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Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
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The seventh bell began to ring while you were tying your shoes.
The first note rolled through the palace low and resonant, deep enough that you felt it through the soles of your feet before you fully heard it.
You stopped with one Converse half-laced.
For one ridiculous second, you simply stared at it.
Black canvas.
White rubber.
Slightly worn at the toe.
Entirely ordinary.
The second bell sounded.
You finished tying the shoe.
There was something almost absurd about what you were wearing.
Jeans.
A plain T-shirt.
Your black Converse.
No dress.
No ceremonial robes.
No borrowed armour.
No jewellery beyond what you normally wore.
Nothing that belonged to gods or kings or prophecies.
You looked like someone preparing to catch a train.
Perhaps that was why you had chosen it.
If you were going to walk out of the realm of Dream of the Endless, you wanted to do it looking like yourself.
Not Zeus's daughter.
Not Ishtar's vessel.
Not the subject of an Olympian treaty.
Not something ancient gods had marked, bartered over, hidden, protected, hunted or attempted to inherit.
Just you.
The third bell rang.
Your room looked strange.
Not empty.
You had not accumulated enough possessions in the Dreaming for that.
But disturbed.
The drawers you had opened remained slightly crooked. The wardrobe doors stood ajar. A book you had borrowed from Lucienne sat on the bedside table because you had refused to pack it on principle.
You would return library property before leaving.
Even during a dramatic departure from an immortal kingdom, apparently fines remained terrifying.
Your backpack sat on the bed.
One backpack.
That was all.
When you had first arrived in the Dreaming, you had not exactly brought luggage.
Most of what you owned remained in Olympus.
Clothes could be replaced.
Toothbrushes could be bought.
Everything important fitted into the battered backpack in front of you.
A change of clothes.
The notebook you had begun using during training.
A book you had been halfway through when your life had become catastrophically complicated.
A small packet of milk chocolate Nuala had slipped into one of the side pockets without comment.
And the protections Morpheus had spent most of the week preparing.
You touched the first through the fabric.
The dreamstone was small enough to close your fingers around.
A fragment of shaped dreamstuff bound specifically to you, capable of opening a path into the Dreaming if you consciously chose to use it.
The second protection was flatter.
A thin black cloth inscribed with symbols you still could not read without concentrating. A ward for wherever you chose to sleep in the Waking World.
Yours to activate.
Yours to remove.
Yours to refuse.
No observation built into it.
No means of telling Morpheus where you were.
You knew because you had asked.
Repeatedly.
He had answered every time.
The fourth bell rang.
You pulled the zip closed.
That was when your hands began to shake.
“Oh, don't start.”
You glared at them.
Your hands remained unimpressed.
You stood.
Put the backpack over one shoulder.
Immediately took it off again because apparently that felt too final.
You stared at it.
“This is stupid.”
The room did not answer.
For several seconds you stood there with your hands on your hips, deeply annoyed by absolutely everything.
You had wanted this.
That point had to remain clear.
You had demanded this.
The threshold.
The dissolution of the treaty.
The right to leave.
Morpheus had done precisely what you asked.
And now your stomach felt as though you had swallowed a live bird.
The fifth bell rang.
You picked up the backpack.
This time you kept it on.
At the door, you stopped.
Looked back.
The bed.
The chair where Morpheus had once sat during an argument because you had refused to speak to him anywhere else.
The windows overlooking a portion of the gardens.
The small crack in one wall from an early training accident that the Dreaming had repaired three times and you had somehow recreated twice.
Your chest tightened.
“It's a room.”
That did not help.
You turned away.
The sixth bell began as you stepped into the corridor.
By the time the seventh sounded, you were walking towards the throne room.
*******
Morpheus was waiting exactly where he had said he would be.
Of course he was.
The throne room doors stood open.
You saw him before he saw you.
Or perhaps he had already sensed you approaching and simply chose not to turn.
He stood at the centre of the hall with his back partly towards the entrance.
Black coat.
Black boots.
Black clothes.
Pale skin.
Dark hair.
Every inch the King of Dreams.
The contrast between you was almost offensive.
He looked as though he had stepped out of the oldest story humanity had ever told itself.
You looked as though you were late for a university lecture.
The final resonance of the seventh bell faded through the hall.
Morpheus turned.
His eyes found you.
Then stopped.
For a moment his gaze remained on your face.
Then it moved.
Your T-shirt.
Your jeans.
The backpack hanging from one shoulder.
Your Converse.
Something changed in his expression.
Very little.
If you had not spent months learning him, you would have missed it.
You thought perhaps the reality of your departure had finally become visible to him.
Not as a treaty.
Not as a cosmic obligation.
Not as a conversation about sovereignty or divine jurisdiction.
A backpack.
Shoes.
You.
Ready to go.
His gaze returned to yours.
“You are prepared.”
You tightened your fingers around the strap.
“Apparently.”
Silence.
Then you lifted one foot slightly.
“Thought I'd dress for the occasion.”
His eyes dropped briefly towards your Converse.
“So I see.”
“Very ceremonial.”
“Entirely.”
You nearly smiled.
That made it worse.
You looked around.
No Lucienne.
No Matthew.
No Corinthian.
No witnesses.
“Are we going?”
Morpheus was quiet for the smallest fraction of a second.
Then:
“Yes.”
He moved towards you.
Stopped at a respectful distance.
And together, you left the palace.
********
The Dreaming did not want you to go.
You realised this approximately six minutes into the walk to the threshold.
You had insisted on walking there and Morpheus chose one of the older routes towards the boundary of his realm.
You had never used it before.
The path descended from the palace through gardens you vaguely recognised, then curved towards a wide valley where silver grass moved under a sky deepening slowly towards evening.
Neither of you spoke much.
There did not seem to be anything safe to say.
The ordinary topics you had somehow accumulated together felt impossible.
Chess.
Training.
Matthew's most recent crime against the kitchens.
Whether Lucienne secretly enjoyed having something to complain about.
Everything felt too normal.
And everything important felt too dangerous.
So you walked.
The backpack bounced lightly against your spine.
Morpheus walked beside you with his hands loosely at his sides.
Not touching.
Not quite close enough for your shoulders to brush.
The first strange thing happened at the bottom of the hill.
The path divided.
Morpheus took the left branch.
You followed.
Three minutes later, the palace appeared ahead of you.
You stopped.
Morpheus stopped.
You stared at the palace.
Then turned slowly and looked behind you.
The hill you had just descended was now directly behind the palace.
You frowned.
“Didn't we just leave there?”
Morpheus's expression became severe.
“Yes.”
You looked at the path.
Then at him.
“Are you doing that?”
“No.”
A beat.
His eyes narrowed towards the landscape.
“Not deliberately.”
You stared.
Morpheus looked increasingly offended by his own kingdom.
“You control this place.”
“I do.”
“And it just walked us in a circle.”
“So it would appear.”
You almost laughed.
Almost.
His gaze moved towards the palace.
The air changed.
Not dramatically.
Morpheus did not raise his voice.
He did not gesture.
He merely looked.
“Enough.”
The word moved through the Dreaming.
The palace vanished.
Not violently.
It simply ceased being in front of you.
The original valley returned.
The path straightened.
You looked sideways at him.
“Did your realm just get told off?”
Morpheus resumed walking.
“It is being unhelpful.”
“It's being clingy.”
His jaw tightened.
“It will cease.”
It did not cease.
Ten minutes later you reached a bridge.
A narrow stone structure stretched over a river so dark it reflected stars that were not currently visible in the sky.
Morpheus stepped onto it.
You followed.
You walked.
And walked.
And walked.
After several minutes you looked behind you.
The bank remained approximately twenty metres away.
You looked ahead.
The opposite bank appeared to be several kilometres distant.
You stopped.
“Morpheus.”
He closed his eyes.
Very slowly.
You bit your lip.
“I think your bridge is broken.”
His eyes opened.
“It is not broken.”
“We've been walking across it for five minutes.”
“I am aware.”
“It was thirty metres long.”
Morpheus looked down at the bridge as though contemplating its immediate destruction.
“The distance is unnecessary.”
The Dreaming seemed to hesitate.
Then the bridge contracted beneath you so quickly you grabbed Morpheus's sleeve on instinct.
The far bank rushed towards you.
You stumbled.
His hand closed around your forearm immediately.
Steadying.
Nothing more.
Both of you looked down at where you were touching him.
You released his coat.
He released you.
“Subtle.”
“I did not instruct it to shorten quite so abruptly.”
“Of course not.”
You continued.
The next field developed three additional gates while you were walking through it.
None belonged there.
You knew that because the first appeared in the middle of open grass without a fence.
The second grew out of an oak tree.
The third manifested directly in front of Morpheus.
He stopped inches from it.
You stared.
The door was enormous.
Black.
Elaborately carved.
Completely freestanding.
“Do we have to go through that?”
“No.”
“What's behind it?”
His gaze sharpened.
The door creaked open slightly.
Beyond it you caught a glimpse of—
Your room.
Your actual room in the palace.
Bed.
Window.
Books.
Waiting.
The door slammed shut before you could fully process it.
Morpheus looked furious.
“Oh.”
He said nothing.
“That's not unsettling at all.”
Still nothing.
“Morpheus.”
He turned towards you.
You gestured at the door.
“Is that you?”
His expression altered.
The anger remained, but something else moved beneath it.
“No.”
You waited.
His voice lowered.
“Not consciously.”
There it was again.
You looked at the doorway.
Then at the landscape.
Then back at him.
“The Dreaming knows you don't want me to leave.”
Silence.
A long one.
Morpheus's face became perfectly still.
You felt your heartbeat accelerate.
But he only looked at you for another moment before turning towards the door.
“The Dreaming does not determine your choices.”
The door vanished.
So did the others.
The grass flattened where they had stood.
You swallowed.
That was not an answer.
But you were becoming very familiar with those.
You continued walking.
******
After that, Morpheus kept the realm under stricter control.
You could feel it.
The landscape became steadier.
Paths remained where they were placed.
Hills refrained from moving.
A flock of enormous white birds began circling above you as though considering landing directly in your way, then apparently thought better of it.
Once, a cottage appeared in the distance.
Warm light glowed through its windows.
Smoke rose from the chimney.
The smell of bread drifted across the path.
Morpheus did not even look towards it.
The cottage disappeared.
You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jeans.
“It's really trying.”
“Yes.”
“Does it do this every time someone leaves?”
“No.”
That answer came too quickly.
You looked at him.
Morpheus continued walking.
“Right.”
Silence again.
The Dreaming changed around you as you travelled.
The palace lands gave way to older country.
Forests where the trees held sleeping faces beneath their bark.
Fields filled with flowers that opened only when you looked away.
A coastline appeared briefly on your right despite the fact you were nowhere near the sea.
Beyond it, impossible constellations turned slowly beneath the water.
You passed dreams moving towards distant settlements.
Some noticed Morpheus and bowed.
Then noticed you.
You wondered whether they knew.
Probably.
The Dreaming seemed incapable of keeping emotional secrets even when its king was exceptionally committed to them.
Eventually the landscape began to empty.
Fewer dreams.
Fewer buildings.
Fewer impossible things.
The ground became pale stone.
The sky above shifted towards deep indigo.
Ahead stood an arch.
Nothing more.
No walls.
No gate.
No guards.
Just an enormous arch of black stone rising alone from a wide platform at the edge of everything.
Beyond it—
Light.
Not daylight.
Not exactly.
Something colourless.
Endless.
The boundary between the Dreaming and everything beyond it.
You stopped.
So did Morpheus.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your backpack.
“That's it.”
“Yes.”
The threshold.
For months it had been an idea.
Something you were forbidden to cross.
Then something you had demanded the right to reach.
Now it stood less than fifty metres away.
No guards.
No chains.
Nothing physically stopping you.
And somehow you found yourself completely unable to move.
Morpheus did not urge you forward.
He waited.
Of course he did.
You drew in a breath.
“Okay.”
You started walking again.
********
The treaty appeared when you reached the centre of the platform.
Morpheus lifted one hand.
Sand gathered above his palm.
Not the soft golden sand you had seen him use in dreams.
This was darker.
Older.
Each grain seemed edged with faint light.
The sand spiralled upwards, spreading into a broad rectangular shape.
Parchment emerged from within it.
Actual parchment.
Thick.
Pale.
Ancient enough that the edges looked darker than the centre.
Symbols moved across its surface.
Greek.
Something older than Greek.
Marks you recognised from the documents in Lucienne's library.
The Olympian seal burned near the bottom.
Zeus.
Even seeing it made your stomach tighten.
A bolt enclosed by a circle.
Beside it stood another mark.
Morpheus's.
You had seen variants of it throughout the palace.
A helm beneath a crescent darkness.
And above both—
your name.
You moved closer.
The writing changed as you looked at it, translating itself into something your mind could understand.
You wished it hadn't.
Subject transferred under divine custodial authority.
Your jaw tightened.
Further down:
Pledge.
Protected interest.
Jurisdiction vested in Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless.
You stared.
There it was.
Your entire life reduced to terminology.
Not daughter.
Not woman.
Not person.
A subject.
A pledge.
Something transferred from one male authority to another because the gods had considered that orderly.
Your mouth twisted.
“Jesus.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You glanced at him.
He was looking at the document too.
His expression had changed.
He looked disgusted.
Not theatrically.
Morpheus rarely granted anyone the satisfaction of theatrical disgust.
It was colder than that.
His gaze rested on the language surrounding your name.
“I accepted these terms without sufficient consideration of what they made of you.”
You looked back at the parchment.
“Property.”
His eyes moved to you.
“Yes.”
No qualification.
No attempt to soften it.
You swallowed.
Morpheus stepped towards the treaty.
“That ends now.”
The air changed.
The platform became still.
The light beyond the threshold brightened.
Morpheus raised his hand.
The treaty unfolded further.
More writing appeared.
Pages within pages.
Clauses you had never seen.
Ancient agreements between realms.
Witness marks.
Jurisdictional provisions.
Bindings.
Protections.
Limitations.
Every line that somehow touched you.
Morpheus looked at them all.
Then he spoke.
His voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The Dreaming listened.
So did everything beyond it.
“I, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, sovereign of the Dreaming and signatory to this compact, relinquish all authority granted to me over her person by treaty, agreement, law, custom, gift, pledge or transfer.”
The parchment trembled.
Zeus's seal flashed.
Morpheus continued.
“I renounce all custodial claims.”
A line vanished.
“All right of confinement.”
Another.
“All jurisdiction founded upon her transfer to this realm.”
More writing burned away.
You stared.
“I retain no power to compel her presence.”
The arch behind you shuddered.
“No right to command her return.”
Light flooded through the threshold.
“No authority over where she resides, whom she sees, what realm she enters, or what path she chooses.”
The parchment began splitting down the centre.
Not tearing.
Unmaking.
The words dissolved one by one into sparks.
Morpheus's gaze remained on it.
“No protection she has accepted shall constitute renewed ownership.”
Your breath caught.
