In grade school we learned the normal way to do multiplication one day and then the lattice way the next, except I was sick the day we learned the normal way and they never went back and reviewed it and neither did I and so to this day I only know how to use the lattice method
Yeah it took me a while to figure it out, but I DID! So for me and you and everyone else going “wait wtf just happened????” I present a more step by step breakdown!
So you start with a grid with as many squares as needed to write one number across the top and one number down the side. And draw these diagonal lines through them. Yes you should extend them out the side.
THEN you basically multiply the numbers that match with each square, put the tens digit in the top triangle and the ones digit in the bottom triangle. Like so:
so once you’ve done that, you start adding up the numbers in the DIAGONAL column/row thingies from the bottom right up to the top left, like so:
You only want one digit (tho I assume if the very top/last row somehow gets 2 digits that’s ok, but ONLY in that position) and you’ll carry over to the next column, like if you were adding normally.
Then you start at the top left and just take all the numbers going down and around and put them together!
It does take up a lot more space and has a few more steps than the more traditional long multiplication, I think, but for people who struggle with that I think this would be a handy tool!
Here’s a screenshot of the more traditional style to compare:
I hope this helps! I had to figure it out on my own bc I was never taught this either. :)
Pairing: Morpheus x wife!reader
Read the previous chapter: Prologue — A Century of Quiet Fire
Summary: A strange forgetfulness begins to unravel your memories — first softly, then with terrifying precision. Even Morpheus feels the empty spaces where your dreams should be. As the Dreaming flickers and reality stutters, he does everything to anchor you: from quiet mornings with imperfect coffee to guiding you through the fragments of your own mind. But when a forbidden glow rises on the horizon, one truth becomes clear: something is stealing your memories…
CW/TW: memory loss, amnesia, identity erosion, dissociation, mind manipulation, psychological distress, fear response, emotional instability, marital angst, loss of self
Note: This is a Bound in Eternity - Part 2 series.
The first time it happens, you wake with the sense that something essential has slipped through your fingers while you slept. Not a passing thought, not a blurred detail — but something structural, something that should sit at the center of you like a load-bearing beam. You lie still in the vast bed of the palace, sheets warm against your skin, listening to the soft, familiar exhale of the Dreaming around you. Everything looks exactly as it should. Starlight pools in the corners of the room. The curtains breathe with a wind that doesn’t exist. The scent of distant gardens — roses and rain — threads through the air like memory.
And yet, you feel misaligned, as though one of your internal stars has shifted half an inch to the left.
You close your eyes again. Behind your eyelids, faint shapes drift: a pale field washed in morning mist, grass brushing your calves, a sky the color of first light. Someone calls your name from far beyond the haze — not the one you bear in this realm, but the other one, the one you buried a century ago. You reach for the voice. You try to feel how it used to settle in your chest, warm and anchoring and human.
But the harder you reach, the further it slides until all that’s left is a hollow ache beneath your ribs, the shape of something missing.
You inhale sharply.
Open your eyes.
Morpheus sits beside your bed.
He is close enough that if you move your hand an inch, your fingers will brush his coat. Shadows cling to him like a second skin, curling around his shoulders and trailing to his boots. But his gaze — clear, sharp, unblinking — is fixed entirely on you. There is no mistaking the tension there; even before he speaks, you feel it in the air, in the way the Dreaming holds still around his body like a creature waiting for its master’s command.
“You did not dream,” he says quietly.
Your throat feels dry, scraped raw. “I… thought I did.”
His head tilts, dark hair slipping along his cheekbone with liquid grace. “You did not enter any dream. Not mine, not the Dreaming’s.” A faint, controlled pause. “You flickered.”
The word sounds wrong in his voice. Too small for the dread it carries.
“Flickered,” you repeat. “Like a— glitch?”
He doesn’t smile. Not even the ghost of the reluctant smirk you’ve learned to pry out of him after a hundred years of marriage. Instead, his expression darkens, a single fracture forming beneath the porcelain of his composure.
“For a moment,” he says, “you were nowhere.”
For the briefest heartbeat, the shadows around him convulse — sharp, feral, responding to a fear he refuses to voice.
The starlight in the room dims as though something ancient stirs at the edges of his control.
When he speaks again, his voice is steady, but the darkness trembling beneath it is unmistakable.
He lifts a hand toward your face — not hesitant, but careful, as though touching a wound only he can see. His fingers brush your temple, cool and steady, and the familiar weight of him settles against your mind. You’ve felt him do this countless times: when he guides you through a dream, when he shares one of his own memories with you, when he reads the shape of your thoughts like a beloved text.
But this time, the touch is different. Urgent. Searching.
“Tell me what you remember,” he murmurs.
You try. You try to describe the mist, the field, the voice calling the name you no longer claim. But as soon as you open your mouth, the memory disintegrates. The voice slips away. The field dissolves. You are left holding only the outline of something that was undeniably there and now is undeniably not.
“It was there,” you whisper. “It was real. And now it’s—”
“Gone,” he finishes softly.
His hand falls from your temple as though struck. His eyes stay fixed on your face, but there is something in them that makes your stomach tighten — a deep, sharp fear you’ve rarely seen in him, even in the worst nights of the Dreaming.
