intentional.
His hands stroked your hips, caressing and squeezing, your hands on his shoulders. Slowly one of his hands traveled up your spine making you shiver. Then it disappeared only to feel his thumb on your lower lip, parting it after he broke the kiss.
《 This lip tint of yours is thoroughly distracting… 》 he murmured before his tongue licked your lower lip, asking for permission. You simply nodded and he didn’t waste a second. You felt hot all over, your hands grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, earning a deep rumble from his chest. Your body was leaning slightly back, giving him power. And you loved it.
After a long while you broke the kiss, looking to the side on the ground, your breath heavy, your face red. Your legs were not stable, and you felt in a way you never had before.
His hand gently turned your head towards him, going for another kiss. You obliged with a whine but had to pull away soon after.
《 Wait… wait… 》 you pleaded, feeling overwhelmed. You took deep breaths, your forehead now resting on his shoulder. Your hands slid to his chest, feeling the fast heartbeat underneath. He kissed the side of your head, making you look back at him. He looked so good with his hair disheveled, his cheeks pink and his lips smudged with your lip tint.
《 I’m sorry. I didn’t want to exaggerate. 》 he said caressing the side of your face.
《 I’s okay, it was - I liked it… 》 you mumbled. He gave you another light peck on your lips before pushing away, a smile on his stained lips. Something about him like this made you feel a warmth low in your belly.
《 Would you like to drink some tea with me? 》 he then asked, already pouring two cups to which he added honey. You just smiled and sat down. You talked a bit, but the tension in the air could still be felt. When you were finished you grabbed all that was unnecessary and went to the door to go, but not before he gave you another sweet kiss.
After that, kisses and caresses were much more present. Sometimes it would take you a little longer to part from each other but there was always sweetness in the way he touched you. Kindness and desire mingled, deeply intertwined.
-
And time passed again, a whole year, the cold bite of winter slowly giving away to the freshness of spring. Flowers started to bloom delicately, and your dear Lord kept showering you with gifts: jewelry, dresses, flower of any type, books. And with all that came the kindness in his eyes, the admiration in his words and the love in every touch.
Another event came, new paintings to be seen and new people to laugh with. The weather was kinder now, giving a lighter breeze during the night when light still shined, the days getting longer slowly.
You were admiring the garden this time, just outside from where there were paintings hanging for the event. When you turned around to look for your Lord to ask him if he knew interesting stories about it, he always thread you a story and never failed to amaze you, he was kneeling, a soft smile hatched on his face.
Your hands went to your mouth, now open with a surprised gasp. Tears already formed in your eyes.
《 I know it hasn’t been too long, and that I haven’t courted you long enough, but I fell in love with your soul, the beauty in your eyes, your kind smile. I want to court you still, for the rest of my life. I want to love you for as long as I breathe. Will you marry me? 》 he asked, nervousness in the way he was a bit rigid.
《 Yes… yes. – you said and started crying. – I too fell in love with your soul, my Lord. 》 you declared and he gave you a small kiss before hugging you tight. And you too held him, tight and for a long time as you cried tears of happiness. When you parted he looked at you with his eyes glossed, his cold eyes looking down at you with warmth, love, admiration, a promise to keep you safe forever. You caressed one of his cheeks and he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. Then he took your hand, placing the ring on your finger. You looked at it for only a second before looking at him your hand going back to caress his face, looking into his eyes.
After a bit you went back inside, eyes still red. Hob came up to the both of you, his eyes expecting an answer from his old friend.
You looked at Morpheus and raised you hand, showing him the ring. He absolutely beamed, congratulating and hugging the both of you.
The marriage came months later, Christmas close once again. It was cold but it honored how you two met: during a cold night, a storm raging and a small flame born for it.
-
《 Bernadette! Ephraim! Don’t go too far! 》 you called you daughter of five and son of eight, sitting up better on the blanket you laid on the soft green grass. Two wonderful babies, who looked like two versions of you: your son looked like you but had Morpheus’s blue eyes. Your daughter looked like him but had your smile, as your husband loved to say.