“No aid requested shall create obligation.”
More lines vanished.
“No entry into my realm shall surrender autonomy.”
The platform shook beneath your feet.
“Her will is her own.”
The Olympian seal cracked.
A sound like distant thunder moved through the boundary.
“Her power is her own.”
The crack widened.
“Her life is her own.”
Zeus's seal shattered.
The parchment ignited.
Not with ordinary flame.
Silver light moved across it from bottom to top, consuming every clause until only your name remained suspended in the air.
For a second you stared at it.
Then Morpheus spoke one final time.
Quietly.
“And she belongs to no one.”
Your name dissolved.
Something broke.
Not outside you.
Inside.
You gasped.
Your hand flew to your chest.
There had been no chain.
No weight you had consciously felt.
Nothing you could have identified until the instant it disappeared.
But suddenly—
absence.
A pressure you had lived beneath without understanding it was gone.
The Dreaming changed around you.
Not colder.
Not hostile.
Just—
different.
Before, some invisible part of the realm had always known you as contained within it.
Held.
Legally, magically, cosmically assigned here.
Now the boundary no longer recognised you that way.
The threshold opened completely.
Beyond the arch, the colourless light cleared.
You saw a road.
Wet pavement.
Streetlights.
The Waking World.
London.
Home, once. Many years ago.
Perhaps home again.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
You looked at Morpheus.
“That's it?”
His face was very still.
“Yes.”
You looked towards the open threshold.
Then down at your hands.
“I'm free.”
The word came out almost like a question.
Morpheus's gaze did not leave you.
“Yes.”
You laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because apparently your body had run out of sensible responses.
“Completely?”
“Completely.”
“No hidden clause?”
“None.”
“No magical technicality where crossing back in means I accidentally agree to something?”
“No.”
“No weird ancient custom?”
“No.”
“No part where you still technically have authority if I become dangerous?”
Something moved in his eyes.
Perhaps pain.
Perhaps memory.
“No.”
You stared at him.
He continued before you could ask again.
“Nothing follows you unless you ask it to.”
His gaze flickered towards your backpack.
“The protections I gave you respond only to your use of them. They contain no means by which I may determine your location.”
You nodded slowly.
“And dreams?”
“I will not use them to observe you.”
“Even though you could.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Even though I could.”
Your throat tightened.
Morpheus stepped back.
Giving you more room between yourself and the threshold.
“If you ever require sanctuary, this realm remains open to you.”
You stared.
“Even if I leave now.”
“Yes.”
“Even if we have another fight.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I tell you I don't want to see you.”
A pause.
His face changed almost imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
Your chest hurt.
Morpheus continued.
“You need not see me in order to enter.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“If you require the Dreaming but do not wish to speak with me, you may contact Lucienne.”
You said nothing.
“She will ensure you are given whatever assistance you request.”
He was preparing for that too.
A version of the future where you still wanted Nuala.
Lucienne.
Matthew.
The library.
The gardens.
Everything—
except him.
Morpheus looked at you with unbearable steadiness.
“Your access to this realm will not depend upon your willingness to maintain a bomd with me.”
One of my favourite, and at the same time, one of the most infuriating tropes in romance fiction: characters who so obviously love each other but won't tell each other although that would resolve such a great percentage of the problems they would not have had if only they spoke to each other.
I swear, I'm about to go to bed, and I'll dream of a bright pink Dalek that rolls around in mad circles with a hose screaming COMMUNICATE!!!
You had gone looking for Lucienne late in the morning because two of the books on Mesopotamian transfer rites had contradicted one another so completely that you wanted someone else to confirm ancient priests had apparently been every bit as incapable of consistent documentation as modern bureaucrats.
Her office was empty.
You checked the nearest reading tables.
Nothing.
Eventually, one of the assistant librarians told you Lucienne had gone to one of the smaller council rooms adjoining the throne hall.
So you took the western passage because it was quicker.
You were halfway down the adjoining corridor when voices carried through a set of partially open doors.
Lucienne.
The Corinthian.
Morpheus.
You slowed.
You would have continued walking.
Probably.
Then the Corinthian said:
“Just so we're clear about something, boss. If she leaves tomorrow, which one of us is following her?”
You stopped.
Completely.
There was a short silence from inside.
Then Morpheus answered.
“No one.”
The Corinthian sounded genuinely surprised.
“No one.”
“That is what I said.”
You should have moved.
You did not.
Instead you stepped slightly closer to the curve in the corridor, far enough from the doorway that you remained out of sight.
The Corinthian continued.
“I'm asking because you brought me back for two things. Watching Prince Charming while he was under your roof—”
You rolled your eyes automatically.
Valí would love that.
“—and helping you find out what was happening in the Waking World with all those missing relics.”
“Yes.”
You could practically hear the grin in the Corinthian's voice.
Then his tone became more practical.
“So the point is, if our girl goes back to the Waking World, she's going to be standing directly in the middle of everything we're already investigating, and I –“
Morpheus interrupted.
“You will not follow her.”
The Corinthian was quiet for a moment.
“At all?”
“At all.”
That caught you.
You leaned lightly against the wall.
Then Morpheus continued.
“The investigation into the missing artefacts remains necessary regardless of her decision tomorrow, and as such, it will continue. But that does not mean she needs to be babysat.”
The Corinthian exhaled with audible relief.
“Good. Because, frankly, I have no desire to get blown apart by whatever she's doing with that gold shit now. She scares me.”
You almost laughed.
Almost.
Then Lucienne spoke again.
“On that matter, my lord, does she know the investigation into the artefacts will continue if she leaves?”
Silence.
Only a second.
Then:
“Yes.”
Lucienne asked:
“You told her?”
“It was included in the material I gave her after our disagreement.”
Your throat tightened faintly at the clinical description.
Our disagreement.
As though you had not nearly walked out of his realm on the spot.
Morpheus continued.
“She was informed that the disappearance of the artefacts remains unresolved and that I intend to determine whether Ereshkigal's account of another interested party possesses any truth.”
“And she did not object?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then, more quietly:
“She objected to being investigated. Not to the investigation itself.”
You went still.
He understood the difference.
Of course he did now.
Lucienne said:
“Then the Corinthian may continue following the artefact trail.”
“Yes.”
Morpheus's voice sharpened.
“The investigation concerns the missing objects, the failed rite and those who may have participated in either. It does not grant anyone authority to observe her movements.”
The Corinthian gave a low whistle.
“You really have thought this through.”
No response.
The Corinthian apparently decided that was invitation enough.
“So just to make sure I've got it: if she's living in London and I happen to be in London—”
“You will not ‘happen’ to be wherever she is.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“Fine. If the relics take me to London.”
“Then you will investigate the relics.”
“And if I see her?”
“You may greet her.”
The Corinthian laughed.
“Generous.”
Morpheus ignored that.
“If she wishes to speak with you, you may speak with her. If she does not, you will leave her alone.”
There was a pause.
Then the Corinthian asked:
“What if I notice something she doesn't?”
The room quieted.
That question changed the conversation.
Morpheus's answer came more slowly.
“Define something.”
“Someone following her. A god watching her. One of Ereshkigal's people waiting outside wherever she's staying. Something dangerous.”
Morpheus said nothing for several seconds.
You could almost see him thinking.
Old instinct against new understanding.
Finally:
“If she is unaware of a credible threat, she is to be informed.”
“By me?”
“If you are the one who discovers it.”
“And then?”
A pause.
“Then the decision is hers.”
Silence.
You stared at the wall.
The Corinthian said:
“I'm sorry.”
His tone became suspiciously delighted.
“Could you repeat that?”
“Do not test me.”
Definitely Morpheus.
Lucienne spoke, and you could hear the faint amusement she was trying to hide.
“The instruction was quite clear.”
“I'm making certain I heard him correctly.”
The Corinthian sounded far too entertained.
“Because historically, ‘tell her she's about to do something stupid and then let her do it anyway’ hasn't exactly been palace policy.”
You winced.
No one answered immediately.
Then Morpheus:
“No.”
Quiet.
No defensiveness.
No attempt to explain.
“It has not.”
Your chest tightened.
The Corinthian seemed to realise he had pushed far enough.
When he spoke again, the humour had faded.
“All right.”
A pause.
“Then what exactly are the rules now, my lord?”
Morpheus answered with the measured precision of someone who had thought about those rules far more than he wanted anyone to know.
“If she leaves this realm, no subject of the Dreaming is to follow her without her knowledge.”
A beat.
“No one is to observe her through dreams, mirrors, thresholds, ravens, nightmares or any other means available to this realm.”
You swallowed.
“If she chooses to contact Lucienne, Matthew, Nuala, yourself or any other inhabitant of the Dreaming, she may do so.”
The Corinthian interrupted.
“Touched to make the list.”
“Be silent.”
“There he is.”
Lucienne made a sound suspiciously like a cough.
Morpheus continued.
“No communication from her is to be interpreted as permission to observe her beyond what she explicitly requests.”
You leaned more heavily against the wall.
He had thought about everything.
Of course he had.
Lucienne asked:
“And if she accepts one form of protection but refuses another?”
“Then only what she accepts will be provided.”
“If she later changes her mind?”
“Then her decision changes.”
Another pause.
“She is not to be made to justify it.”
Something in your chest twisted.
The Corinthian was quiet for several seconds.
Then:
“And if she does something you would not ordinarily approve of and I happen to notice? By chance of course.”
Your eyes narrowed.
Promising.
Morpheus answered.
“She is entitled to make decisions with which I disagree and you are not to intervene.”
Silence.
You almost leaned around the corner just to make absolutely certain it was still him.
The Corinthian apparently felt the same.
“I'm sorry, boss. That one really does deserve repeating.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
Morpheus's voice dropped.
“Corinthian.”
“Stopping.”
The Corinthian's voice was quieter when he asked:
“What if she calls for help?”
The answer was immediate.
No hesitation.
No restraint.
“Then you respond.”
Something in Morpheus's tone made your throat tighten.
“Immediately.”
A beat.
“Whatever else she has previously asked of us, a request for aid supersedes it for as long as she wishes that aid given.”
The Corinthian asked:
“And if she asks one of us to bring her back here?”
“You bring her home.”
The answer came so naturally that for several seconds no one spoke.
Home.
Your eyes opened.
The word settled strangely beneath your ribs.
Morpheus had realised what he had said.
You knew he had.
He corrected nothing.
You stepped back then.
You had heard enough.
More than enough.
The Corinthian's original question now seemed almost absurdly simple.
Which one of us is following her?
No one.
Not Matthew.
Not the Corinthian.
Not a dream.
Not Morpheus himself.
He was preparing to let you walk into a world full of things that terrified him—
and then trust you to decide what happened next.
You left before any of them could discover you had heard a word.
**********
You walked without knowing where you were going.
Through the palace.
Out into the courtyard.
Down one of the paths.
Your feet carried you into the gardens.
Not the eastern garden where Morpheus had apologised.
Somewhere quieter.
You sat on the edge of a fountain.
Water moved upwards from the pool, gathered briefly into the shape of birds, and dissolved again before reaching the branches overhead.
You barely saw it.
Then you bring her home.
The words kept repeating in your head.
Home.
Not the Dreaming.
Not the palace.
Home.
You had wanted this.
You had wanted the right to leave.
The right to refuse him.
The right to tell the King of Dreams to stay out of your dreams and know, absolutely, that he would obey.
You had wanted proof that if you walked away, he would let you.
So why had the part where he said he would bring you home if you asked made your chest ache?
You rubbed your palms against your knees.
He was preparing himself to let you disappear from his life if you asked.
Entirely.
Not because he wanted you to.
Surely not.
But because you had demanded the choice.
And Morpheus, once he finally understood what respecting it required, had apparently decided to take the principle to its most brutal conclusion.
You sat there for a long time.
******
You found Lucienne that afternoon.
Or perhaps she found you.
You were back in the library, technically working.
In reality you had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly twenty minutes.
Lucienne appeared beside the table.
“That text is generally considered tedious, but not usually hypnotic.”
You looked up.
“Funny.”
She sat opposite you.
You stared at her.
Lucienne waited.
You lasted approximately eight seconds.
“Does he actually want me to go?”
Lucienne's eyebrows rose.
For one extraordinary second, she looked as though she might laugh.
Not mockingly.
Simply because the answer was apparently so obvious that the question had surprised her.
She recovered.
“No.”
You blinked.
That was more direct than expected.
“Oh.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“My lord is preparing for your departure because he promised you that he would.”
You looked down.
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
She leaned back slightly.
“He does not want you to leave.”
Something warm and painful moved through you.
You hated how immediately relieved you felt.
“Then why hasn't he said that?”
Lucienne's expression became carefully neutral.
“Perhaps that is a question for him.”
You glared.
“No.”
“No?”
“I'm not dragging it out of him.”
Lucienne adjusted her spectacles.
“I see.”
“If he wants me here, he can say it.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“He has words.”
A faint smile.
“Many.”
“Far too many, usually.”
“Indeed.”
You folded your arms.
“He can deliver a six-minute speech about why a chair is improperly placed, but apparently ‘I would prefer you didn't leave’ is beyond him.”
Lucienne's smile deepened.
“You appear frustrated.”
“I'm not frustrated.”
She said nothing.
“Fine. I'm frustrated.”
You looked towards the distant shelves.
“He told me my presence is important to him.”
Lucienne's expression did something strange.
Very small.
Like someone being forced not to react to information they already possessed.
You noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“Lucienne.”
“I am the librarian.”
“That is evasive.”
“Deliberately.”
You leaned across the table.
“Did he talk to you about me?”
Lucienne held your gaze.
“That is a conversation you would need to have with him.”
You groaned and dropped back into your chair.
“Everyone in this realm is infuriating.”
“You've adapted remarkably well.”
You glared.
She smiled.
Then her expression softened.
“I will tell you this.”
You looked up.
Lucienne glanced briefly towards the tall windows.
“I have served Lord Morpheus for longer than most beings can meaningfully comprehend.”
A pause.
“I have seen him prepare for war with less attention than he has devoted to ensuring your departure can occur safely.”
Your chest tightened.
“That's not exactly comforting.”
“It was not intended to be.”
She looked directly at you.
“I have never seen him work so diligently towards an outcome he so clearly dreads.”
You swallowed.
Lucienne reached for one of the books on your table.
“What you choose to do with that knowledge is yours.”
“You're not going to tell me what I should choose either?”
“Certainly not.”
You looked suspiciously at her.
“You've all been discussing this.”
“We have all learned something this week.”
You snorted.
“Apparently.”
*******
Morpheus kept his distance for most of day six.
That became increasingly noticeable.
Not because he avoided you.
He did not.
You crossed paths twice.
Once outside the throne room.
Once near the library.
Both times he stopped.
Acknowledged you.
Asked nothing.
The second time, you were carrying too many books.
His gaze moved to the stack.
For half a second his hand lifted as though he intended to take some.
He stopped himself.
“Would you like assistance?”
You stared at him over the top of the books.