“Get up,” he says.
You obey.
He leads you through the corridors and out to a balcony overlooking the realm. The sky hangs in suspended twilight — not deciding whether to be night or day, as though waiting for you to choose. He turns toward you, raising a hand again.
“May I look?”
A request. Always a request. Even now, even after a century of marriage, he does not enter your mind without permission.
You nod.
His fingers brush your temple again. You brace yourself for the cold drift of his presence through your thoughts, but what he finds — what you both feel — is worse than absence. Worse than forgetting.
A clean, brutal cut where something vital should be.
You flinch. He flinches with you.
When he withdraws, he is deathly still.
“What did you see?” you ask, voice trembling.
“I did not see,” he says. “There is no blur. No fragmentation. No distortion.” His eyes narrow, voice dropping to something distant and lethal. “Something was removed. Torn cleanly from your mind.”
Ice crawls down your spine. “You mean… someone stole it?”
His jaw tightens. “From yours.” A beat. “And from mine.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“There is a memory I should possess,” he says. “A moment in which I felt you dream. I cannot recall it. I know its shape, its weight — but it is gone.”
Impossible.
And yet.
Something shifts inside you — small, fragile, terrifying. A sliver of fear you can no longer rationalize away.
You try to continue your day as if nothing is wrong. You fail.
Morpheus is everywhere.
Not oppressive. Not hovering. But present in every piece of shadow, in every shift of starlight, as though the Dreaming itself is wrapped tightly around him and he around you. You feel him watching — not controlling, but counting. As though ensuring you remain anchored with every breath you take.
In the library, Lucienne’s calm presence feels like a lifeline. Until it isn’t.
You open a book — your book, the one you once hid behind when Morpheus was still an almost-stranger — and the moment you flip it open, something inside you fractures.
You remember loving this book.
You remember translating it aloud to him by lamplight.
You remember the ache it used to stir in your chest.
But the text? The story? The words?
Gone.
Only the emotional imprint remains, like a ghost of who you once were.
Lucienne notices instantly.
You press a hand to your temple, breath hitching as a sharp, splintering pain flashes behind your eyes — quick and brutal, like a needle driven straight through memory.
The world tilts. The shelves seem to sway.
And when you blink, Morpheus is suddenly there — or rather, the echo of him, a reflex of the realm itself. His hand closes around your wrist, cold and impossibly steady. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the sensation breaks, dissolving like a ripple in water. Not him. Not fully. Just a warning.
“What else?” she asks quietly. “What else have you lost?”
You try to lie. You fail again.
She sees the tremor in your hands. The strain around your eyes.
And then Matthew arrives.
And the Dreaming hiccups.
And everything begins to tilt.
The realm stutters like a skipped frame of old film.
Matthew swears.
Lucienne stiffens.
And you?
You feel something behind your eyes — a faint tapping, like fingertips brushing the locked door of your mind.
You try to ignore it.
You cannot.
“Lord Morpheus will want to know this is escalating,” Lucienne says.
Of course he will.
He already does.
You find him at the far edge of the Dreaming.
He stands unmoving, a silhouette carved from night, staring into the horizon of unshaped void. The air tightens as you approach, bending toward him as though drawn by gravity.
When he finally turns his gaze toward you, the fury there steals your breath.
Not fury at you.
Fury at the idea of losing you.
He steps close, fingers brushing your jaw, grounding you with a touch that has anchored you for a century. But behind his calm is something razor-thin and breaking.
“You vanished,” he says. “Truly vanished. A single heartbeat in which the Dreaming could not find you.”
He has known loss. He has been bound, tormented, shattered. But this? This is different.
This is fear.
For you.
You lean into his touch. “Morpheus—”
But before you can finish, the horizon flickers.
Light blinks into existence like distant lanterns.
The Dreaming shivers under your feet.
You feel a pull behind your ribs — faint, seductive, terrifyingly familiar.
And your mind falters.
A throb of pain.
A blur.
A soft sliding sensation, as though a thread inside you has snapped.
You sway.
Morpheus catches you instantly, hands firm, shadows coiling protectively.
But the moment he steadies you —
something in your expression shifts.
He sees it before you do.
A hollowing.
A blankness.
A quiet, devastating absence in your eyes.
A moment too still.
A breath too empty.
He says your name softly.
You do not react.
He says it again — sharper, urgent.
And the way you look at him then —
confused, distant, unanchored —
tells him everything.
Something in you has slipped.
And this time, it did not come back.
He exhales once, sharply, like something inside him is cracking.
“Not her,” he whispers.
Shadows surge around him — cold, coiled, furious.
“This is where it begins.”
The moment hangs between you — still, suspended, wrong.
You stand in Morpheus’s hands, your body braced against his, the Dreaming trembling beneath your feet. And yet something in your gaze has gone quietly, awfully blank. As if a candle inside you has been snuffed out without a sound.
You look at him not as a wife looks at her husband, not as a soul looks at the one who has held her through a century of night and storm.
You look at him as though he is simply there — a stranger carved from shadow, holding you upright.
And you do not understand why.
The shadows behind him rise like a slow, gathering storm — not wild, not uncontrolled, but coiled with a lethal precision that sends a shiver through the air.