《 Don’t push yourself, my love. 》 he murmured as he laid beside you, taking your hand and making you lay back down with him, giving you a sweet kiss right after. You smiled and enjoyed the shade of the familiar tree where you climbed since you were a child.
It’s been three years since you had the property back. Your cousin drowned slowly in debt and affairs he paid costly, only to find himself with nothing on him. You took the opportunity to take back all the stolen property from him and you made it, adding to his list theft of property, since you were the legitimate heir.
Your kids rushed back to you hugging you and you laughed happy. You had your house, your two wonderful stars and you mysterious Lord.
You had everything in the world and could not ask for anything more.
Summary: It's not easy to piss of an Endless or a Celestial, but Azazel manages to do both at the same time. When Dream dismisses him, there's tension the remains in the room. Luckily, the Queen of The Dreaming knows how to blow some steam off.
Warnings/ Tags: Established Relationship. Fellatio. Cock Warming
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✦ Chapter 14 — A Battle of Wills✦
They’re late.
Nuala of Faerie knew she shouldn’t have listened to Cluracan, allowing him to delay their journey just so they could ‘cut to the party’. This was how Nuala found herself peeking at the Lady of The Dreaming from the corner of her eyes, searching for a face underneath that deep hood.
Nuala makes the mistakes of meeting your eyes . . . or . . . at least she thinks those are your eyes that stare into her very soul. It’s difficult to tell when that cloth blinds your vision. Nuala gazes into the eyes of the very stars themselves, and the stars stare back at her, at all of them.
You are . . .
It’s impossible to even try.
There are no words Nuala could find to describe you—none at all.
There’s this moment where you place a hand on Lord Morephus’ arm, and such a small movement catches her eye. Everything about you differs from Titania. You are pure starlight, something that her own queen could never fully replicate, no matter how much she tried. Looking at you now, Nuala knows that her queen tried then failed.
Nuala finds the courage to open her mouth. “We were charged to neither eat nor sleep before delivering you this message from our king and queen.”
Lord Morepheus allows her to deliver the message.
It’s pure starlight that watches her carefully. Every twitch. Every flicker.
“There are many visitors. They want many things.” Lord Morepheus returns the hold on his arm, placing his hand right above your own. Nuala decides to study the floor when his thumb brushes across the back of your hand. “When I have spoken with all of them, I will make my decision.”
Nuala frowns a little. “But my lord—”
“Do not make us repeat ourselves.” You say those words with such a gentleness, but it’s as scorching as the light that comes from the stars themselves. “We have given you a courtesy that is not deserved.”
“You have delivered your message, and hear my response,” Lord Morpheus says, squeezing your hand. “Your obligation is fulfilled.”
Nuala . . . Well, Nuala tenses just a little bit more after that. There’s something automatic about the way Cluracan bumps into her, prompting her to get him drunk. Perhaps, it wasn’t too bad that her brother accompanied her to The Dreaming.
There’s something soothing about the way your fingers brush across Griffin, allowing those smooth feathers to tickle you.
Griffin leans into your touch as if he was a pet, and not one of the Gatekeepers that keep The Dreaming’s doors protected. It’s all too convenient to forget to mention this fact, scratching underneath his chin instead.
The breeze outside the castle chills you, painfully so, but the Gatekeepers bundle around you just a little closer when another shiver runs up your spine, and settles deep into your bones.
There were duties that needed to be fulfilled, guests that needed your attention, for you are Queen of The Dreaming.
Instead, you’re hiding outside the castle, the Gatekeepers bundle around you like kittens. Once in a while, it’s good to spend time with those outside The Dreaming’s inner court.
“Thank you for guarding the entrance to our home.” You brush a hand against Pegasus, stroking the silky hairs on his mane. There’s something simple about the way you press your forehead to him, connecting yourself to such a loyal subject. “All of you—Thank you.”