“They're books, Morpheus. Not a siege engine.”
“That was not an answer.”
There it was again.
You sighed.
“Take the top three.”
He did.
Nothing more.
He walked with you to the library.
Not close enough to crowd you.
Not far enough to feel formal.
You talked about nothing important.
Lucienne's categorisation system.
A dispute involving two dreams who both claimed ownership of the same staircase.
Matthew stealing food from one of the kitchens and insisting ravens could not technically commit theft.
For ten minutes, it was easy.
Then you reached your table.
Morpheus placed the books down.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Both remembered the seven days.
The ease vanished.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
He left.
You watched him go.
******
Later that evening, Matthew found Lucienne alone in the library.
He landed on her desk with all the subtlety of falling masonry.
Lucienne did not look up.
“No.”
Matthew blinked.
“I didn't even ask anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Okay, that's creepy.”
Lucienne turned a page.
Matthew shuffled closer.
“Do you think he's going to tell her?”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“Tell her what?”
Matthew stared.
“Seriously?”
“I prefer specificity.”
“That he's in love with her.”
Lucienne sighed.
“That is not mine to discuss.”
“Come on.”
Matthew lowered his voice unnecessarily.
“She could leave tomorrow.”
Lucienne's expression softened slightly.
“I am aware.”
“And he's just going to let her?”
“He gave his word.”
“I know, but—”
Matthew hopped once across the desk.
“What if she goes because she thinks he doesn't care if she stays?”
Lucienne removed her spectacles.
“That possibility has been explained to him.”
“And?”
“He remains himself.”
Matthew groaned.
“Unbelievable.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Quite.”
“So he knows he loves her.”
Lucienne gave him a look.
Matthew corrected himself.
“Okay. Not asking you to confirm. But everyone with functioning eyes knows.”
Lucienne put her spectacles back on.
“Apparently not everyone.”
“She knows something.”
“Perhaps.”
“She keeps looking at him like she wants to either kiss him or throw something.”
Lucienne turned another page.
“Those impulses need not be mutually exclusive.”
Matthew stared.
“Lucienne.”
She finally smiled.
Matthew shook his feathers.
“You think she's staying?”
Lucienne's smile disappeared.
“I don't know.”
That sobered him.
He looked towards the distant doors.
“He really thinks she might go.”
“Yes.”
“And he's still not going to say it.”
Lucienne was quiet.
“He may.”
Matthew stared at her.
“You don't believe that.”
“I have faith in his capacity for change.”
“That's not the same thing.”
Lucienne sighed.
“No.”
Matthew lowered himself slightly on the desk.
“If she leaves, this place is going to be unbearable.”
“Matthew.”
“I'm serious. We've already had one storm.”
Lucienne gave him a warning look.
“Do not encourage the realm.”
Matthew looked towards the ceiling.
“You hear that? No dramatic weather.”
Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled.
Matthew froze.
Lucienne slowly closed her eyes.
“Matthew.”
“Not me.”
*******
That night, you could not sleep.
You tried.
You turned off the lamps.
Lay down.
Closed your eyes.
Opened them again.
Rolled over.
Pulled the blankets up.
Kicked them down.
Eventually you gave up and sat against the headboard.
The room was dark except for moonlight spilling through the curtains.
Tomorrow was Day Seven.
The final day.
The agreement had been simple.
Seven days.
If, at the end of them, you still wished to leave, Morpheus would release the treaty entirely.
No loophole.
No further delay.
You knew he would do it now.
That certainty had become almost painful.
You pulled your knees up.
Leaving.
You tried to imagine it properly.
The threshold opening.
Stepping through.
Returning to the Waking World.
The first morning somewhere Morpheus did not rule.
The knowledge that no one had the right to order you back.
Freedom.
Proof.
You could make decisions without wondering whether the Dreaming itself was shaping them.
You could find out who you were outside his protection.
Outside his influence.
Outside this strange life you had fallen into.
There was something compelling about that.
Necessary, even.
But then—
Staying.
You saw the library.
Nuala laughing while arranging flowers.
Austin pretending not to be terrified of Morpheus.
Valí sitting on the wall in Fiddler's Green.
Matthew stealing food.
Your training hall.
The paths beyond the palace.
The lake with the wrong sky.
Your growing control over your power.
The room that had slowly become yours.
Chess.
Morpheus.
You closed your eyes.
There he was.
Of course.
You missed him while he was twenty corridors away.
You missed a routine you could resume by walking through one door.
You had spent the week furious with him partly because what he had done mattered so much specifically because he had done it.
If Zeus had hidden the treaty provision, you would have expected it.
If Odin had, you would have despised him and moved on.
Morpheus—
You had trusted.
You still wanted to.
That was why it hurt.
And somewhere beneath the anger, somewhere you had been refusing to examine too closely, you suspected your feelings for him had moved well beyond fondness.
Possibly beyond anything sensible.
You stared into the dark.
“Fuck.”
The word disappeared into the room.
You were not ready to call it love.
Not yet.
Perhaps because if you did, tomorrow became much more frightening.
You thought about what Valí had said.
Don't mistake escape for freedom if there's nothing you're actually escaping anymore.
You hated that sentence.
You suspected you would hate it for years.
Then something became clear.
Not whether you would stay.
Something before that.
The treaty had to end.
Completely.
No matter what you chose afterwards.
You could not stay because Zeus had handed you to Dream.
You could not stay because a cosmic agreement called you a pledge.
You could not stay because Morpheus technically held a claim he had chosen not to enforce.
If you remained in the Dreaming, it had to begin after all of that ended.
You had to reach the threshold.
Actually see it.
Know the way was open.
Know Morpheus would let you cross.
Only then could staying mean anything.
You looked towards the window.
Tomorrow, you would leave.
At least as far as the threshold.
What happened there—
You did not know yet.
For the first time all night, the uncertainty did not frighten you.
********
Day Seven
The seventh morning was clear.
No rain.
No clouds.
No strange celestial events.
The Dreaming looked almost deliberately neutral, as though the realm itself had been warned not to interfere.
You dressed slowly.
Breakfast sat mostly untouched.
You drank tea.
Tried toast.
Abandoned it.
No Morpheus.
You wondered if he knew what day it was.
That was absurd.
Morpheus probably knew the exact number of seconds remaining in the agreement.
You spent the morning in the library.
Not working.
Pretending.
Lucienne did not comment when you turned the same page twice without reading either side.
Nuala appeared around midday.
She hugged you.
Not a goodbye.
Not explicitly.
That almost made it worse.
“Whatever you choose…”
She stopped herself.
You looked at her.
Nuala smiled faintly.
“No. I promised myself I wouldn't say anything dreadful and sentimental.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed.
Then squeezed your hand.
“I shall see you later.”
Not I hope.
Not if.
You loved her for that.
“Later.”
Valí found you near the library doors.
He looked nervous.
You folded your arms.
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you're about to say something meaningful.”
Valí looked offended.
“Maybe I was going to ask what you thought of my shirt.”
You looked at it.
“Terrible.”
“See? Now you've ruined the moment.”
You smiled.
Then his expression softened.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Finally:
“Be selfish.”
You frowned.
Valí lifted a shoulder.
“That's all.”
“That sounds like advice.”
“Barely.”
He looked at you.
“Whatever you do, do it because you want it.”
You swallowed.
“I can accept that.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“And if you leave, don't disappear forever.”
You looked at him.
“Valí.”
“I know. Selfish.”
You surprised both of you by hugging him.
Briefly.
He froze.
Then hugged you back.
Carefully.
When you pulled away, his eyes looked suspiciously bright.
You pointed at him.
“Don't.”
“Wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
You left before either of you could make it worse.
********
Morpheus was in the throne room.
Of course he was.
You found him at the foot of the dais speaking with Lucienne.
He noticed you before you reached the doors.
His voice stopped.
Lucienne turned.
Her eyes moved from you to him.
Something passed across her face.
Then she gathered the documents in her arms.
“My lord.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne gave him a look you could not interpret from this distance.
Possibly encouragement.
Possibly a threat.
Then she walked towards you.
She paused as she passed.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hi.”
Her fingers touched your arm briefly.
Then she left.
The doors closed behind her.
You and Morpheus were alone.
The throne room had never felt larger.
He stood in black at the foot of the stairs.
You walked towards him.
Every step sounded too loud.
He did not come to meet you.
Perhaps because he was giving you the choice of distance even now.
You stopped several feet away.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
Neither spoke.
You had imagined this conversation several times during the night.
In none of those imagined versions had your mouth gone completely dry.
You forced yourself to speak.
“It's been seven days.”
Morpheus went very still.
“Yes.”
No question.
He did not ask what you had decided.
Of course he didn't.
He was going to make you say it yourself.
You looked at the throne behind him.
The windows.
The vast hall.
Anything except his face.
Then you made yourself look back.
“I wish to leave.”
Nothing happened.
That was the first thing you noticed.
No storm.
No darkness.
No crack in the marble.
Morpheus's expression barely changed.
But the room became unnaturally still.
The banners stopped moving.
The distant flames ceased flickering.
Even the dust motes suspended in shafts of light seemed to hang motionless.
The Dreaming had heard you.
So had he.
For one terrible second you wanted him to argue.
You wanted him to say no.
Not because you wanted to be controlled.
Because some irrational, wounded part of you wanted proof that losing you hurt enough for him to fail at restraint.
Instead Morpheus held your gaze.
And said:
“Very well.”
Two words.
Calm.
Measured.
Devastating.
Your chest hurt.
Immediately.
Which was absurd.
This was exactly what you had demanded.
You had spent a week forcing him to understand that your decision had to be yours.
He had understood.
Now he was honouring it.
And apparently you were offended.
You stared at him.
Morpheus said nothing else.
“That's it?”
The question escaped.
His expression shifted.
Barely.
“You told me that if, after seven days, you still wished to depart, I was to honour that choice.”
“I know what I told you.”
Something pained moved through his eyes.
“Then yes.”
Your throat tightened.
“You're not going to argue.”
“No.”
“You're not going to tell me I'm making a mistake.”
A pause.
“No.”
That pause mattered.
You folded your arms.
“Do you think I'm making one?”
His eyes held yours.
For a moment you thought he might finally say it.
Stay.
Not as an order.
Not as a king.
Just—
Stay.
Instead:
“What I think should not determine what you choose.”
You almost screamed.
“That wasn't my question.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
There was a flash of the man beneath the king.
“No.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Answering around everything.”
His expression darkened.
“I have answered every question you have asked of me this week.”
“Technically.”
“Truthfully.”
“Barely.”
A flicker of frustration.
Then it disappeared.
Morpheus breathed in.
Unnecessary, probably.
Something he did when attempting to regulate words that wanted to become something else.
“You have chosen.”
You stared.
“Yes.”
The lie tasted strange.
Not entirely a lie.
You had chosen to go to the threshold.
That was all.
Morpheus looked at you for another long moment.
Then he inclined his head.
Formal.
Too formal.
“Then the treaty shall end, and you shall be free to leave this realm.”
You swallowed.
“Okay.”
The word sounded smaller than you intended.
Morpheus held your gaze.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then he said:
“By seventh bell.”
You frowned slightly.
“By seventh bell?”
“The release must be completed before you cross beyond the boundary of my realm.”
His voice had become formal again.
Measured.
Careful.
“At seventh bell, I shall meet you here.”
A pause.
“And I will take you to the threshold.”
Your throat tightened.
You nodded.
“Okay.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Neither seemed quite capable of ending the conversation.
Eventually you said:
“Good.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Good.”
It was ridiculous.
Awful.
You hated how much that one word hurt.
You turned before your face could betray you.
“Then I'll see you at seven.”
“Yes.”
You took several steps.
Behind you, Morpheus said nothing.
You almost looked back.
Almost.
You didn't.
The throne room doors closed behind you.
*****
Morpheus remained exactly where you had left him.
For several moments, he did not move.
The throne room had returned to stillness, though not the unnatural stillness that had followed your declaration.
This was different.
Empty.
He looked towards the doors through which you had gone.
Seven days ago, he had promised you freedom.
Now you had chosen it.
That should have been the end of the matter.
His word had been given.
Your decision had been made.
And yet every instinct within him recoiled from it.
He could still stop you.
That knowledge came without invitation.
The treaty remained in force until he released it.
The Dreaming belonged to him.
The threshold would not open unless he permitted it.
He could delay.
Argue.
Find some new threat.
Some new reason why another day was necessary.
Ereshkigal remained dangerous.
Odin remained dangerous.
The missing artefacts had not been found.
Your power remained incomplete in its control.
There were a dozen reasons he could offer.
Some of them true.
All of them insufficient.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
He had done this before.
Not this precisely.
But enough.
Nada came first.
As she so often did when memory wished to be cruel.
A mortal queen.
Proud.
Brilliant.
Terrified by what loving him had cost her.
She had chosen.
She had told him no.
And he had refused to accept that her choice could stand simply because it wounded him.
He had called it betrayal.
He had called it pride.
He had told himself she had acted wrongly.
He had punished her for refusing the future he had imagined for them.
Ten thousand years.
Even now the number carried shame.
Not because he had loved her.
Because he had believed love entitled him to reject her answer.
His expression tightened.
Then Calliope.
Different.
No Hell.
No sentence.
But the same old failure buried beneath it.
He had loved her and believed that love ought to determine what came next.
He had struggled to accept the distance she chose.
The life she chose.
The fact that grief had changed them into people who could no longer remain what they had been.
Again and again, Morpheus had mistaken the depth of his feeling for authority.
He had believed that because he loved, because he feared loss, because he endured longer than those he loved—
his preference should carry greater weight.
Lucienne's words returned to him.
You do not have the right to decide her answer.
No.
He did not.
And neither did his fear.
Morpheus opened his eyes.
He thought of you in the training hall.
Furious.
Demanding.
Alive.
He thought of the way you had looked at him when you discovered the release provision.
Not merely angry.
Betrayed.
Because you had trusted him.
That had been the wound.
Not the treaty alone.
Him.
He had told himself he was protecting you.
He had believed that made him different from Zeus.
From Odin.
From every god who had ever looked at you and seen something to be managed.
Something to be positioned.
Something too dangerous to choose badly.
But when the decision had frightened him, he had done what they had done.
He had placed his judgment above yours.
Not again.
The words were silent.
Absolute.
You wished to leave.
Then he would let you leave.
Even if every part of him wanted to stand before the threshold and ask you to remain.
Even if the thought of returning to his chambers afterwards and finding the chessboard untouched made something inside him feel unbearably hollow.
Even if the palace would feel wrong without your voice carrying down its corridors.
Even if the Dreaming itself had already begun to understand you as part of it.
Your choice did not become less valid because it caused him pain.
That was the lesson he had refused too many times.
He would not refuse it again.
Morpheus looked towards the windows.
Beyond them, the Dreaming stretched endlessly beneath a pale sky.
Somewhere within it, you were moving through his realm for what he believed might be the final time as someone who lived there.
The thought nearly undid him.
He allowed himself one moment.