Someone touched what was his.
Someone dared reach into the mind he guards more fiercely than his realm.
And even before he speaks, the anger beneath his fear is unmistakable — cold, territorial, sharpened to a blade.
He tries again, voice low and deliberate, saying your name like a blade he expects you to recognize.
Your brow furrows. Not in recognition — in polite confusion.
He says your name.
Your real name.
The one you’ve only ever allowed him to use.
Nothing.
You don’t even notice the way his entire body stills.
He studies your face as if searching for a crack in marble.
Then—
“Look at me.”
His voice is low, deliberate.
You do. Confused. Uncertain.
The wrong way.
Too empty.
His shadows surge sharply, rising behind him like a tide of black wings.
He steps closer—too close—your breath catching.
Morpheus: “Say my name.”
His voice is low, dark, commanding.
A tone you’ve only heard in battle, never directed at you.
You blink slowly.
“Morpheus?”
He exhales, but not in relief.
In fury.
Soft, lethal, restrained only by love.
He leans in, eyes burning almost violently.
Morpheus: “No. Not that one. The one you whisper only when your hands are on my skin.”
Your stomach drops.
Your pulse jumps.
But nothing surfaces.
You swallow. “I… I don’t remember.”
For the first time in a century, Morpheus’s composure fractures visibly, brutally.
His jaw tightens. Shadows whip outward, cracking like cold fire.
Morpheus: “Who touched your mind?”
You flinch—not from danger, but from the rawness in him.
He steps even closer, voice dropping into something territorial, primitive, unyielding:
“Who dares to pull you from me?”
You shake your head helplessly. “I don’t—”
He cuts you off, breath brushing your cheek:
“You do not vanish.” Cold. Final.
“You do not forget.” A dangerous vow curls under every word.
“You are mine.”
Not the romantic softness he used to say it with.
This is the Endless speaking—
the vow,
the law,
the realm itself.
You whisper, barely audible: “I didn’t choose to forget…”
His eyes soften for a fraction—just enough to show the wound beneath the rage.
Then tighten with something dark and possessive.
Morpheus: “I will find what took you from me.”
A beat, shadows coiling high and furious.
“And I will unmake it.”
A quiet crack runs through the air, too subtle for mortal senses, but he hears it; the Dreaming hears it too. A seam splitting somewhere deep within the realm, echoing the fracture he feels ripple through himself.
You blink slowly, steadying yourself, and place your hands—lightly, carefully—against his chest as if to create distance you have never needed from him.
“What—” Your voice is soft, unmoored. “What just happened?”
He does not let go of you.
He cannot.
His fingers tighten at your waist with an instinctive force that borders on desperate. The shadows pulse, tightening close to his body as though preparing to strike. You feel the shift of them even if you no longer remember that they move for you, always for you.
“Tell me,” he says, “what you remember.”
You take a breath, your eyes flicking toward the horizon where the last of the golden flicker has already died back into darkness. You shake your head once, slowly, as though clearing a fog that refuses to part.
“I… I was in the library.” A pause. “Lucienne was speaking. Matthew was there.” Another breath. “I remember walking. And then—”
You falter.
Your gaze drifts up to his, searching, trying to place the shape of him.
“And then I found you,” you finish softly.
Not I came to you. Not I needed you. Not my husband stood waiting for me.
Just: I found you.
As if the bond between you has been severed at the root, leaving only the surface intact.
A cold, meticulous dread settles into Morpheus’s eyes — not wild, not panicked, but sharp as obsidian, the kind of fear that, in him, takes the form of ruthless focus.
His thumb brushes the corner of your jaw, slow, deliberate.
You flinch — barely, but he feels it.
He lowers his hand immediately.
The reaction is small, but in the context of a century of shared nights, shared breath, shared existence — it is catastrophic.
“This is not exhaustion,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “And it is not the natural drift of time.” His gaze sharpens. “Something entered your mind. Something stole what it desired. Something continues to hunt.”
You swallow, troubled by his intensity but not yet understanding why. “I don’t… feel hunted.”
“You do not feel what is missing,” he replies, voice taut. “That is the proof.”
He steps away just enough to look at you fully, as if assessing every line of your posture, every flicker of expression. His shadows coil tighter around his feet, restless, agitated. The Dreaming around you trembles again — not violently, but with the low, anxious hum of a living thing sensing a predator nearby.
“Morpheus,” you begin, unsure, “why are you looking at me like that?”
For a heartbeat he almost tells you the truth: Because you are my wife, and for the first time in a hundred years, you do not know me.
But the words do not leave him.
Not yet.
He instead lifts a hand, palm hovering near your cheek, not quite touching.
“You flickered again,” he says softly.
“Just now?”
“While standing before me.”
You exhale, confused. “I didn’t feel—”
“That is what terrifies me.”
The sky shifts above you, a ripple of twilight sliding darker along the horizon. The boundary of the Dreaming feels thin here, stretched, raw. Morpheus turns his head slightly, listening to something only he hears — the rhythm of the realm, the pulse beneath its sands, the way it echoes the state of its queen.
You sense none of it.
And that, more than anything, confirms his fear.
He steps closer.