Wyvern nudges at your leg, then bravely drops his chin on your lap. It takes a puff of his breath for you to comply with his silent request, and stroke the scales around his face. “Do not thank us, my lady.”
“It is merely our duty,” Griffin says. “There’s no need to thank us.”
There’s this moment where Pegasus leans even closer towards you, folding his legs closer to his body. It’s simple to rest your back on him, and what a life you’re leading.
There aren’t many who can use Dream of The Endless’ Gatekeeper as a backrest.
“Just because it is your duty, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be thanked,” you say, laughing a little. “Your queen is thanking you, yet you dare to refuse it.”
Pegasus lowers his head further, followed by Wyvern and Griffin. “Our deepest apologies, my lady.”
It’s a laugh that comes out of your lips. “My dutiful Gatekeepers,” you say, staring up into The Dreaming’s night sky. “Just accept my gratitude already.”
The doors to the castle creak open.
You don’t have to look to know who steps into The Dreaming’s night. The brush of dreams and nightmares across your skin tell you everything you already need to know.
There’s something simple in the way you lean into Dream when he settles next to you, pressing a small kiss on his shoulder as you’re huddled between the Gatekeepers of The Dreaming.
For a moment, you could almost believe that all could be right again, for the breeze of The Dreaming lulls you with contentment.
Dream brushes a thumb over your eyes. “It’s just me,” he says, voice so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Let me see you.”
You flutter your eyes open, allowing the stars in your eyes to shine as bright as they naturally are. Few could handle the weight of your gaze, and only one welcomes it this lovingly.
Dream presses a kiss on the crease of your eye. “So, this is where you went.”
There’s this moment where you glance into his eyes, and the whole weight of dreams and nightmares descend into the stars in your gaze.
It’s just as beautiful as ever.
The darkness found within his eyes could merge with the light found in yours until you and Dream could become a living universe together—always together.
It’s time like this where you remember to fall in love again and again and again.
“Where else would I be,” you say, voice as soft as his, “if not here?”
“Tonight . . . You have been the only one to ask me something simple.” Dream presses a kiss between your fingers, brushing his lips over your rings. “By my side.”
Those three simple words pull a small laugh from your lips, even if there was nothing truly simple about them.
Dream of The Endless.
Lord Morpheus.
King of The Dreaming.
So many titles, each bearing its own weight, each known throughout the universe for his unyielding solitude.
Yet here is your husband, telling you that there’s space for you in his life, that a being who was never meant to find a home can rest within the wall he’s created.
You press a kiss on the edge of his lips, letting it linger far longer than necessary. “Your guests—"
“Our.”
“Our guests wish to speak to you—not me.” You say the words with a quiet laugh, exhaling into his arm. “It isn’t I who holds the key they are so desperate for, and I grew tired of them asking for it.”
“Our guests have retired to their chambers,” Dream says. “Cain and Abel were disappointed you missed their show.”
“Oh dear,” you say, laughing into that small space that connects his shoulder and neck. “Once Abel has been brought to life once more, I will ask them to perform just for me.”
“Will I be invited?” Dream says, whispering the words across your temple. Each brush of his lips lulls you deeper into him. “Or do you dare to keep your husband away from your plans?”
The opportunity to answer vanishes the moment Dream presses a finger underneath your chin, brushing your skin with his thumbs, and pulls you into a kiss that tastes like him, like dreams and nightmares.
It tastes like a kiss that forgets all titles, all statuses, until you are simply a wife parting your lips for your husband.
It’s a comfortable silence that rises, broken only by the breaths of the Gatekeepers.
Wyvern flutters his eyes to a close when you scratch across his scales. Dream says that the Gatekeepers were not pets, but looking at them now, you would never guess.
A quiet laugh spills out of you when Dream presses a tense hand across Griffin, unsure how to stroke a beast that was not made to be petted.