No more.
Then his face settled.
The King of Dreams returned.
By seventh bell, the treaty would be dissolved.
By seventh bell, the threshold would open.
And if you stepped through it, he would not stop you.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Day Five
By the fifth day, your anger had changed shape.
It was still there.
You had not forgiven Morpheus.
You had not forgotten the moment you discovered he had known you could leave and had decided, deliberately, not to tell you.
That betrayal remained hard and ugly beneath everything else.
But the first white-hot fury had faded enough that another problem had begun to emerge beneath it.
You no longer wanted to leave simply because you were angry with Morpheus.
That had been easier.
Anger gave everything a clean edge. He had betrayed your trust, so you would leave. Simple. Punishment and freedom wrapped neatly together.
Now it was not.
Now you could no longer tell whether you genuinely wanted a life outside the Dreaming—
or whether leaving felt like the only way to prove, to yourself as much as anyone else, that Morpheus no longer controlled whether you stayed.
Those were not the same thing.
And unfortunately, you were beginning to realise the difference mattered.
You discovered this somewhere around midday while sitting on a hill in Fiddler's Green.
You had been permitted beyond the palace grounds alone for the first time that morning.
Not permitted, actually.
That word had become complicated.
Morpheus had simply informed you after your last training that the boundaries previously restricting you to the palace had been removed.
Completely.
You had stared at him.
“Removed?”
“Yes.”
“As in I can go into the rest of the Dreaming without you.”
“Yes.”
You had waited for the qualification.
There wasn't one.
“Anywhere?”
“Within the Dreaming, yes.”
“Without supervision?”
A tiny pause.
Perhaps because he understood exactly how absurd the question would have sounded coming from anyone else.
“Yes.”
You had folded your arms.
“The Corinthian isn't going to mysteriously happen to be walking twenty feet behind me?”
“No.”
“Matthew?”
“No.”
“You?”
His expression had changed slightly.
“No.”
You had stared.
“You won't know where I am?”
“I am the Dreaming.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
Morpheus continued before you could accuse him of anything.
“I may become aware of disturbances within my realm, as I would with any other. I will not follow your movements.”
That distinction mattered.
You hated that so many distinctions mattered now.
“And if I decide to walk directly into something dangerous?”
His jaw had tightened.
There.
Old Morpheus.
The one who wanted to say you will not.
You watched him fight with himself for several seconds.
Then:
“I would advise you against it.”
You waited.
“And?”
A longer pause.
“And you would remain free to disregard that advice.”
You had almost asked whether saying the words physically injured him.
You restrained yourself.
Mostly because he looked as though they might.
So you had gone.
Alone.
For the first twenty minutes, you kept expecting someone to appear.
A raven overhead.
A nightmare conveniently travelling in the same direction.
A shadow that moved when yours did not.
Nothing.
The further you walked from the palace, the stranger the sensation became.
No guard.
No invisible boundary tightening around your ribs.
No voice telling you that you had gone far enough.
The Dreaming simply opened.
Paths appeared beneath your feet when you chose a direction.
Fields unfolded beneath impossible skies.
Once, you passed a small village where every house appeared to have been built from folded letters. Words moved across the walls when the wind blew.
A woman with a bird's head sold glass jars containing remembered smells.
Another road brought you past a river flowing uphill.
You stopped there for several minutes simply because you could.
Then you continued.
Eventually, without consciously deciding upon it, you found yourself heading towards Fiddler's Green.
Perhaps because you knew it.
Perhaps because some part of you wanted somewhere familiar while testing what freedom actually felt like.
The Green greeted you with sunlight.
Real sunlight, or something close enough that the distinction did not matter.
Long grass moved in warm waves beneath the breeze. Wildflowers scattered across the hills in impossible colours. Trees bent gently over narrow paths that seemed to choose themselves as you walked.
No palace walls.
No throne room.
No training hall.
No Morpheus.
You climbed one of the hills and sat beneath a large oak.
For a while, you did nothing.
That itself felt strange.
You had spent so much of the last few months being watched, studied, trained, protected, investigated or argued over that sitting entirely alone beneath a tree felt almost radical.
You leaned back on your hands.
A field of small purple flowers stretched below you.
Far away, something resembling a stag crossed between the trees with stars suspended between its antlers.
You watched until it disappeared.
The Dreaming was beautiful.
That was inconvenient.
You had known it was beautiful before.
But there was a difference between being shown something beautiful while technically confined within it and choosing to walk into it alone.
You pulled one knee towards your chest.
This was not the tower.
Not anymore.
It had not been for some time.
The Dreaming had become—
You stopped the thought.
Then forced yourself to finish it.
Home.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
But perhaps the closest thing you currently had to one.
The realisation made you deeply uncomfortable.
You looked across the Green.
You loved the library.
That was undeniable.
You loved Lucienne's endless patience and the particular way she removed her spectacles when preparing to tell someone they were being ridiculous.
You loved Nuala.
You liked Austin, despite the complications.
Even Valí had somehow become part of your life again those last few days, awkwardly rebuilding something you had thought his lies had ruined.
You knew which palace servants brought extra chocolate when you had trained badly.
You knew which corridors changed location when they were bored.
You knew that the gargoyle near the eastern courtyard hated pigeons.
You knew that Mervyn complained about everything and would become suspicious if anyone offered to help.
You knew that the Corinthian was an appalling influence and far funnier than anyone sensible ought to permit.
You knew which stars above the palace were real stars and which were dreams of stars.
Which books Lucienne pretended not to notice you taking.
Which dreams avoided you because they were still frightened of your power.
Which ones had begun waving when they saw you.
And your power—
That was different now too.
It still frightened you.
It probably always would, at least a little.
But it no longer felt like something entirely separate living beneath your skin.
Training had changed that.
Morpheus had changed that.
Another deeply inconvenient thought.
You picked a blade of grass and twisted it around your finger.
Then there was chess.
You missed chess.
That was almost embarrassing in itself.
You did not even particularly care about chess.
Not really.
You cared about chess with him.
The wine.
The pretzels.
The milk chocolate he pretended had not begun appearing specifically because you liked it.
His expression when you made an objectively terrible move simply to annoy him.
The way he sat completely still while thinking even though you knew perfectly well he had already calculated half the game.
The conversations that happened around the board.
The silences.
Morpheus.
Your fingers tightened around the blade of grass.
There it was.
The most inconvenient item on the list.
You missed Morpheus.
Not in the abstract.
Not the King of Dreams.
Not your protector.
Not the being who had accepted responsibility for you under some ancient divine treaty.
Him.
You missed his company while actively sharing a realm with him.
He was perhaps twenty minutes away if distance in the Dreaming was behaving normally.
And you missed him.
You dropped the grass.
“Bloody ridiculous.”
A nearby tree rustled.
You looked at it suspiciously.
“Don't you start.”
The tree did nothing.
Probably.
You lay back against the hill and stared at the sky.
What would leaving actually mean?
Not symbolically.
Not as punishment.
Practically.
You could go to the Waking World.
Find somewhere safe enough to live.
Try to rebuild something resembling an ordinary life.
Sleep beneath a ward designed by the King of Dreams while pretending your father was not Zeus and a Mesopotamian goddess had not apparently placed part of her power inside you before you were old enough to speak.
Ordinary might be beyond you now.
But outside the Dreaming, at least every decision would be visibly yours.
That mattered.
You needed it to matter.
You needed to know you could leave.
But did you actually want to?
That question had become much harder.
*********
Training that afternoon went better than it had in weeks.
Possibly because Morpheus did not quite know what to do with you when you arrived smiling slightly from having spent half the day wandering through his realm alone.
He stood near the centre of the hall as you entered.
His eyes moved over you automatically.
Checking.
You recognised it now.
No injury.
No obvious magical contamination.
No indication that you had accidentally offended an ancient nightmare, wandered into someone else's dream or started an international incident during your first unsupervised excursion.
Then his gaze settled on your face.
“You enjoyed yourself.”
It was not quite a question.
You dropped your bag onto the bench.
“I did.”
A pause.
“Fiddler's Green is lovely.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not offence.
Perhaps relief.
“The Green was pleased by your visit.”
You looked at him.
“It told you?”
“Somewhat.”
You considered asking what somewhat meant when one was speaking about a sentient geographical location.
Then decided you did not particularly care.
“Good. I insulted one of his trees.”
Morpheus's brow lowered.
“Why?”
“It was judging me.”
A beat.
“I see.”
“You don't.”
“No.”
You almost smiled.
Then training began.
For months, most of your lessons had centred upon one essential principle.
Containment.
Feel the power rise.
Recognise it before it spread.
Pull it inward.
Do not let attraction become adoration.
Do not let irritation become aggression.
Do not allow every living thing within sight of you to become an unwilling extension of whatever you happened to be feeling.
You had become considerably better at it.
Not perfect.
But better.
Today, apparently, Morpheus had decided that merely preventing catastrophe was no longer ambitious enough.
When you entered the practice circle, there were no dream constructs waiting inside it.
Instead, six tall black pillars stood around the perimeter.
Each was perhaps chest-height.
And suspended above every pillar was a sphere of clear glass.
You frowned.
“What are those?”
“Receptacles.”
“For what?”
Morpheus looked at you.
You looked at him.
Then realised.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Your eyebrows rose.
That sounded almost like something you would say.
Morpheus apparently realised it too and looked faintly displeased with himself.
You pointed towards the spheres.
“You want me to put my power in those.”
“Into one of them.”
“Why?”
“Because restraint and control are not synonymous.”
You folded your arms.
“We've done this lecture.”
“Then you should remember it.”
“I remember most of your lectures. They're difficult to forget because they usually last several centuries.”
Morpheus ignored that.
He moved towards the nearest pillar.
“Until now, you have learned primarily to prevent your power from acting upon impulse.”
He touched the glass sphere.
It immediately darkened.
“But suppression leaves you dependent upon never needing to use it.”
Your amusement faded slightly.
That made sense.
Morpheus continued.
“You require the ability not only to contain what you are, but to decide where it goes.”
You glanced around the circle.
“So what exactly am I doing?”
Morpheus stepped outside the boundary.
The six spheres brightened.
Numbers appeared inside them.
One through six.
“When I give you a number, you will direct your power into the corresponding vessel.”
You stared.
“That's it?”
His gaze sharpened faintly.
“You may reserve judgement until you have attempted it.”
That was never a good sign.
You planted your feet.
“Fine.”
Morpheus raised one hand.
“Three.”
You looked towards the third sphere.
Easy.
Or it should have been.
You drew a breath and allowed the power beneath your ribs to rise.
Gold warmth unfurled through your chest.
Your fingers tingled.
You focused on the third sphere.
Nothing.
The gold expanded around you instead.
All six spheres flashed.
Morpheus said:
“Stop.”
You crushed the power back down.
The lights vanished.
You stared at the pillars.
“That was rude.”
“The vessels did nothing.”
“They all lit up.”
“Because you did precisely what you have always done.”
You glanced at him.
“Failed?”
“Expanded.”
“Much kinder.”
Morpheus stepped closer to the circle.
“Again.”
You exhaled.
“Three.”
Power rose.
You stared at the third sphere.
Gold gathered around your hands.
You tried to push it towards the target.
All six spheres flickered again.
“Stop.”
You dropped your head backwards.
“This is impossible.”
“No.”
“Very persuasive.”
“Your power presently behaves according to proximity and attention.”
Morpheus walked slowly around the circle.
“You are accustomed to experiencing it as something which moves outward of its own accord.”
“Because it does.”
“Only because you permit instinct to choose its direction.”
You frowned.
That annoyed you enough to listen.
He stopped opposite you.
“Do not think of containing it and then releasing it.”
“What do I think of?”
“Holding it.”
You stared.
“That's the same thing.”
“It is not.”
Of course.
Morpheus and his microscopic distinctions.
He held out his hand.
Sand gathered above his palm.
Not much.
Only a small golden swirl.
“Observe.”
The sand rose.
For a moment it simply hovered.
Then it moved towards the nearest sphere.
Stopped.
Changed direction.
Passed to another.
Curved around a pillar.
Returned to his hand.
You looked at him.
“Showing off.”
“Demonstrating.”
“Showing off elegantly.”
The sand vanished.
“Your power is not the same.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“But the principle is the same.”
He looked towards your hands.
“Do not throw it.”
A pause.
“Guide it.”
You breathed in.
Again.
The warmth rose.
This time you did not immediately push it anywhere.
That was surprisingly difficult.
Your instinct was always binary.
Suppress it.
Or lose it.
Instead you let it gather.
Gold shimmered beneath your skin.
Around your fingers.
Along your forearms.
You felt the moment it wanted to burst outward.
You stopped it.
Not shoved it down.
Stopped it.
Held it.
Your eyes widened slightly.
Morpheus saw.
“There.”
The power trembled.
“I can feel it.”
“Good.”
His voice lowered.
“Now choose.”
You looked towards sphere three.
Not push.
Choose.
You imagined the gold moving there.
Nothing happened.
Then—
one narrow strand pulled free.
You nearly lost your concentration from surprise.
“Don't—”
Morpheus began.
Too late.
The strand snapped outward.
Sphere three flashed.
So did four and five.
You groaned.
“It nearly worked.”
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
There had been no hesitation.
No better.
No careful, reserved assessment.
Just yes.
You reset your stance.
“Again.”
Something warm flickered in his expression.
“Three.”
This time you knew what you were looking for.
The power gathered.
You held it.
Waited through the instinctive pressure to let it expand.
Then chose.
The strand emerged more slowly.
It stretched towards the third sphere.
Wavered.
Veered towards two.
You clenched your jaw.
“No.”
The gold bent.
Actually bent.
Your eyes widened.
It corrected.
Touched sphere three.
The glass filled with gold.
Only three.
Nothing else.
You stared.
“Holy shit.”
Morpheus's eyes were fixed upon the sphere.
“Again.”
You looked at him.
“You could say well done.”
“Do it again and I shall consider it.”
“Bastard.”
A tiny movement at the corner of his mouth.
“Five.”
You gathered the power.
Held.
Directed.
Five lit.
A little spill caught six at the very end.
You cursed.
“Again.”
“Two.”
Two.
“Six.”
Six.
“One.”
The power went halfway towards one before suddenly branching towards three.
You pulled it back without suppressing the whole thing.
That was new too.
You stared at your hands.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“I pulled back only that part.”
“Yes.”
Your grin came before you could stop it.
“That's new.”
“It is.”
Morpheus's expression had changed again.
Pride.
Not exuberant.
He was still Morpheus.
But unmistakable.
You looked away before it could do anything inconvenient to you.
Then Morpheus changed the exercise.
Because naturally he could never leave success alone.
With a movement of his fingers, the pillars began to move.
You stared.
“Oh, fuck off.”
They drifted slowly around the circle.
The numbered spheres crossed paths.
Changed position.
One disappeared behind another.
Morpheus's face remained perfectly solemn.
“Four.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“Four.”
You muttered something rude.
Power rose.