Close enough that his coat brushes your bare arms.
Close enough that his presence should feel like coming home.
You feel warmth.
You feel steadiness.
But you do not feel recognition.
“Come,” he says, voice soft but absolute. “We return to the palace.”
You hesitate — something you have never done with him.
“…Why?”
A single word.
Small.
Harmless.
It strikes him like a blade.
He answers gently, because he has learned gentleness with you over a century of shared storms.
“Because you are unwell,” he says. “And because you will not face this alone.”
You accept that with a quiet nod, and allow him to guide you away from the horizon — away from the lingering whisper of golden light that already once reached for you.
You walk with him, step by step.
You walk at his side.
But not with him.
Not the way you always have.
Not the way that has shaped the Dreaming for a hundred years.
He feels the difference in every heartbeat.
And when the palace finally comes back into view — its towers rising like a memory he suddenly isn’t sure you possess — he glances at you again.
You do not look at him.
You look at the building as though you have never seen it before.
His shadows surge sharply — pain, anger, fear, all bound into a single motion.
This, then, is the moment he understands:
You did not simply forget a dream.
Or a memory.
Or a fragment of your past.
You have forgotten him.
And whatever stole that piece of you did so not by accident, but by intention.
He exhales once — slow, deliberate, deadly calm.
“This ends,” he whispers to the empty air, to the unseen Market, to whatever force dared touch you. “I swear it.”
And behind you, the Dreaming bows its head — afraid.
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Read the next chapter: (will be tomorrow)
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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
fanfiction is a rare gem and a solid, living proof that, in a world of tiktok, influencers and content posting, not everything is about money and going viral. art can still be art just for the sake of the artists’ pure love, joy and passion for the art they create. fanfic writers write 100k words and more about the characters they love for free. just because they love these characters and the art of writing so much. art is not dead and the world is still beautiful.
the pros of reading ao3 fics in public is that their layout is so clean and simple that people would think you’re reading some academic researches when you’re in fact reading a 50k fic. the cons is that you need to control your face all the fucking time
Instructions: Get a pen and paper (or open your notes app) to keep track of your answers and scores. Select one response and add +1 to your tally. At the end, the letter with the most number of tally marks is your result. There are 8 possible results, as there are 8 versions of Hob. Enjoy! 😊✨
--
1.) How well do you flirt?
Not sure. There's no one to flirt with. (A)
Fucking terrible. (G)
Not trying, not interested. (E)
Somewhat of a disaster, but I'd like to think there's hope for me. (B)
Not sure. I think I'm decent at it, but... (C)
I'm often not sure if I'm being flirted with, but if the person is my type, then I'll do my best to flirt back! (H)
I know what I'm doing, and hopefully it's my date tonight. ;) (F)
Honestly? I'm at a point in my life where I don't care if I'm good at flirting or not. (D)
2.) How much do you wanna fuck/get fucked by your date?
0% - Not right now. I have other priorities. (E)
25% - I'm not actively thinking about it, but if they're interested, then I'm game. (B and D)
50% - Why not? My date is super hot and I'm very interested in them. But if they're not in the mood, then that's fine, too. (H and C)
75% - Look, I'm making an Effort here. It would be nice if my date could show some interest. (G and A)
100% - OH HECK YEAH (F)
3.) Finish the sentence: "How..."
did you know that I'd still be here? (B)
long should I wait? (A)
did you know my name? (H)
wonderful to see you again. (D)
the hell did I fuck that up? (C)
rude! (G)
do you want me? ;) (F)
much longer until my order gets here? (E)
4.) Pick one word from the list:
Life (E)
Patience (A)
Change (F)
Courage (H)
Wonder (B)
Contentment (D)
Friendship (C)
Prosperity (G)
5.) Do you hate Shakespeare?
Ugh. Do we have to talk about him? I have more important things to worry about. (E)
I'm so glad you asked. Here, make yourself comfortable. I have a 6 hour presentation on why he sucks. (D)
I'd rather read a phonebook. (A)
I don't know who that is. (B)
(sighs) If I say no, will you leave me alone? (C)
THAT FUCKING BASTARD (G)
I watched one of his plays. Still think he's overrated, though. (F)
What's a shake spear? Is that a weapon or something? (H)
6.) How likely are you to say stupid shit?
Everything I say is stupid shit. (G)
Only when I'm drunk. (H)
I have no filter, so... (B)
I'd like to think I have learned not to be so careless. (E)
Fuck! I thought I had it! Apparently not. Gods motherfuck I'm never speaking again. (C)
I'm trying, okay? I really am. (F)
I said stupid shit once and I regret it until now. (A)
Very likely. Just wait and see. Any second now. (D)
--
YES OR NO QUESTIONS: If your answer is yes, +1 to the letter indicated.
7.) Do you believe in love at first sight? (H)
8.) Do you get excited over things/topics that others consider boring? (B)
9.) Are you content with the life you have right now? (G)
10.) Do you still feel hopeful, despite the horrors? (E)
11.) Are you always DTF (Down To Fight)? (F)
12.) Have you ever fallen in love with a friend? (C)
13.) Would you wait/Have you waited for hours for your friend/s to arrive? (A)
14.) Are you willing to wait however long it takes for the love of your life to appear in your life? (D)
Summary::They gave you to the King of Dreams to settle an ancient debt.You were meant to be a symbol. A tool. A bargain.But you’ve never been good at staying quiet.And he’s never been good at letting anyone in.Neither of you asked for this, but the realm is watching. And so are the gods.