There’s this moment that Dream takes, looking to the false stars above, one created by his hand rather than yours. It’s a little insulting to see his gaze linger above as if the real one wasn’t burrowing into his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Neither do I, but know that I have absolute faith in the decisions you make.” You admit the words softly. Things would be so much easier if you had all the answers. “Shall I kill them all for you instead?”
“You are displeased by our guests, then.”
The stars in your eyes blaze. “They dared to step into our home, demanding things from you.”
Dream presses a kiss on your eyelids, tickling it a little with the brush of his lips. “What if I make a mistake?” he says, a little soft. “It would not be the first time.”
“An Endless is above many, but even they cannot be above consequences,” you say, pushing on his lips to force even the smallest smile. “When a star explodes and dies, a new one takes its place, but that explosion will be felt anyway.”
Dream snatches your wrists, pulling it away from his lips to frown. “You are being vague, my queen.”
“All actions have their consequences, my king.” You connect your forehead with his, and steal a quick kiss from his lips. There’s something simple about the way you cheekily lean away as he presses to deepen the kiss. “You will find an answer, and whether it is the correct one or not, there will be consequences. But I will stand by whatever you decide, whatever will happen.”
“Come with me, then,” he says, voice still impossibly soft, still impossibly like a sweet dream. “Lord Azazel wishes for an audience, and I would like you with me.”
The heat of the very stars themselves sizzles underneath your skin, digging its cruel claws into you.
It’s sweat that beads across your skin, and it clashes with the chilling air of The Dreaming, brought by the furry of the Dream Lord. What a perfect pair the two of you make.
There’s this part of you that begs for calmness, for if you allow the heat to drown you in its waves, the consequences will only lead to death.
Yet every light in this room surges then dampens in repeated cycles, as if you aren’t sure whether to drown or survive. The throne room throbs with the weight of your power anyway.
A surge of heat.
A surge of light.
A surge of jealousy comes when Dream’s voice hitches the moment that woman’s name leaves his lips.
Nada.
You keep hearing that woman’s name, even when you’ve tried so hard to avoid it. How absolutely annoying.
Azazel finds the audacity to glance at your thrones, watching the way you’ve seated yourself next to Dream of the Endless.
The whispers . . . The criticism . . . There was nothing new about it, and you’ve never put much thought about it, for it was Dream of the Endless himself who sculpted your throne next to his.
The full weight of a Celestial’s gaze settles on Azazel. There’s something quite impressive in the way he refuses to be frightened into submission.
“Tomorrow you will make your announcement, and give me the key,” Azazel says. “Then I will quit this place, and leave you with your mistress. Agreed?”
It’s all so . . . annoying.
There’s something automatic about the way your smile softens at the edges, even as your teeth bare out. “You would dare to hold an innocent woman hostage, and in my presence as well.”
You reach across that tiny, tiny, gap that separates your thrones, and brush the edge of your hand across Dream.
Despite the overhead heat that burns your skin, there’s still enough rationality left in you to notice the way he trembles with anger. There’s a part of you that wonders who he trembles for, but you are afraid of the answer.
Dream closes that tiny, tiny, gap that separates you from him, and places your hand into his hold. It didn’t seem to matter that Azazel glances at it for the briefest of moments, for Dream never let go of you.
“That will be up to your husband.” Azazel mocks a low bow. “Unless of course—“
“Do not presume that your status as a guest in The Dreaming will protect you if you dare to insult my wife.” Dream says the words softly, even as it contradicts the hardness of his gaze and the trembling in his hands. “I will take the matter under consideration.”
“Under consideration?”
“Yes.”
“You want the woman, don’t you?” Azazel stomps up the stairs. “You went to Hell for her. You are risking the displeasure of The Dreaming’s beloved queen. Surely, you’ll trade her for a key. Cost you nothing. You don’t even want—”
“You will hear my decision tomorrow.” Dream waves a hand. “Now, go.”
There’s this moment where Azazel hardens his gaze, but he dissolves into sand anyway, leaving you with Dream.