You found four.
Directed.
It moved.
You followed.
The strand curved after it.
Almost.
At the last moment, sphere one crossed between you.
Your gold struck one instead.
“Fuck.”
“Again.”
Faster this time.
The pillars moved.
Morpheus called numbers without warning.
“Two.”
Gold snapped towards two.
“Five.”
You pulled the strand back, redirected before it fully returned to you.
Five lit.
Your eyes widened.
Morpheus's did too.
Barely.
“Three.”
You turned the power.
Three.
“Six.”
Six.
“One.”
The strand hesitated.
One passed behind four.
You curved it around.
The gold moved in an arc.
Touched one.
Only one.
You laughed.
“Oh, that was good.”
Morpheus's mouth softened.
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
“That sounded almost enthusiastic.”
“Do not become distracted.”
“Too late.”
The spheres stopped.
You expected the exercise to end.
Instead Morpheus conjured three dream constructs.
You stared at them.
“Why are there people now?”
“Because power directed through an empty room is of limited practical value.”
Your smile vanished.
The constructs positioned themselves between you and the pillars.
Not targets.
Obstacles.
Your brow furrowed.
“You want me to go around them.”
“Yes.”
“Without touching them.”
“Yes.”
You looked at the nearest dream.
“What happens if I do?”
Morpheus answered calmly.
“We will observe precisely how much control you possess.”
The dream looked less enthusiastic about participating than Morpheus did.
You pointed towards it.
“He looks worried.”
“He was made five minutes ago.”
“Still counts.”
The construct nodded.
Morpheus's eyes narrowed faintly at his own creation.
“Do not encourage her.”
You laughed.
Then reset.
“Fine.”
Morpheus moved behind the constructs.
“Two.”
You gathered the power.
The direct route to sphere two passed straight through the chest of the nearest dream.
You instinctively stopped.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“If I get it wrong—”
“You will stop.”
His certainty steadied you.
You looked at the dream.
Then past it.
Sphere two.
Power gathered.
You sent it forward.
At the last second, you turned your wrist almost unconsciously.
The gold curved.
Passed around the construct's shoulder.
The dream flinched.
But its expression did not change.
Sphere two lit.
Your mouth fell open.
“Did I touch him?”
Morpheus looked at the construct.
“No.”
You looked at the dream.
“You still you?”
It nodded.
“I believe so.”
“Excellent.”
Morpheus called:
“Five.”
This route was worse.
Two constructs.
You frowned.
Directed the gold between them.
The strand split slightly.
You caught it.
Pulled the stray thread back.
Sent the rest through.
Five glowed.
No one worshipped you.
“Again.”
You did.
Again.
Again.
By the eighth attempt, sweat had gathered along your hairline.
Your arms felt strangely heavy despite the fact you were barely moving them.
The power itself seemed tired.
Or perhaps you were finally learning that using it deliberately required more than simply surviving it.
Then Morpheus changed the configuration one final time.
The constructs moved.
The pillars moved.
Nothing remained still.
You stared at him.
“You have a problem.”
“Four.”
“Sadist.”
“Four.”
You laughed under your breath.
Then focused.
Gold gathered.
You found four.
Sent the power.
A construct crossed.
You bent around him.
Sphere four moved behind six.
You pulled the strand upward.
Curved over six.
Down.
Four lit.
Only four.
Everything stopped.
The constructs froze.
The pillars halted.
The gold remained suspended for half a heartbeat between you and the sphere.
Then you let it go.
It dissolved into warm sparks.
You stood completely still.
Morpheus said nothing.
You turned slowly towards him.
“Well?”
His expression was almost unbearably soft.
“Excellent.”
You blinked.
Not good.
Not improved.
Excellent.
You smiled before you remembered not to.
A real smile.
Bright and immediate.
“I knew it.”
“Did you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your confidence was considerably less apparent twenty minutes ago.”
“That was old me.”
You gestured vaguely.
“She's gone.”
A hint of amusement appeared.
“A remarkable transformation.”
“Thank you.”
Morpheus dismissed the constructs.
The pillars dissolved into sand.
You dropped heavily onto the bench.
“I feel like my bones are tired.”
“Directing power requires greater concentration than releasing it.”
“Useful information you might have shared beforehand.”
He handed you water.
You took it.
Your fingers brushed his.
Neither of you pulled away immediately.
You drank half the glass at once.
Morpheus remained standing in front of you.
“You did well.”
You lowered the glass.
“I know.”
His eyebrow rose.
You smiled.
“But you can say it again.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Then, quietly:
“You did exceptionally well.”
Something warm unfurled inside your chest that had nothing whatsoever to do with power.
Your smile softened.
“Thank you, Morpheus.”
His name came easily now.
His gaze changed at the sound of it.
You saw.
He wisely said nothing.
And this time, neither did you.
********
You spent the rest of the afternoon away from the palace.
Again.
The novelty had not worn off.
You walked without destination.
At one point the path brought you through a market in which dreams traded memories they no longer wanted.
You did not buy anything.
A nightmare with six hands tried to sell you someone's first kiss.
You declined.
Politely.
Then less politely when it persisted.
Later you sat beside a lake whose surface reflected a different sky from the one above it.
You removed your shoes and put your feet in the water.
It was warm.
Nothing attacked you.
You counted that as a successful outing.
When you finally returned towards Fiddler's Green, you found Valí sitting on a low stone wall eating what looked suspiciously like an apple stolen from somewhere.
You stopped.
“How are you allowed out here?”
Valí looked at you.
“Good to see you too.”
“I am serious. How are you here?”
“I was granted leave.”
He gestured vaguely behind him.
You looked around.
No guards.
“Morpheus loosened your restrictions?”
“Some.”
Valí took another bite.
“Apparently behaving myself has benefits.”
“New experience?”
“Deeply unpleasant.”
You smiled faintly.
Valí patted the stone beside him.
You hesitated only briefly before sitting.
The relationship between you was not repaired.
Not entirely.
You still remembered the truth.
That he had been placed near you deliberately.
That Odin had wanted him close.
That the first meeting you had spent years thinking was chance had not been chance at all.
But Valí had told you the rest eventually.
And he had apologised without demanding immediate forgiveness.
More importantly, lately he had stopped trying to explain to you what was best for you.
That helped.
For a while, you both watched the Green.
Valí spoke first.
“You look better.”
You glanced at him.
“Than what?”
“Than three days ago.”
“I was considering whether to burn down the palace three days ago.”
“Exactly.”
You snorted.
He threw the apple core into the grass.
The ground swallowed it.
You watched.
“Show-off.”
“Wasn't me.”
Silence settled again.
Then Valí said:
“You're thinking about staying.”
You turned.
“Excuse me?”
He lifted both hands.
“Observation. Not instruction.”
“Very important distinction.”
“I've learned.”
You looked away.
Valí studied the landscape.
“You like it here.”
“It's fine.”
He laughed.
“That is such bullshit.”
You glared.
“I do not need commentary from someone currently living here under political asylum.”
“Sanctuary.”
“Whatever.”
Valí smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“You do like it.”
You said nothing.
“I can tell.”
“How?”
He shrugged.
“I've known you a long time.”
That was complicated now.
He seemed to realise it.
His gaze lowered.
“Even if some of how it began was a lie.”
Your anger flickered.
Not enough to ignite.
He continued.
“You never settle anywhere.”
You frowned.
“I settle.”
“You exist places.”
“That's dramatic.”
“It's true.”
He looked at you.
“Even in the Waking World. You liked people more there than you did in Olympus, but you still always seemed like you were waiting for your actual life to begin somewhere else.”
That landed harder than expected.
You looked across the fields.
Valí's voice became quieter.
“This is the first place I've ever seen you actually become part of.”
You swallowed.
“I was imprisoned here.”
“At first.”
You gave him a warning look.
“I'm not defending that.”
He shook his head quickly.
“I'm saying what it is now.”
A pause.
“You have friends here. Work. Training. Places you go because you like them. People know you.”
He smiled slightly.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“That doesn't mean I should stay.”
“Didn't say it did.”
You looked at him.
He was quiet.
You waited.
Normally Valí would have an opinion.
A loud one.
Often several.
“You're not going to tell me what you think?”
“No.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Why?”
Valí gave you a sideways look.
“Apparently everyone deciding your future for you is how we got into this mess.”
You stared.
Then laughed softly.
“Look at you learning.”
“Painfully.”
You nudged his shoulder.
Very lightly.
The first easy physical contact between you since the truth came out.
Valí noticed.
He did not make a thing of it.
That mattered too.
A few minutes passed.
Then he sighed.
“Although, since you asked whether I have an opinion—”
You groaned.
“There he is.”
“I'm not telling you what to choose.”
“Dangerous opening.”
“I'm just saying you'd be a fool to leave because you think somewhere else is automatically better.”
You turned towards him.
“That's very close to telling me what to choose.”
“No. I'm saying assess the options properly.”
He gestured broadly around him.
“The Dreaming is safe.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Valí reconsidered.
“Safer.”
“Better.”
“Much safer than most divine realms.”
That, unfortunately, was true.
“Olympus is a nightmare.”
“Technically the nightmares are here.”
“You know what I mean.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Asgard currently involves my father plotting something catastrophic.”
Another finger.
“Olympus is just as bad.”
Another.
“And then there is the Underworld which has Ereshkigal.”
He paused.
“Actually, this comparison is making Dream look extremely good.”
You rolled your eyes.
Valí leaned back.
“And the Dreaming is nicer.”
“Nicer than Asgard?”
“Much.”
“You're saying that because Odin is trying to control you.”
“Partly.”
Valí looked around at the rolling green hills, the distant palace and the impossible blue of the Dreaming's sky.
“But also because it's actually nicer here.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Nicer.”
“Yes. The food is better. The palace is warm. No one expects you to spend half your life freezing for the sake of proving you're descended from warriors.”
You laughed.
Valí gestured towards the sky.
“The weather is usually pleasant.”
He paused.
Considered that.
“Provided Lord Shaper is in a reasonable mood.”
Your mouth twitched.
Valí glanced sideways at you.
“Which, lately, appears to have quite a lot to do with you.”
You immediately frowned.
“It does not.”
“Three days ago the entire realm looked like it was preparing for the end of the world because you were angry with him.”
“Coincidence.”
Valí stared.
“It hailed.”
“Weather happens.”
“Inside a realm whose weather is controlled by the emotional state of the person you weren't speaking to.”
You folded your arms.
“I don't like where this conversation is going.”
“Neither did the weather.”
You laughed again.
Then Valí's expression sobered.
“What I am saying is that you'd be foolish to leave a place you genuinely like just because leaving proves you can.”
Your smile faded.
He immediately added:
“That is not me saying stay.”
You looked at him.
“Sounds like it.”
“No.”
He held your gaze.
“I'm saying don't mistake escape for freedom if there's nothing you're actually escaping anymore.”
That shut you up.
Valí looked away first.
“And don't mistake staying for surrender either.”
You stared at the grass.
Damn him.
Apparently everyone around you had become insightful at the worst possible time.
“I hate when you're useful.”
“I know.”
You sat together until the light began changing.
When you eventually stood to leave, Valí did not ask what you had decided.
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Day Three
By the third morning, the weather had become offensively pleasant. You noticed that as well.
Sunlight poured through the windows in broad golden strips. The gardens below your chambers were bright with colour. Somewhere beyond the western wall, birds were singing with enough enthusiasm to suggest they had been personally instructed to improve morale.
You stood at the window with your tea.
“Suspicious.”
The birds continued.
You narrowed your eyes at them.
No rain.
No thunder.
No visible manifestation of ancient cosmic misery.
Apparently Morpheus had either achieved emotional regulation or learned to stop broadcasting it over the entire realm.
You were not sure which was more concerning.
Breakfast passed without him.
You noticed less today.
Or at least you told yourself you did.
Training had been formally cancelled again, though this time the notification had come through Lucienne rather than leaving you to discover it yourself.
Not cancelled, precisely.
Postponed while His Lordship attends to matters concerning your prospective departure.
Which was a very Lucienne way of saying that Morpheus was still preparing to lose you.
You had just reached the library when Lucienne appeared from between the shelves.
She had several documents tucked beneath one arm.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
You looked past her.
Nothing.
You hated yourself slightly.
Lucienne, mercifully, did not comment.
Instead she handed you a folded piece of cream paper.
You looked down at it.
Then up.
“What is this?”
“A request.”
You immediately became suspicious.
“From him?”
“Yes.”
That made you more suspicious.
You unfolded it.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
If you are willing, I would ask that you review the protections prepared for your use should you elect to leave the Dreaming. Lucienne may attend if you prefer.
You read it twice.
There was no time written.
No instruction.
No assumption that you would come.
You turned the paper over as though there might be some hidden clause on the back.
Nothing.
Lucienne waited.
“He wants me to inspect them.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they are intended for you.”
You gave her a look.
“That has not historically guaranteed my involvement.”
Lucienne's mouth tightened.
Not because she disagreed.
“No.”
You looked at the note again.
“Where?”
“One of the smaller workrooms beside the throne hall.”
You folded the paper.
“Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
“Waiting?”
“Working.”
That somehow made it easier.
You slipped the note into your pocket.
“Fine.”
Lucienne raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like me to accompany you?”
You considered it.
Then shook your head.
“No.”
A beat.
“I can handle him.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Of that I have never had any doubt.”
*********
The workroom was one you had never entered before.
It was smaller than most rooms Morpheus seemed to favour, which meant it was only approximately the size of an expensive London flat.
The walls were lined with shelves containing objects you could not identify. Bottles. Stones. Small boxes. Scrolls bound with black cord. A collection of keys, none of which appeared to have ordinary teeth.
A long table occupied the centre.
Morpheus stood behind it.
He looked up when you entered.
No smile.
Morpheus rarely smiled.
But something in his expression eased.
Only slightly.
“You came.”
You stopped.
His face immediately shifted, as though he had realised the words revealed more than intended.
You folded your arms.
“You asked me to.”
“I did.”
Silence.
Neither of you seemed to know what came next.
You solved that by looking at the table.
Several objects had been arranged across it.
A small black stone.
A thin silver chain.
A piece of folded dark cloth.
And, somewhat ominously, a knife.
You pointed.
“Why is there a knife?”
“There are circumstances in which you may wish to sever a magical connection.”
You stared at him.
“Good morning to you too.”
His mouth moved.
Barely.
The almost-smile vanished before it formed.
Old instinct.
Old rhythm.
You felt it too.
Then remembered you were angry.
You looked back at the objects.
“Explain.”
Morpheus did not object to the command.
He picked up the black stone first.
It was small enough to fit comfortably in your palm.
Smooth.
Dark.
Not glossy like obsidian.
Its surface seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
“Dreamstone.”
You looked at him.
“Like your ruby?”
His gaze flickered.
“Not precisely.”
He placed it in front of you.
“This has no power over the Dreaming. It cannot command dreams, alter them, or compel passage.”
You did not touch it.
“Then what does it do?”