Personally, I prefer to read the original book first if possible, because adaptations almost always drop many details, even if not intentional, due to restrictions like runtime, budget, challenging implementation, etc...
However, I notice that sometimes when I do that, I don't enjoy the adaptation as I expect, because the original text is so beautiful and these missed details/events make all the difference 😔🥰😅
If there is a TV show/movie based on a novel/comic book, do you prefer to read the book first then watch the adaptation or vice versa? and why?
Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.
Previous Chapter
~The Theory of Entanglement~
Matthew, completely oblivious to the silent, murderous intent now emanating from his Boss, ruffled his feathers and preened, seemingly pleased with his successful intervention. He hopped down from the crumbling pillar, strutting a few steps closer. “So, what’s the plan, Boss? We got the Helm, Nora’s back… what next? More adventures? Maybe somewhere with less brimstone and more, you know, biscuits?”
Nora, catching the full, crushing weight of Morpheus’s internal fury directed at Matthew, bit back a laugh that threatened to bubble up. She gently squeezed Morpheus’s arm, her fingers a silent, desperate plea for him to rein in his cosmic wrath. He needed his raven, even if the raven had the timing of a broken clock.
Morpheus slowly turned his head, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, sweeping over Matthew with an intensity that would have withered a lesser being into dust. The murderous gleam in his eyes, however, subtly shifted, morphing into something that bordered on long-suffering exasperation. He let out a silent, aggrieved sigh that rippled through their shared link, a sound Nora felt deep in her own chest, a familiar echo of his weary soul.
“The next step,” Morpheus stated, his voice now deep and resonant, a velvet rumble that vibrated through the desolate air, “is to recover my ruby.” He looked towards the distant, hazy horizon of The Dreaming, his gaze already piercing through the desolation, fixing on an unseen point beyond. “I will retrieve it alone.”
Nora looked at him, her eyes, still shadowed with lingering exhaustion, searched his face. She sought to discern the layers of his resolve, the hidden currents beneath his stoic exterior. She saw a flicker of understanding there, a hint that he knew what she might be about to say, what argument was already forming on the tip of her tongue.
But Morpheus cut her off, his voice firm and unwavering, a decree carved from ancient stone. “No. You will remain here. You require rest and time to recover. The void took a significant toll upon you, Nora. I will not have you burn out.”
Matthew tilted his head, a flicker of genuine concern in his beady, intelligent eyes. “Alone, Boss? You sure about that? Things get a bit… tricky out there. Real tricky.”
“Yes, I can handle it,” Morpheus replied, his voice gaining a cold, ancient certainty that brooked no argument. “I have my Helm and my sand back. I am not as weak as I was.”
Nora, still kneeling in front of him, her hands gently pressed against his chest, started to speak, her voice soft but firm, a quiet challenge in its tone. “Morpheus,” she began, the name a soft invocation.
“Nora, you are in no condition,” Morpheus cut in, an uncharacteristic, almost desperate plea entering his dark gaze. “You have endured days within the Garden of Perpetual Silence. Your mind, although demonstrably resilient, has been stretched to its very limits. You need time to recover, to mend. I cannot, and will not, ask you to endure more.”
Nora’s gaze held his, unwavering, her voice dropping to a raw, whispered confession, laced with a tremor of genuine, deep-seated exhaustion. “You need rest too, Morpheus. I… I know what you went through.”
Morpheus froze. A flicker of shock, then dawning horror, spread across his face, a raw emotion rarely seen upon the countenance of the Endless. His eyes widened as he stared at her, a silent, almost begging question in their depths, demanding: Explain.
Nora sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of aeons. She shifted her weight, a palpable reluctance in her posture, but then met his stunned gaze. “Yeah. I felt it. Everything.” Her voice was a low murmur, a secret shared between them. “I was in there, and yeah, I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel any breeze, no heat, no cold, no touch… but I felt exactly what you felt when you were dueling Lucifer.” She paused, her eyes clouded with the remembered torment. “The burning through your veins, feeling your insides and flesh get eaten away, the searing heat, the sensation of being burnt alive, unmade molecule by molecule.” A shudder ran through her, but her gaze remained firm. “It was… it was enough. It was enough to know you were still fighting. It was enough to know you were still alive.”
A silent, devastating wave of realization washed over Morpheus. He had poured his emotions into her, a vessel for his despair, but he had never conceived that the raw, agonizing reality of his duel, the literal unmaking and remaking of his form, had been mirrored in her experience within the void. His greatest fear, that she had been shattered by the sensory deprivation, now took on a horrifying new dimension. He hadn’t been able to shield her, even when he believed she was merely in a state of suspended animation. The thought that she had endured his torment, alone and untouchable in that desolate space, ripped through him, a fresh wound in his ancient soul. He was supposed to protect her.