There’s a suffocating silence that rises into the air, lacking the comfort that’s supposed to be there, for your egos clash and blaze against each other.
It seems both the king and queen of The Dreaming are more than displeased.
You could only ignore this problem for so long, and everyone is determined to spit it at your face.
Why?
Why weren’t you allowed to live in peace?
In the end, it’s Dream who breaks the tension.
There’s softness in the way he brings your hand to his face, pressing it against his cheek. He refuses to yield his hold around your hand, even when you try to pull it away.
It’s useless to try to fight him when he’s being like this, and you tire of fighting with him.
You brush a thumb across his cheek, and stand to step between his legs. It's simple to push his thighs apart, making room for yourself. You take Hell’s key from him, smiling when Dream allows it to slip between his fingers and into yours.
“How careless of you to allow me to take it so easily.” You press the tip against his chin, angling his head until he’s looking at you. “I could make a run with this in my possession.”
Dream settles his hands on your waist, pulling you a step deeper between his legs. “You would dare to run from me?” he says, brushing a thumb across. “By all means, try to do so, but know that I will chase after you should you leave me.”
It’s a laugh that spills out, and as tempting as that sounds, you tuck the key inside his coat instead. You lean closer enough to meet his eyes, breath mixing with his. “You are tense, my king.”
Dream clenches his jaw. “I am not.”
“What a lie, my king.” You kneel between his legs. “You are in a mood.”
“I am not.”
“How you offend me with your lies,” you say, mumbling the words into his leg. “But I too am in a mood.”
There’s this moment where the weight of the world, the weight of the dreamers and the universe, comes to a standstill.
It’s just you.
It’s just Dream.
It’s just you and Dream, . . . and the opening doors at the end of the hallway. Footsteps echo around the walls, disrupting the stillness that was only beginning to settle.
There’s time to jump away, to pretend or hide, but you stay kneeled between Dream’s legs anyway.
Lucienne looks up, trailing her eyes from the stairs and into the thrones of her monarchs. “Oh! I . . . will return—”
“Speak your piece, Lucienne. I trust you would not have dared to come here if it wasn’t important.” You press your chin onto Dream’s thighs, resting on him a little. “But make it quick, lest I run out of patience, and I am running out of it.”
Lucienne takes a moment to consider, but a deep sigh escapes her anyway. “. . . Very well.”
Lucienne speaks of concerns that you don’t bother yourself with.
There’s something simple about the way you trace the seams on Dream’s pants, skirting around the outside, never fully touching the inside of his thighs.
You press your lips onto his leg, giving it a small kiss before opening your mouth just enough for your teeth to gnaw on him.
It’s quite insulting that Dream keeps his gaze on Lucienne, denying you a gaze that rightfully belongs to you. There’s that same neutral expression on him when you bite down just a little harder, enough to leave a mark.
Lucienne receives the answers to her problem, and turns to walk away.
There’s something about the way you glance back at her from the corner of your eye. “Lucienne.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Should another problem arise,” you say, smiling a little, “I trust that you are capable enough to handle it on your own, if only for a while.”
“Of course,” she says. “I will . . . be in the library.”
“You may leave.” You lean into Dream, fluttering your eyes to a close. “A little faster than that if it’s all the same to you.”
Another deep, deep, sigh escapes Lucienne, but the pace of her footsteps quickens anyway. The entrance to the throne hall disappears the moment the doors close.
Finally.
The gaze that has always rightfully belonged to you descends on your presence, and until you are kicked out or replaced, the dreams and nightmares swirling in his eyes still belong to you.
Dream stays silent, a quiet expression on his face, even as your fingers trace the inside of his thigh, and pulls his cock free.
It remains soft between your fingers.
“Do not glance at me like that,” he says, an annoying smile on his lips. “I am content where I am.”
“My king, does the sight of me on my knees no longer excite you?” You follow the path of one of his veins, tracing it with the tips of your fingers. “What a shame, but if I must . . . .”