“If you choose, it will open a single road from wherever you are into my realm.”
Your eyes moved to his.
“Anywhere?”
“Almost.”
“That's reassuringly vague.”
“There are places beyond even my reach.”
“Hell?”
“You would be unwise to test it there.”
“Noted.”
You looked at the stone again.
“And that's it?”
A pause.
“No.”
Of course not.
Morpheus touched two fingers to the stone.
A faint silver symbol appeared across its surface.
Not his helm.
Not the gates of the Dreaming.
Something simpler.
A crescent crossed by a narrow line.
“If you do not wish to enter the Dreaming, you may use it to call me to you.”
You looked up.
“Call you.”
“Yes.”
“Like summoning you?”
His expression became faintly offended.
“No.”
You almost smiled.
“You sounded offended.”
“I am not an errand spirit.”
There he was.
You looked down quickly to hide the movement of your mouth.
“So what happens?”
“You speak my name while holding it and choose whether you wish to open the road or send word.”
“And you'll know?”
“Yes.”
Your suspicion returned.
You picked up the stone.
It was warm.
Not because he had touched it.
Warm like something alive.
You turned it over in your fingers.
“Does this track me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
You looked at him.
“Can you tell where I am while I'm holding it?”
“No.”
“Can you see through it?”
“No.”
“Hear through it?”
“No.”
“Can you use it to summon me back here?”
His expression changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“No.”
You watched him.
“Did you consider making something that could?”
Silence.
A long one.
Morpheus could have lied.
You knew that.
He knew you knew it.
Finally:
“Yes.”
You stared.
He did not look away.
“And?”
His voice was quiet.
“I determined that would merely recreate the problem in another form.”
Something inside your anger shifted.
Again.
You hated that.
You looked down at the stone.
“You mean you'd still have a leash.”
His jaw tightened.
The word struck exactly where you intended.
“Yes.”
No defence.
You turned the dreamstone over.
“Can I destroy it?”
“Yes.”
You looked up sharply.
“Really?”
“If you no longer wish to possess it.”
“What happens if I break it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The path closes permanently. Whatever portion of my power resides within it returns to the Dreaming.”
“And you can't stop me?”
Something very Morpheus entered his expression.
“I could.”
You raised your eyebrows.
He continued before you could speak.
“I will not.”
You stared at him for several seconds.
Then put the stone down.
You respected the answer.
You deeply resented respecting the answer.
“Fine.”
Morpheus moved to the folded cloth.
It looked unremarkable.
Dark grey.
Perhaps the size of a handkerchief.
You frowned.
“That looks disappointingly normal.”
“Would you prefer flames?”
You looked at him.
He looked back.
You almost laughed.
Almost.
“What is it?”
He unfolded it.
A pattern had been sewn into the fabric in silver thread.
You recognised none of the symbols.
“A portable ward.”
“Portable.”
“It may be placed beneath a bed, beneath the floor, behind a door, within a wall or simply beneath whatever object upon which you choose to sleep.”
You picked it up.
“And?”
“It will conceal you from most forms of divine observation while you sleep.”
Your fingers stopped.
“Most?”
“There are beings against whom certainty would be dishonest.”
That answer was irritatingly sensible.
“Ereshkigal?”
“She should not see through it.”
“Odin?”
“Nor he.”
“Zeus?”
Morpheus paused.
You looked up.
“That's a very reassuring pause.”
“Your father is unusually difficult to exclude from places in which his blood resides.”
Your expression soured.
“Wonderful.”
“The ward will obscure you from him. I cannot promise absolute concealment indefinitely.”
You examined the silver stitching.
“Does it tell you where I put it?”
“No.”
“Does it connect wherever I'm staying to the Dreaming?”
“No.”
“Can you enter through it?”
“No.”
“Can you alter my dreams through it?”
This time he paused.
Not because the answer was uncertain.
Because the question hurt.
You saw that.
His face became very still.
“No.”
You swallowed.
“Even if I'm having a nightmare?”
“Unless you call me.”
The words were quiet.
You looked down again.
The ward suddenly felt heavier in your hands.
“So if I leave, you're not just going to... turn up in my dreams.”
“No.”
“Even to check on me.”
A beat.
“No.”
“Even if you think I'm in danger.”
His eyes darkened.
There.
That one was difficult.
“If I possessed certain knowledge that you were in immediate danger, I would act.”
You raised your brows.
“There it is.”
“I will not pretend otherwise.”
His voice hardened slightly.
“But concern alone will not constitute such knowledge.”
You stared at him.
That distinction mattered.
You knew it did.
He knew you knew it.
Then you pointed at the knife.
“Now explain the murder weapon.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“It is not a murder weapon.”
“It's a knife.”
“Many knives are used for purposes other than murder.”
“Very inspiring.”
He picked it up by the hilt.
The blade was narrow and dark.
“The protections I have made contain traces of power belonging to this realm.”
You looked at the objects.
Then back at him.
“Your power.”
“Yes.”
“So there is still a connection.”
“A connection to the Dreaming, yes.”
You waited.
He continued.
“If, for any reason, you believe one of these objects has been altered, compromised or used against you, the blade will sever that connection.”
Your expression changed.
“Even if you're the one who altered it?”
Morpheus met your eyes.
“Even then.”
You stared at him.
“You made me a weapon against your own magic.”
“A means of ending its effect.”
“Same difference.”
“It is not.”
You picked up the knife.
The hilt fit your hand immediately.
You looked suspiciously at it.
“Did you make this for me?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
You put it down again.
The room became quiet.
You looked over all of it.
The dreamstone.
The ward.
The threshold marker.
The knife.
Not one object could summon you.
Not one could locate you.
Not one forced you to call him.
Every connection could be severed.
Every protection could be refused.
You had entered expecting another elegant method of surveillance dressed up as concern.
Instead he had built you exits.
Your chest tightened.
You resented him for that too.
“I hate this.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“The protections?”
“No.”
You folded your arms.
“The fact they're good.”
Something almost warm entered his eyes.
“I see.”
“Don't look pleased.”
“I am not.”
“You're very slightly pleased.”
“You have frequently accused me of possessing no recognisable facial expressions.”
“I have learned your tiny ones.”
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Silence.
Not hostile.
Worse.
Intimate.
You looked away first.
“Are we done?”
Morpheus's voice softened.
“Yes.”
You gathered the dreamstone, then stopped.
“Do I take these now?”
“If you wish.”
“And if I stay?”
There it was.
The word.
Stay.
Morpheus did not react.
Not outwardly.
“Then they may remain yours regardless.”
You frowned.
“Why would I need them here?”
“You may someday wish to travel without me knowing where you are.”
You looked at him.
His gaze remained steady.
“That right does not depend upon whether you leave.”
Something painful pulled inside your chest.
You looked down.
“Right.”
You gathered the objects.
At the door, you stopped.
Almost turned back.
Did not.
“Thank you.”
You hesitated.
Then:
“Morpheus.”
Behind you, silence.
You did not look back.
But you knew he had noticed.
*********
That evening, you ate alone. Again.
At least, you began alone.
You were halfway through dinner when the doors opened.
You looked up.
Morpheus stood there.
He had changed from the heavier robes he wore while attending formal duties into simpler black clothing.
For one disloyal second, your mind supplied the fact that you preferred him like that.
You immediately focused on your potatoes.
Morpheus did not approach.
“May I join you?”
You looked up again.
“It's your palace.”
His expression did not change.
“That was not my question.”
You stared.
He waited.
Of course he waited.
You looked at the empty chair opposite you.
Then back at him.
“…Fine.”
Morpheus entered.
The doors closed behind him.
He sat opposite you.
Nothing appeared before him.
You looked at the empty table setting.
“You're not eating?”
“No.”
“Then this is going to be weird.”
“Would you prefer I leave?”
You immediately regretted saying anything.
“No.”
A pause.
“Stay.”
The word slipped out before you could examine it.
Morpheus's gaze lifted.
You looked down at your plate.
“For dinner.”
“I understood.”
Did he?
You were no longer sure either of you understood anything.
Dinner continued.
Or rather, you ate while Morpheus sat opposite you in near silence.
It was unbearable.
Not because silence with Morpheus was unusual.
You had spent entire chess games barely speaking.
But those silences had been comfortable.
This one was full of things neither of you was saying.
You waited for him to ask.
He didn't.
You ate another bite.
Nothing.
You drank water.
Still nothing.
He asked once whether the Ereshkigal texts had contained anything useful.
You answered.
He listened.
You asked whether Matthew had recovered from whatever diplomatic errands they had undertaken.
Morpheus said Matthew had complained for several hours and therefore appeared fully recovered.
You snorted.
That was the closest either of you came to laughing.
Then silence again.
Finally you put down your fork.
“You're not going to ask?”
Morpheus looked at you.
“Ask what?”
You stared.
“You know what.”
He did.
You saw it immediately.
“No.”
Your irritation rose.
“Why?”
His expression remained calm.
“Because I gave you seven days.”
You waited.
“Not seven days during which I would demand an answer repeatedly.”
You leaned back.
“You could ask what I'm thinking.”
“Would you answer?”
That stopped you.
“Maybe.”
One eyebrow lifted.
You glared.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like that.”
“I am sitting.”
“Smugly.”
“I was unaware sitting could be smug.”
“You manage.”
For one fraction of a second, the old Morpheus returned.
A glint in his eyes.
Something poised on his tongue.
Then he restrained it.
You hated that too.
“You can argue with me, you know.”
His expression changed.
“Can I?”
The question was quieter than you expected.
Your irritation faltered.
You looked down.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I'm angry. I'm not made of glass.”
“I have never believed you were.”
“Then stop acting like one wrong sentence will make me explode.”
Morpheus considered that.
“Your power has, on occasion, made that possibility less metaphorical than you intend.”
You stared.
Then laughed.
One startled sound.
It escaped before you could stop it.
Morpheus froze.
So did you.
The room changed.
Not magically.
Emotionally.
For one second you were back at the chessboard.
Back before the treaty.
Back before you had learned he had hidden the release provision.
You looked at him.
He was watching you.
Something softened in his face.
You remembered you were angry.
The laugh died.
You looked back at your plate.
Morpheus's expression closed again.
Not completely.
You had seen the disappointment first.
That was worse.
“Sorry.”
You immediately frowned.
Why were you apologising?
Morpheus's voice was soft.
“You need not be.”
Silence.
You resumed eating.
Neither of you mentioned staying.
Neither of you mentioned leaving.
When Morpheus eventually rose, he paused beside the table.
“Good night.”
You almost said my lord.
Habit born entirely out of spite.
Instead:
“Good night, Morpheus.”
His gaze lingered.
He inclined his head. Then he left.
You stared at the closed doors.
“Oh, this is getting ridiculous.”
Day Four
Training resumed.
Technically.
It lasted less than an hour because your concentration was terrible and Morpheus appeared equally distracted, though he would rather have been thrown into the Sunless Lands than admit it.
He still asked before touching you.
Every time.
“May I adjust your shoulder?”
“Yes.”
Later:
“Your wrist.”
You held it out.
“Yes, Morpheus.”
Another accidental name.
Another tiny pause.
No comment.
You almost wished he would comment.
Then you could snap at him for making it significant.
Instead he had apparently become possessed by the spirit of restraint.
Infuriating.
Training ended without incident.
You managed to contain your power through three proximity exercises.
One dream brushed your hand deliberately.
Nothing happened.
Morpheus said:
“Good.”
You looked at him.
“Only good?”
“Would you prefer dishonest praise?”
“A little enthusiasm wouldn't kill you.”
“I am pleased with your progress.”
You blinked.
That was almost too sincere.
“That's worse.”
His brow furrowed.
“You are becoming increasingly difficult to satisfy.”
“Be careful. That sounded almost normal.”
His expression stilled.
There it was again.
That painful gap between what you had been and what you currently were.
You looked away first.
********
The rest of the day passed almost in a blur.
You returned to the library and buried yourself in work with more determination than actual concentration, moving between reports on divine succession, old treaties and several increasingly obscure accounts of power inheritance that Lucienne seemed convinced might eventually prove useful.
Morpheus, meanwhile, returned to the matters a king was apparently required to attend to when he was not constructing magical escape routes or making every conversation between you unbearably complicated.
There were petitions.
Councils.
Disputes between dreams.
Messengers moving constantly through the palace.
And, apparently, Queen Titania.
Again.
You learned that entirely by accident.
You were leaving the library late in the afternoon with two books beneath one arm when voices from the adjoining gallery made you slow.
Morpheus stood near one of the tall windows speaking with a faerie messenger dressed in pale green and silver.
You would have kept walking.
Probably.
Then you heard Titania's name.
So naturally, you stopped behind an enormous column like a perfectly mature adult.
The messenger bowed.
“Her Majesty wished me to convey that she is disappointed you have declined her company once again.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
The messenger continued.
“She believes Your Majesty has become unusually difficult to reach.”
A pause.
“Does she.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
The poor messenger continued.
“Her Majesty also expressed concern that certain… disturbances within the Dreaming continue to occupy an excessive amount of your attention.”
You froze.
Oh.
Certain disturbances.
That would be you, then.
Morpheus became very still.
The messenger, either brave or doomed, continued.
“She wonders whether the young woman remains troublesome.”
Your eyebrows rose.
Troublesome?
You leaned slightly around the column.
Morpheus's face had gone completely unreadable.
Which, by now, you understood meant someone had wandered dangerously close to his temper.
“You may inform Queen Titania that the affairs of my realm require neither her concern nor her commentary.”
The messenger bowed quickly.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Morpheus continued.
“And should she again wish to request my company, she may do so without reference to matters which are not hers.”
You almost smiled.
The messenger bowed again.
Much lower this time.
“I shall tell her.”
He departed with impressive speed.
You remained behind the column.
For approximately two seconds.
Then Morpheus said:
“You may come out.”
You closed your eyes.
Of course.
You stepped into view.
“I wasn't hiding.”
His gaze moved deliberately towards the enormous marble column.
Then back to you.
“No?”
“I happened to stop.”
“Behind a pillar.”
“It's a very nice pillar.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Almost amusement.
You adjusted the books under your arm.
“So.”
Morpheus waited.
“Titania's displeased with you.”
“Titania is frequently displeased.”
“Because you won't see her.”
His expression cooled slightly.
“That is between Titania and me.”
You frowned.
Not because he was wrong.
Because the answer irritated you for reasons you had absolutely no interest in examining.
“Fine.”
You started walking.
Morpheus's voice followed.
“She was not speaking of you with my permission.”
You stopped.
Looked back.
He remained where he was.
“I know.”
Then you turned away before he could possibly see anything in your face.
Behind you, Morpheus did not call you back.
Which was probably fortunate.
You spent the next hour wondering why the answer had made something warm and embarrassing settle beneath your ribs.
You decided it was none of your business.
Then thought about it several more times.
By the time you finally retired for the day, you had managed to convince yourself that you were merely irritated by Titania's continued commentary about you.
Mostly.