Nora, sensing his distress, the invisible agony that gripped him, softened her gaze. She reached up, her fingers lightly caressing his jaw. “And besides,” she continued, a faint, teasing smirk touching her pale, tired face, “if I’m stuck here resting, then we’re all stuck here resting. We’ve all been through a lot, you included.” She gestured to him with a slight incline of her head, a gentle, knowing accusation. “A little rest won’t kill us. In fact,” her smile widened, “it might just be exactly what we need.”
-
Morpheus, with Nora held carefully in his arms, strode from the ruined throne room into one of the few remaining, albeit still damaged, chambers of his palace. He was still clad in his sleek, dark leather attire, which seemed to accentuate his lean, elegant frame. The air in this room, unlike the dust-choked hall they had just left, felt surprisingly still, almost hushed. Dust motes still danced in the faint, ethereal light filtering through what remained of a grimy, arched window, painting shifting patterns on the stone floor. He walked with his customary, almost supernatural grace to the bed, its ancient frame, though stripped of its former grandeur, still conveyed a sense of deep history.
He gently, with a care that transcended his ancient reserve, laid Nora down upon it. The weight of her body settling caused a soft sigh of protest from the old mattress, a sound almost swallowed by the silence of the room. The bed itself was adorned with a very deep blue comforter and blanket set, once undoubtedly vibrant, but now dull and muted, as if the magic that permeated the Dreaming had been sucked from its very fibers during his long absence. It hung heavily over the sides, a stark visual representation of the realm’s decay.
“You may rest here,” Morpheus said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air around them, a steady current of reassurance.
Nora’s body, already aching with an intense weariness, now felt the true, heavy weight of exhaustion settle deep into her bones. Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked up at him through a haze of fatigue as he started to silently turn and walk away from the bedside, his dark leather attire a silent silhouette against the dimness of the room. A wave of alarm, sharp and unwelcome, cut through her stupor. “Where are you going?” she asked quietly, her voice a fragile whisper, laced with a plea he could not ignore.
Morpheus paused, his steps halting. He turned his head slightly, looking back at her over his shoulder, his ancient eyes, usually unreadable, holding a silent question, a flicker of surprise at her interjection.
Nora’s lips curved into a soft, teasing smirk, a faint echo of the irreverent humor that had sustained them through a century of confinement. “Don’t make me drag you down to this bed, Sandy,” she whispered, her eyes glinting with a challenge he understood far too well.
A long-suffering sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of ages and countless instances of her stubbornness, echoed in Nora’s mind. But Morpheus acquiesced to her unspoken demand. He walked slowly, his movements still impossibly fluid, to the other side of the bed. As he did, his sleek leather attire shimmered and softened, transforming back into his usual long wool coat and black pants, the familiar fabrics settling around him. He removed his coat and draped it carefully over the back of a lone, wooden chair beside them. With a soft rustle, he settled himself beside Nora, his dark form a stark contrast to the dull blue of the comforter, yet radiating a quiet, unwavering presence that filled the small space with an unexpected sense of peace.
A few moments later, Nora, her movement’s languid and guided by a deep, unconscious exhaustion, turned onto her side and cuddled into Morpheus. Her one hand came to rest gently on his chest, her fingers idly, softly running over the extremely soft black t-shirt he wore. Morpheus, who had instinctually raised his arm as Nora turned into him, held it frozen above her. His ancient eyes, unblinking in the dimness, watched her, a new sensation blossoming within him. She seeks comfort, even in slumber, he mused, a flicker of something akin to wonder stirring in his endless soul. Nora, with her boundless spirit and unwavering loyalty… this closeness she offers, so freely given, so utterly trusting. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered his arm and wrapped it around Nora’s upper back, his hand gently cupping her shoulder. Nora, operating on instinct and utter depletion, was almost immediately lost to the depths of sleep, her breathing evening out into a soft, steady rhythm, a testament to her utter exhaustion.
This was a very new scenario for Morpheus. To have Nora, so utterly fragile yet so incredibly resilient, nestled so close, utterly trusting in her unconsciousness. Her warmth, her very presence… it is a solace I never wish to be without again. He found his heart warmed by the intimate contact, a surprising and intensely enjoyable sensation that spread through him, quiet and persistent, unlike any dream or nightmare he had ever woven. It was a feeling specifically tied to her, to the unique bond they shared. He lightly gripped Nora’s shoulder with his hand, a gentle squeeze of pure contentment, a silent acknowledgment of the overwhelming joy this moment brought. Perhaps… perhaps rest is not entirely without its merits after all, especially when shared with her. Before finally, carefully, falling into a meditative, light sleep beside her, his presence a dark, protective anchor in the quiet room.
-
As the stillness of Morpheus’s meditative rest settled over the ruined palace, the passage of time became a gentle current rather than a grinding measure. When Nora finally stirred from the deepest sleep she had known in over a century, it was not with a jolt, but a slow, unfolding awareness. Her limbs, accustomed to the hard, unyielding glass, now luxuriated in a softness that felt alien and impossibly comforting. The dull ache that had become a constant companion was gone, replaced by a deep sense of ease.