The tip of your tongue wets your lips. It’s an absentminded action, but your tongue sticks out a little as you take his soft cock into your mouth. The taste of him immediately floods you, tingling every cell that presses against him.
There’s something quite annoying about the way drool pools between the spaces of your mouth, tracing a wet line around your lips before it drops below.
Still, you do not move.
You stay on your knees, tucked between Dream’s legs with an open mouth and a soft cock.
It’s simple to take him deeper into you, swallowing him until the tip pushes against the back of your throat. It’s less simple to kill the gag that threatens to spill out, but you do so anyway.
It’s quite difficult to tell just how long you stay like this, but your jaw begins to ache, and those small drips of drool slipping down your chin have formed a puddle now.
Dream tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are warmer than usual, my queen.”
You flutter your eyes at him instead, and widen your lips into a smile.
A twitch.
That is the response you receive. You reward Dream with that small lick from your tongue, brushing underneath him. The taste of him fills you even more, and it’s one you’re entirely familiar with.
The more you think about it—the more you sit here between his legs, mouth stuffed with his cock—the more you realize that only a short amount of time has passed since Dream remodeled that castle.
You would like it very much if you could desecrate every room in this castle again, letting him take you against every surface.
Let it be that every time he walks into the room, the memory of your bodies will fill his mind.
This current face of yours has always been good when it came to matters like patience, but even it had its limits.
You swallow around his tip, sucking him deeper down your throat until he hardens inside your mouth.
There’s something exhilarating about the way he expands, the spaces between your mouth disappearing as he takes them from you with just his cock.
It’s simple to breathe through your nose, and still around his erection. There’s a battle of pride and ego taking place, and if Dream wants to find release, then he would have to take it for himself.
“I refuse to make it easy for you.” Dream reaches down to press on your lips with his thumb, swiping away that small line of drool. “If it’s my pleasure you wish for, then you will have to give me a reason to take it. Why should I fuck myself into your mouth?”
Booo.
How unfair.
You laugh around him instead, letting the vibrations brush against him.
Dream breathes through his nose when you swallow around the tip of his cock, but you don’t go any further than that. It would be simple to stay kneeled between his legs, mouth full of his cock, and wait.
You were willing to wait until the end of time himself.
A battle of wills.
A battle of egos.
A battle to see who would break from the pleasure first, and it’s his cock that’s snugged inside your mouth.
That is until . . .
Dream says your name.
The way your name spills out of his mouth is different from the way he said that woman’s name. Yours leaves his lips much easier, much softer, much more like a prayer rather than a name. There’s familiarity. There’s reverence. There’s everything in the way it tumbles out of his lips and into your ears.
It’s difficult to remember what happens next, for you are lost in the buzz of your actions. You lose this battle of wills and ego.
There’s something automatic about the way you tighten your lips around his cock, suckling from him to milk every drip of come he’s capable of giving you, and then perhaps a little more after that.
You fill King of Dream and Nightmares into your mouth, tasting and licking until only your name spills out of his lips, until he cannot think of anything else beside you and only you.
Dream comes inside your mouth, gripping your hair to still you.
It does not work.
You are too lost in your own pleasure.
What a shame, really. You wanted your king to take his pleasure from you, to use you to fulfill whatever desire that festers within him, but here you are, still on your knees as you are lost in that warm bitter taste of his come, lost in the way the simple brush of his cock against your lips pulls the most intoxicating buzz.
And you do not stop, not until you’re taking him across every surface of this room. Not even the forming bruises on your knees could have stopped the way you rode him across the stairs.
One room desecrated.
Only a thousand more rooms to go.
A/N: I think the funniest thing I’ve ever decided about these two is how they both would just rather pleasure each other rather than themselves. Their egos and their pride clash when they’re having sex, and it’s just two non-human beings clashing whenever they’re horny. Dream and Reader would much rather the other feels good.
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