Possibly.
********
You were still considering this when Morpheus found you in the garden an hour later.
Not found, perhaps. That suggested chance. Morpheus rarely did anything by chance.
You were sitting beneath one of the enormous silver-leafed trees near the eastern wall, reading a text about divine succession that had become so aggressively boring you were beginning to suspect Lucienne had given it to you as punishment.
A shadow fell across the page.
You looked up.
Morpheus stood several feet away.
You waited.
He did not sit.
“May I speak with you?”
You closed the book around one finger.
“You're speaking now.”
His expression remained solemn.
That told you this was not casual.
You sighed and set the book aside.
“Fine.”
Morpheus still did not move.
You looked at the grass beside you.
Then back at him.
“You can sit.”
“May I?”
You gave him a flat look.
“If you ask permission every time you occupy the same patch of land as me, I may actually lose my mind.”
Something faint shifted at the corner of his mouth.
He sat. Not close. Not far. The precise distance of someone desperately attempting not to presume.
For several seconds he said nothing.
You waited.
The garden moved around you.
Silver leaves whispered overhead.
Far beyond the wall, something enormous flew across the Dreaming's pale sky.
Finally:
“I owe you an apology.”
You went still.
Not an explanation.
An apology.
You said nothing.
Morpheus looked straight ahead.
“I was wrong.”
That got your attention.
You turned slightly towards him.
He did not look away.
“My reasons do not change that.”
You remained silent.
He continued.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As though every word had been examined before being allowed to exist.
“When I accepted the treaty, I believed my actions distinct from those of Zeus because I did not consider you property.”
Your jaw tightened.
“You weren't exactly generous with freedom either.”
“No.”
No defence.
“I told myself the restrictions were necessary because your power was unstable. Because others sought to use you. Because you did not yet understand the danger you represented to yourself or others.”
His hands rested motionless upon his knees.
“Some of those things were true.”
You waited for the therefore.
It never came.
“They do not make what followed right.”
Something in your chest shifted.
Morpheus's gaze lowered.
“When I learned that the treaty permitted me to relinquish the claim, I should have told you.”
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
His voice remained steady.
“I did not.”
A pause.
“Because I feared what you would choose if you knew.”
There it was.
You looked at him.
He finally turned towards you.
“I believed that if you remained here, you would be safer.”
“I probably would be.”
He seemed slightly surprised by the admission.
You folded your arms.
“That wasn't the point.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“It was not.”
Silence.
You looked towards the gardens.
“You thought you were different from them.”
“Yes.”
“Zeus.”
“Yes.”
“Odin.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Ereshkigal.”
A pause.
“I did.”
You looked back at him.
“Are you?”
That hurt.
You saw it.
Morpheus did not recoil from the question.
“I hope so.”
Not yes.
That mattered.
“But in this, I acted upon the same belief that has governed far too many decisions concerning you.”
His eyes held yours.
“That my greater knowledge granted me greater authority over your life.”
Your throat tightened.
“It doesn't.”
“No.”
A pause.
“It does not.”
You stared at him.
You had wanted this.
Not humiliation.
Not grovelling.
Morpheus would never grovel.
You had wanted him to understand precisely what had been wrong.
Apparently he did.
That did not erase it.
But it mattered.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“Why did you fear it so much?”
Morpheus became still.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
“You keep saying you were afraid I'd leave.”
You turned fully towards him.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
You watched him.
“You knew I would be in danger.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Ereshkigal might come after me.”
“Yes.”
“Odin.”
“Yes.”
“Olympus.”
“Yes.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“That isn't all of it.”
Morpheus looked away.
There.
You had him.
“Is it?”
“No.”
Your heart beat slightly faster.
You did not know why.
You did.
You refused to know why.
“Then what?”
Silence.
Morpheus of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares, ruler of an entire realm, looked for perhaps the first time since you had known him as though words had become genuinely difficult.
His gaze fixed upon some distant point beyond the garden wall.
“Your presence has become important to me.”
You stared.
Waited.
Nothing else came.
“Important.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
You continued staring.
He remained perfectly still.
You blinked.
“That's what you're going with?”
His eyes shifted towards you.
“I do not understand.”
“Oh, you understand perfectly.”
“I have answered your question.”
“Barely.”
His expression became defensive in that maddeningly dignified way only he could manage.
“My answer was truthful.”
“I'm sure it was.”
You looked at him for another moment.
There were at least six things you could have said.
None of them felt safe.
So you stood and picked up the book from beside you.
“I should go.”
Something in his face closed.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
“Very well.”
You tucked the book beneath your arm.
For one second neither of you moved.
Then you said:
“Goodnight, Morpheus.”
His gaze held yours.
“Goodnight.”
You turned and walked back towards the palace before you could reconsider any of it.
********
That evening, shortly before seventh bell, you found yourself in the wrong corridor.
Again.
You told yourself it was genuinely accidental.
There were several ways to reach your chambers from the library.
This happened to be one of them.
It also happened to pass Morpheus's chambers.
That was irrelevant.
Mostly.
You walked slowly.
The corridor was quiet.
No servants.
No dreams.
No ravens.
The doors ahead were closed.
You approached.
The seventh bell began to ring.
One.
Your steps slowed.
Two.
You were nearly level with the doors.
Three.
You looked at them.
No note had come tonight.
Of course it hadn't.
Four.
You stopped.
Entirely.
The doors remained closed.
Five.
You could knock.
The thought arrived so easily that you almost did it before examining it.
One game.
That was all.
Chess did not mean forgiveness.
It did not mean staying.
It did not mean anything except that you wanted to play chess with him.
Six.
Your hand lifted.
Not much.
A few inches.
Enough.
You stared at the dark wood.
Beyond it, Morpheus might be there.
Perhaps the board was put away.
Perhaps he was working.
Perhaps he was sitting in front of the fire alone, still refusing to invite you because you had already said no once.
Seven.
The bell faded.
Your hand hovered.
You could knock.
You wanted to.
That was the problem.
You missed him.
Not Lord Morpheus.
Not Dream of the Endless.
Not the being responsible for half the impossible complications currently governing your life.
Morpheus.
The impossible, pompous, infuriating man who hated Monopoly and kept pretzels in his chambers because you liked them.
The one who had built you a way to call him while making certain he could never use it to call you back.
The one who had finally said he was wrong.
The one who apparently considered important an acceptable substitute for whatever he was too frightened to say.
Your fingers curled.
Almost a knock.
You lowered your hand.
Not tonight.
You were not ready.
You walked away.
Slowly.
Behind the closed doors, the chessboard remained inside its cabinet.
Morpheus had not prepared it.
He had learned that much.
But he stood beside the fire when you passed.
And because this was his realm, because the palace belonged to dreams and dreams were made of things left unsaid, he knew the exact moment you stopped outside his door.
He knew how long you remained there.
He knew when your hand lifted.
He did not open the door.
Did not call your name.
Did not make the choice easier for either of you.
He merely stood in silence until your footsteps receded.
Then looked towards the closed doors.
For the first time in three nights, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning…
You opened your eyes sometime after dawn and lay there for several seconds, staring at the canopy above your bed while your mind caught up with consciousness.
Grey light filtered through the curtains. No thunder. No rain. No dramatic gale throwing itself against the windows.
The Dreaming had apparently recovered from yesterday's emotional breakdown.
You got up, dressed, and made your way to breakfast.
It had already been served by the time you arrived: tea, fruit, toast, eggs, and several things you suspected had been included purely because someone in the kitchens had decided you needed feeding properly.
There was, however, no Morpheus. You noticed that too.
Not that he regularly joined you for breakfast. But sometimes he appeared. Then sometimes he did not. Sometimes you ate in your chambers, sometimes in one of the smaller dining rooms, and occasionally you encountered him in passing and ended up spending twenty minutes arguing about something neither of you had intended to discuss.
Today, nothing.
You ate. You drank tea. You read half a page of the material Lucienne had sent to your chambers. You found yourself listening every time footsteps passed the dining room. None of them belonged to him.
By the fourth occasion, you became annoyed with yourself and moved to the library. The library was quieter than usual too.
Lucienne was somewhere deep within the western stacks. Austin had not arrived yet. Matthew was absent. Even Mervyn, who could normally be relied upon to appear whenever there was an opportunity to complain loudly about palace administration, was nowhere to be seen.
You settled at your table. Three hours of documents waited for you. Possibly four. You opened the first. You had made it through almost two pages when you felt him. You did not need to look. That was another annoying development.
Somewhere during the last few weeks, you had become capable of recognising Morpheus's presence before you saw him. Not because he announced himself. Because the air changed.
The library seemed somehow deeper when he entered it. Shadows settled differently. The enormous space became aware of its king.
Your eyes remained on the page. Footsteps crossed the distant marble floor. Slow. Measured.
You kept reading. Or pretending to.
They came nearer.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the paper. You were absolutely not going to look up first.
The footsteps stopped.
Not beside you. Twenty feet away.
You lasted approximately three seconds. Then glanced up.
Morpheus stood at the end of one of the central aisles.
He had changed clothes. Today’s were simpler, less ceremonial. His coat was absent. His face was unreadable.
He was looking at you.
Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful.
Neither of you spoke.
Then Morpheus inclined his head. Nothing more. No approach. No question about whether you had slept. No mention of the unused chessboard. No carefully neutral invitation for later. Simply an acknowledgement.
You stared at him.
Then, because apparently the two of you were now minor diplomats from hostile neighbouring countries, you inclined your head in return.
“My lord.”
Something flickered across his face. Gone too quickly to name.
Then he continued walking. Past the table. Past the shelves. Away from you.
You watched him go. You had thought you wanted this. That was the deeply inconvenient part. You had thought you wanted Morpheus to leave you alone. Apparently you disliked that too.
You dropped your eyes to the page. Read the same sentence three times. Nothing entered your brain.
You looked towards the aisle where he had disappeared. Nothing.
“Brilliant.”
A voice from behind a stack answered.
“Is something wrong?”
You startled.
Nuala emerged carrying several books against her chest.
You immediately looked back at your document.
“No.”
Nuala glanced towards the aisle. Then towards you.
There was a slight pause.
“Of course.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Don't.”
She sat down opposite you.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I truly wasn't.”
You stared at her.
Nuala smiled faintly.
You returned to the report.
For perhaps thirty seconds, you successfully pretended to read. Then something occurred to you.
You looked up.
“Is there training later today?”
Nuala blinked.
“I don't believe so.”
Your brow furrowed.
Morpheus had said nothing. Usually the training schedule simply existed. He had built the hall for you. Unless some cosmic emergency intervened, you trained every morning. Even yesterday, when the two of you were barely speaking.
“Why?”
Nuala carefully arranged the books beside her.
“Lord Morpheus is occupied.”
You stared at her.
“Doing what?”
“I don't know precisely.”
You looked towards the aisle again.
“He was just here.”
“Briefly.”
“And now?”
“He has left the palace.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“To where?”
Nuala hesitated.
That hesitation immediately made you suspicious.
“Nuala.”
“I truly don't know.”
“But you know why.”
A second hesitation.
You put down your pen.
“What is he doing?”
Nuala looked mildly uncomfortable.
“Preparing.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Preparing what?”
She did not answer quickly enough.
You understood anyway. Your expression changed.
“For me.”
Nuala's silence confirmed it.
You leaned back.
“He's sorting things out for when I leave.”
Nuala's eyes softened.
“For the possibility that you leave.”
You ignored the distinction.
“Matthew's gone too.”
You had noticed it earlier without connecting the two.
Nuala nodded.
“Yes.”
You looked down at the documents.
Suddenly the room felt oddly cold.
“Right.”
Nuala studied you.
You picked up your pen.
“Fine.”
She continued studying you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Everyone keeps saying nothing while very obviously thinking something.”
“I was only wondering whether you knew.”
“That he's planning my departure?”
Nuala winced slightly.
“I don't think he would describe it that way.”
You gave a humourless laugh.
“No. He'd describe it as ensuring the safe relocation of a person no longer under his protection or some similarly cheerful thing.”
Nuala's mouth twitched despite herself.
“That does sound like him.”
You looked at the empty aisle again and realised that Morpheus had gone personally. Not sent Lucienne. Not sent Matthew. Not instructed one of his subjects to make arrangements. He had gone himself.
You pushed the thought away.
“Whatever.”
Nuala was quiet.
You resumed reading.
She did not leave.
After several minutes, you looked up.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you still sitting there?”
Nuala folded her hands over the book in front of her.
“Because I thought perhaps you might want company.”
That disarmed you slightly.
You looked away.
“I'm fine.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“One may be fine and still want company.”
You looked at her again.
You sighed.
“Stay if you want.”
“Thank you.”
She opened her book.
For a while, neither of you spoke. It might have remained that way if you had not reached another document bearing Morpheus's handwriting. There were notes in the margin. Locations. Potential routes of approach. Known allegiances. Methods by which Ereshkigal might be prevented from locating you should you cross beyond the boundaries of the Dreaming.
You stopped reading. Your eyes moved over one particular annotation.
Wards insufficient without external anchor. Determine alternative.
The handwriting looked recent. You knew it was.
Yesterday he had given you everything. Including his unfinished plans. You put down the paper.
Nuala looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Then, because you were tired of hearing yourself say it:
“He's really doing it.”
Nuala closed her book.
“Doing what?”
“Preparing for me to go.”
“Preparing to keep you alive if you do.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
You had expected her to argue. The immediate agreement made you look at her.
Nuala's expression was gentle.
“It isn't.”
You looked down again.
“He thinks I'm leaving.”
“I think he believes he must behave as though you might.”
“He's very committed to the idea.”
“Because he gave you his word.”
There it was.
Your irritation surfaced.
“Please don't.”
Nuala frowned.
“Don't what?”
“Defend him.”
She went still.
You continued before she could answer.
“I like you, Nuala. A lot. But please don't sit there and tell me how honourable he's being now because he's finally doing the thing he should have done in the first place.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to say that once Lord Morpheus gives his word, he will honour it even when doing so causes him pain.”
You stared at her.
“That sounds suspiciously like defending him.”
Nuala considered that.
“Perhaps it is.”
You pushed your chair back slightly.
“He lied to me.”
“Yes.”
That stopped you.
Nuala did not flinch from it.
“He knew there was a way for me to leave, and he decided I wasn't allowed to know.”
“Yes.”
“Because he thought he knew better.”
“Yes.”
“Because apparently deciding what's best for others is one of his favourite hobbies.”
Nuala's expression changed slightly at that. Not disagreement. Recognition.
You caught it.
“Exactly.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment.
“I know something of being given away without being asked.”
Your anger faltered.
Nuala's fingers tightened faintly against the book.
“And I know that Lord Morpheus did not ask for me. Nor did he treat me as though the manner of my arrival gave him any right to me.”
You said nothing.
“But I also know what it is to have choices made around you by people who insist those choices are necessary.”
Her eyes returned to yours.
“So no. I don't believe what he did to you was right.”
You leaned back slightly.