A soft, contented sigh escaped her lips, and she instinctively burrowed deeper Into the source of warmth beside her. Her leg, in its search for a more comfortable position, hooked around something firm and solid, her knee tucking neatly behind what felt like a remarkably unyielding thigh. Her arm, reaching out in unconscious embrace, splayed across a broad, shallow rising chest. Her head, nestled into a surprisingly comfortable curve, could faintly feel a rhythmic thrumming she recognized, even in her sleepy haze, as a heartbeat. She was, to put it mildly, a human pretzel, thoroughly entwined with Morpheus.
The last tendrils of sleep clung to her, soft and warm, but as her mind began to fully surface, a horrifying clarity descended. This was not a dream. This was Morpheus. And she was currently draped across him like a particularly clingy houseplant.
Her eyes snapped open. The dim light of the room filtered through the tattered window, illuminating the familiar, pale curve of his jaw, only inches from her face. His raven hair, impossibly soft, brushed against her cheek. Oh, God.
A mortified blush, hot and undeniable, spread from her neck to the tips of her ears. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand, the warmth radiating from him. Every inch of her body was pressed against his, a silent, undeniable testament to her unconscious cuddle. The sheer, utter embarrassment was a physical wave, threatening to drown her.
Slowly, carefully, as if a sudden movement might cause the entire universe to unravel, she tried to disentangle herself. Her leg, however, seemed to have developed a will of its own, remaining stubbornly hooked around his. Her hand, plastered to his chest, felt impossibly large and clumsy. She managed to lift her head a fraction, her eyes darting to his face. He was utterly still, his eyes closed, his breathing even and deep. He was still asleep. Thank the Endless Night.
A tiny, hopeful sliver of a thought, desperate and fleeting, whispered in her mind: Maybe he didn’t notice.
At that exact moment, a low, resonant hum, a sound more felt than heard, rippled through their mental link. It was Morpheus. And it was pure, unadulterated amusement. He was not only awake, but he had clearly been awake for some time, silently enjoying her predicament.
Nora’s cheeks burned even hotter. You absolute, smug, infuriating…! Her mental retort was a scramble of indignant, colorful expletives. She could practically feel his silent smirk, a wave of ancient satisfaction radiating from him.
His eyes, those endless pools of starlight, slowly, deliberately, opened. They were filled not with annoyance, or even mere amusement, but with a vast, tender, and deeply, overwhelmingly fluffy fondness. A tiny crinkle formed at the corners of his eyes, a subtle betrayer of his otherwise impassive face.
Good morning, My Star, his thought resonated in her mind, the words drenched in affection, tinged with that silent, knowing mirth. Did you sleep well?
Nora groaned, a tiny, strangled sound that barely disturbed the quiet, even as her cheeks heated with a furious blush at his new nickname for her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, for the briefest moment, that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. The humiliation was exquisite. She could feel the gentle, rhythmic stroke of his fingers at the back of her head, where his arm was still wrapped around her.
I… I seem to have… she fumbled for words, both spoken and thought, her mind a chaotic mess of mortification. I seem to have… tangled myself.
A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle vibrated through him, echoing in her mind like warm honey. Indeed, he thought, his mental voice swirling with suppressed laughter. A most… enthusiastic slumber.
He didn’t move. He simply lay there, holding her, his presence a comforting, if currently embarrassing, anchor. The hand at her back stroked her hair again, a slow, tender motion that sent shivers, not of cold or fear, but of pure, dizzying affection down her spine.
Are you… comfortable? She thought, venturing a tiny, hopeful question. It was her only defense. If she was going down, he was coming with her.
His internal response was immediate, overflowing with a earnest, almost aching contentment. More comfortable than I have been in millennia, Nora. Your warmth… it is a rare and precious thing.
He adjusted his grip slightly, pulling her just a fraction closer, a movement so subtle she almost imagined it. His thumb, resting on the soft skin of her upper arm where her hand was still pressed to his chest, began to trace slow, lazy circles, a silent, rhythmic lullaby.
Nora finally opened her eyes again, meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually so serious, were alight with a tender warmth that made her heart ache with a joyful sweetness. The faint, almost imperceptible crinkle at the corner of his eyes deepened, a silent, loving smile.
You know, she thought, a spark of her usual sass returning, emboldened by his overwhelming softness, you could have moved. When I first started… pretzel-ing.
Another silent chuckle, deeper this time, resonated through their link. Perhaps. But then, I would have deprived myself of this… unique experience. And such a rare display of unburdened comfort from you. It is… quite delightful.
The word ‘delightful,’ used by the King of Nightmares to describe her clingy sleeping habits, sent a fresh wave of warm, fuzzy embarrassment through her. But this time, it was mingled with an almost unbearable swell of tenderness. He truly didn’t mind. He liked it. He liked being her human pillow, her tangle of comfort.
She let out a soft, defeated sigh, but a genuine smile touched her lips. She tightened her grip on his coat, burrowing just a little bit closer, abandoning all attempts at disentanglement. If she was a pretzel, she might as well be a happy, comfortable pretzel.
You are truly ridiculous, Sandy, she thought, the affection in her mind boundless and pure.
He simply hummed again, a low, resonant vibration that filled her very being. Perhaps, he conceded, his voice soft and vast, brimming with an unspoken promise of endless comfort. Only for you My Star. And I would not have it any other way.
The silence that settled around them was not empty, but filled with the quiet hum of contentment that emanated from Morpheus. Nora, nestled securely against him, felt the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of her ordeal finally giving way to a heartfelt peace. His rhythmic breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her head, became a new kind of lullaby, more potent and comforting than any she had ever known. She felt the warmth of his presence seep into her, dispelling the last lingering chill of Hell and the emptiness of the Garden of Perpetual Silence.
A few moments later, a small, black form landed silently on the edge of the bed with a soft thud. Matthew, ever the vigilant, if occasionally awkward, companion, hopped closer, his beady eyes peering at the entangled pair. He cocked his head, a silent question in his gaze, before letting out a soft, almost imperceptible “Caw,” a sound that was more a gentle inquiry than a complaint.
Morpheus, without opening his eyes, simply tightened his arm around Nora, a clear, unspoken message to his raven. All is well, Matthew. We are merely… resting.
Matthew, however, was not easily deterred by silent pronouncements. He hopped a bit closer to Nora’s head, his beady eyes fixed on her. “Well, well, well,” he chirped, his voice a low, teasing rasp. “Look at you, all tangled up like a kitten in a ball of yarn. Someone looks awfully cozy.”
Nora groaned, a tiny, strangled sound that barely disturbed the quiet. She could feel a fresh wave of heat creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks a vibrant crimson.
“And who knew the Boss was such a good cuddle buddy, eh?” Matthew continued, oblivious or simply uncaring of Nora’s mortification, hopping another inch closer. “Usually, he’s more of the ‘brooding in a corner, contemplating the existential dread of a universe without coffee’ type. But here he is, a big, dark, fluffy pillow.”
“Matthew,” Morpheus grumbled, a low, sharp warning that vibrated through the air.
Matthew, though unconcerned, took a very distinct hop back, away from Morpheus, his black feathers ruffling with a theatrical shrug. “Just stating facts, Boss!” he chirped. “No judgment here! Just your ever faithful Raven.”
Nora, her face still warm with embarrassment, felt a chuckle bubble up from deep in her chest. It started as a small, suppressed sound, then blossomed into a full-body, breathless chuckle that shook her frame with silent mirth. She raised her head, looking at Matthew with a fond, exasperated smile that pulled at the corners of her lips. “Oh, Matthew,” she said, her voice soft but clear, carrying a playful chiding, “we really need to work on your timing. It’s simply atrocious.”
Matthew ruffled his feathers, seemingly pleased with his ability to provoke a reaction. “Hey, I’m just here to help!” he chirped, puffing out his small chest.
Morpheus, his eyes now open, looked from Nora to Matthew. “As Matthew so helpfully reminded us with his presence,” he said out loud, his deep voice carrying a dry, almost imperceptible undertone of exasperation, and then he paused, glaring ever so slightly at Matthew, his starlit eyes holding a silent threat, “we still have one more task before the Dreaming can truly begin to mend.”
Nora’s chuckles settled, replaced by a more serious expression as she considered his words. “The ruby,” she said, nodding, her gaze meeting his with understanding.
“Indeed,” Morpheus confirmed, his voice regaining its customary gravitas. “My Helm is recovered. My sand is restored. The ruby remains.”
Matthew hopped onto Nora’s calf, his tiny talons gripping her jeans lightly. “So, what’s the plan, Boss?” he chirped, his tone more serious now, his beady eyes fixed on Morpheus. “Where’s this ruby hiding out?”
Morpheus stared at the crumbling ceiling of the ruined palace, his gaze distant, as if sifting through the very fabric of fate. “The Fates said it was passed from a mother to a son.” After a slight pause, Morpheus continued, his voice a low, resonant hum, “The ruby, though seemingly a simple item, is imbued with immense power. It will be more difficult to reclaim than the sand.”
“So, no kicking down doors and demanding its return?” Matthew asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice, a slight slump to his feathered shoulders.
Morpheus’s lips thinned into a faint, tiny smirk, a fleeting shadow of amusement on his pale face. “Not in this instance, Matthew. We currently have no idea who holds the ruby, and so we cannot anticipate what they will do.”
Nora cut in, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, “Well, so I guess we can’t just… ask nicely?”
“Unfortunately, not,” Morpheus stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “And we must tread with caution. We cannot disrupt the balance of the waking world any more than it has already been done.”
Nora turned her head to face Morpheus fully, her eyes reflecting the dim light of the room. “How do you plan on finding where the ruby is?”
“With my Helm,” Morpheus responded, his voice filled with quiet certainty, “I should be able to find it.”
Matthew hopped in place a little bit on Nora’s calf, a surge of renewed energy seeming to pulse through him. Then, with a frantic flutter of black wings, he took flight. “CAW! Alright, alright, you two! Enough with the lovey-dovey staring! Time is wasting, the realm is literally crumbling, and I, your most indispensable companion, am ready for action! Let’s go! Chops-chops, people! No more lounging around like pampered housecats! We got a ruby to find, and I’m not getting any younger out here, you know!” before darting through the shattered window and vanishing into the twilight sky of The Dreaming.
Nora and Morpheus shared a single, long look. A silent acknowledgment of their chaotic but utterly endearing companion.
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Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷
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