Nuala continued.
“I think he was afraid.”
You scoffed.
“Everyone keeps telling me that as though fear makes it better.”
“It doesn't.”
Again, immediate.
Calm.
“Fear explains many terrible things. It excuses very few.”
That quieted you.
Nuala shifted slightly in her chair.
“But you asked what he is doing today.”
“Yes.”
“He is doing precisely what he promised you he would do. He is preparing for the outcome he does not want.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked away.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
A beat.
“But I have eyes.”
You nearly laughed.
It came out more like an exhale.
Nuala's mouth curved.
Then she became serious again.
“You asked me once why he permitted me to remain here after I was given to him.”
You remembered.
“Yes.”
“The truth is that Lord Morpheus can be proud. And stubborn. And infuriatingly certain that his understanding of duty must also be everyone else's.”
“Finally. Someone talking sense.”
Nuala smiled.
“He can be cruel when wounded.”
The smile disappeared.
“He can mistake punishment for justice. He can mistake silence for dignity. And he can hold onto an old injury until everyone involved has forgotten how it began.”
You thought of Nada.
You did not say her name.
Nuala continued.
“But he is not careless with what he considers his responsibility.”
Your expression hardened.
“That's part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“He decided I was his responsibility, and somehow that became more important than what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
Nuala paused.
“And now you have made him understand that protecting you without respecting you is not protection you will accept.”
You stared at the table.
That was uncomfortably close to the truth.
“He shouldn't have needed me to teach him that.”
“No.”
You looked up sharply.
Nuala held your gaze. No defence that time. No qualification. Just agreement.
Something in you eased despite your best efforts.
“You are annoyingly reasonable.”
“I spend a great deal of time around unreasonable people.”
You snorted.
“Fair.”
Nuala reopened her book. You looked at your report. Neither of you read.
Then Nuala asked, gently:
“Do you want to leave?”
The humour vanished.
You looked down.
That was the question, wasn't it? Not whether you were angry enough to leave. Not whether Morpheus deserved consequences. Not whether the treaty was unjust. Whether you actually wanted to go.
Yesterday, the answer had felt obvious. You had wanted the door open. Needed it open. The knowledge that he could keep you here when a way out existed had been unbearable. But wanting the right to leave and wanting to leave were not necessarily the same thing.
You hated that too.
“I don't know.”
Nuala nodded.
No judgement.
“So you might wish to stay?”
You didn’t answer.
Nuala's face became very still.
You immediately knew she understood.
“Ah.”
“Don't ah me.”
“I didn't mean—”
“You absolutely did.”
Nuala tried very hard to hide a smile.
“Fine.”
You looked towards the shelves where Morpheus had disappeared hours earlier.
He was not there. He was somewhere beyond the palace preparing a life for you that did not include him.
The thought hurt. That was inconveniently clarifying.
You looked down. Nuala waited.
Eventually she asked:
“Do you love him?”
Your head snapped up.
“Jesus Christ, Nuala.”
Her eyes widened.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“A little.”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
There was no mockery in her expression.
No gossip. Only curiosity. And perhaps concern.
You rubbed your forehead.
“I don't know.”
Nuala said nothing, so you exhaled and continued.
“But I have feelings for him.”
Nuala's eyebrows rose faintly.
“Feelings.”
“Yes.”
“What sort?”
You picked up the pen again.
Put it down.
“I care about him.”
Nuala's expression softened.
You continued before you lost your nerve.
“More than I should.”
“Why shouldn't you?”
You laughed.
“Have you met him?”
Nuala's mouth twitched.
“Yes.”
“Then there's your answer.”
You leaned back.
“He's impossible. He's arrogant. He thinks admitting he's wrong is a ritual that should only occur once every thousand years. He talks like every conversation is already carved into stone. He sulks so badly the weather changes.”
Nuala was trying not to smile.
She was waiting for more.
You sighed heavily.
“But, he is also kind when he forgets to be difficult.”
Nuala's smile faded into something warmer.
You looked at the table.
“He listens to me. Not always when it matters, apparently, but… he listens.”
Your fingers traced the edge of one of the papers.
“He lets me annoy him.”
“Very generous.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“He argues with me like he actually expects me to argue back.”
You swallowed.
“He doesn't treat me like I'm fragile.”
A pause.
“Except when he does.”
“Except when he does.”
You rubbed your thumb over the paper.
“And I like being with him.”
There.
That one was simple.
Worse because it was simple.
“I like chess with him. I like walking with him. I like when he says something unbelievably pompous and then looks offended because I laugh.”
Nuala's smile returned.
“I like when he forgets he's supposed to be terrifying.”
Your voice softened.
“And when something happens, he's the person I want to tell.”
That hurt more than you expected.
Because yesterday you had already discovered it repeatedly. A stupid spoon. A ritual in a book. A thought you wanted to argue about. Tiny things.
You missed giving them to him.
You stared at the documents until the words blurred slightly.
“I missed him yesterday.”
Nuala did not interrupt.
“Which is ridiculous because he was right there.”
You swallowed.
“And I miss him today and he's been gone for about three hours.”
Nuala remained silent.
You looked at her.
“If you tell anyone this conversation happened, I will deny everything.”
“Naturally.”
“Especially him.”
Nuala actually laughed.
“I would never.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then she said quietly:
“For what it is worth, I don't think your anger means you love him less.”
You looked at her.
“I didn't say I love him.”
Nuala's face remained perfectly innocent.
“No.”
“I said feelings.”
“Yes.”
“Very different.”
“Entirely.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
********
Morpheus returned to the palace shortly before dusk.
Lucienne knew before he entered the library. The lamps dimmed almost imperceptibly. The shadows stretched.
Matthew arrived first, flying through one of the high arches before landing heavily on the back of a chair.
“I hate diplomatic errands.”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“I had gathered.”
Matthew shook rain from his feathers despite the fact there had been no rain in the Dreaming for hours.
“Some of those places are creepy even by our standards.”
Lucienne closed the book in front of her.
“Did you accomplish what you intended?”
Matthew looked towards the entrance.
“Ask him.”
Morpheus entered.
There was dust on the hem of his coat. Not Dreaming dust. Something pale and grey. His expression revealed nothing.
Lucienne knew him far too well to be fooled by that.
He stopped beside the central table.
“Lucienne.”
“My lord.”
Matthew hopped down.
“I'm getting food.”
Morpheus looked at him.
Matthew paused.
“What? I worked.”
“You complained.”
“I can do two things.”
Lucienne lowered her eyes quickly.
Matthew flew off. Silence returned.
Morpheus removed his coat. It vanished before touching the back of the chair.
Lucienne waited.
She knew better than to ask immediately.
Morpheus knew she was waiting. Eventually he spoke.
“The arrangements are sufficient.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“For what?”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Should she choose to depart the Dreaming at the end of the agreed period, she will not do so undefended.”
Lucienne studied him.
“What have you arranged?”
Morpheus moved towards the table. A map appeared beneath his hand. Not of the Dreaming. Of several places in the Waking World. Some Lucienne recognised. Others had been deliberately left unnamed.
“There are three locations in which she might safely reside for a time.”
Lucienne looked down.
“Might?”
“Nothing in the Waking World can be made entirely inaccessible to those who seek her.”
His voice was clipped. Precise.
She heard the frustration beneath it.
“But each location has been warded against divine observation. No single pantheon possesses jurisdiction over all three. Passage between them may be concealed.”
Lucienne touched one marked point.
“And Ereshkigal?”
“She will not cross the first ward unnoticed.”
“Odin?”
“Nor he.”
“Olympus?”
A pause.
“Zeus presents a more complex difficulty.”
Lucienne looked up.
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“But not an insurmountable one.”
“What else?”
Another set of markings appeared.
“Several routes by which she may move without crossing thresholds traditionally observed by divine realms. A means by which she may contact the Dreaming without entering it. Protection while she sleeps.”
Lucienne's gaze lifted sharply.
“You would continue protecting her dreams?”
Morpheus looked at her as though the answer were self-evident.
“Of course.”
“Even if she leaves you?”
The library seemed to quiet around them.
Morpheus's expression became cold. Not angry. Warning. Lucienne did not retreat.
He answered.
“Her decision to leave this realm would not make her welfare immaterial to me.”
“No.”
Lucienne's voice was very gentle.
“I don't imagine it would.”
Morpheus looked away.
She returned her attention to the map.
“And if the protections fail?”
“There are contingencies.”
“How many?”
He did not answer.
Lucienne looked at him.
“My lord.”
“Enough.”
Which meant many. Probably too many.
Lucienne knew him.
Morpheus did not prepare moderately for loss. He built monuments to the possibility.
She studied the map again. Then noticed something.
“There are no permanent wards.”
Morpheus's eyes moved to hers.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because permanent wards require a binding.”
Lucienne understood.
A binding to him. A binding to the Dreaming. Something which could, however benevolently, become another claim.
He had refused to do it.
Her expression softened.
“You asked her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she has not yet chosen to leave.”
Lucienne regarded him.
“And you will not ask her to accept another protection that may influence that decision.”
Morpheus was silent.
That was answer enough.
The map vanished.
“There is no need for further action tonight.”
He turned.
“My lord.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“Are you so certain she is leaving?”
His face revealed nothing.
“I am certain of nothing.”
“Then why are you behaving as though she is?”
The shadows along the shelves shifted.
“Because I gave her my word that her decision would be honoured.”
“That was not my question.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
Lucienne continued.
“You have spent the day preparing places for her to live. Routes by which she may travel safely. Wards against gods. Ways for her to call for help. You have apparently considered how to continue protecting her dreams without requiring her to return here.”
She paused.
“You have made very thorough preparations for losing her.”
Morpheus became unnaturally still.
“Would you prefer I did not?”
“No.”
Lucienne rose.
“I would prefer to understand why you seem more willing to prepare for her departure than to give her a reason to stay.”
His expression hardened.
“She asked for space.”
“Yes.”
“She is angry.”
“Yes.”
“She has been denied meaningful choice for much of her life. On more than one occasion, by my own hand.”
“Also yes.”
His voice dropped.
“Then I will not manipulate her into remaining here simply because her departure is undesirable to me.”
Lucienne watched him.
“I did not suggest manipulation.”
“You suggested that I convince her.”
“I suggested you try.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“There is little distinction.”
“There is an enormous distinction.”
A faint ripple moved through the nearest shelves.
Lucienne ignored it.
“You have spent weeks deciding for her because you believed your intentions justified it. Now you appear determined to make the opposite mistake and pretend your wishes have no place in her decision at all.”
Morpheus stared at her.
“My wishes are irrelevant.”
Lucienne actually sighed.
“No, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed.
“They are not.”
Silence.
Lucienne removed her spectacles and set them carefully on the table.
A sign Morpheus recognised. She was tired of speaking to him as librarian to king.
“If you ordered her to stay, your wishes would be improper.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“If you concealed the means by which she could leave because you wanted her here, your wishes would be improper.”
Still nothing.
“If you threatened her, bound her, frightened her, or attempted to make her feel responsible for your happiness, your wishes would be improper.”
Lucienne held his gaze.
“But telling someone that you want them to stay is not the same thing as taking away their right to leave.”
Something shifted in his expression. Small. Painful.
“She knows she is welcome here.”
Lucienne stared.
“Does she?”
He looked almost offended.
“I have made it abundantly clear.”
“You imprisoned her in the North Tower.”
A pause.
“For reasons which—”
“You restricted her movement.”
His expression chilled.
“Her power was unstable.”
“You accepted custody of her under a treaty she did not consent to.”
“To prevent Olympus—”
“You concealed the means by which you could release that claim.”
That silenced him.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“You have made it abundantly clear that you believe she should be here.”
A beat.
“I am not certain you have ever made it clear that you want her here.”
Morpheus looked away.
That, more than anything, told Lucienne she had reached the centre of it.
“Those are not the same thing.”
His voice was quieter now.
“No.”
“Does she know?”
Morpheus's eyes returned to hers.
“Know what?”
Lucienne almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was Morpheus.
“How you feel about her.”
The library became very still. There. Finally. No treaties. No wards. No gods. No duty.
Morpheus's face closed completely.
“That is not relevant to the present matter.”
Lucienne stared at him.
“It may be the most relevant matter.”
“Lucienne.”
Warning.
She did not care.
“Do you love her?”
The lamps flickered.
Morpheus's expression became almost offended by the directness of the question.
“You presume much.”
“I have served you for a very long time.”
“That does not entitle you to interrogate me regarding private matters.”
“No.”
Lucienne picked up her spectacles.
“But someone should.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
She put them on.
“And everyone else appears too frightened.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Matthew is not.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Matthew lacks subtlety.”
“So, apparently, do you.”
“I learned from watching you avoid conversations.”
The silence stretched.
Morpheus could simply have left. Normally, he might have.
Lucienne knew that too.
He did not. Instead he turned away from her and walked several paces towards the nearest window.
The sky beyond had darkened into evening. The Dreaming lay quiet beneath it.
His hands folded behind his back.
“I do not know what word should be given to it.”
Lucienne said nothing.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
“Affection is insufficient.”
A pause.
“Desire is insufficient.”
Lucienne remained perfectly still.
Morpheus's voice lowered.
“Attachment suggests something smaller than what has occurred.”
That was perhaps the most Morpheus admission Lucienne had ever heard.
She allowed him the language.
He continued.
“When she is absent, I am aware of it.”
The words came slowly now.
Reluctantly.
“When she enters a room, I am aware of that also.”
His mouth tightened.
“I have altered the ordering of my days without intending to. I have postponed matters which once I would have considered immovable because she wished to play a game.”
Lucienne carefully concealed a smile.
Morpheus ignored it. He looked back at the window.
“She is impertinent.”
“Yes.”
“Reckless.”
“Frequently.”
“She insults me with alarming regularity.”
“I have observed.”
His gaze returned to the window. The silence after that was different. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet for anyone human to hear.
“I thought I would lose her yesterday.”
Lucienne's expression changed.
Morpheus did not look at her.
“Not to death.”
A beat.
“That would have been simpler to understand.”
The sentence was terrible in its sincerity.
“She stood before me alive and furious and told me that she wished to leave this realm.”
His fingers tightened behind his back.
“And I knew that I had caused it.”
Lucienne's face softened.
“My lord.”
“Do not mistake me. I do not regret protecting her.”
There he was again.
Pride even in confession.
“I regret that I believed protection permitted me to deny her knowledge that was hers by right.”
He lowered his gaze.
“I have known kings who justified conquest with the same reasoning.”
“I believed myself different because I feared what might happen to her.”
His mouth twisted faintly.
“As though fear has ever made possession less possessive.”
Lucienne approached, though not too close.
“You recognised the mistake.”
“After making it.”
“That is generally when mistakes are recognised.”
He gave her a look.
Lucienne remained unmoved.
“And now?”
Morpheus looked away again.
“Now I will honour my word.”
“Even if she leaves.”
His face became very still.
“Especially then.”
Lucienne watched him for a long moment.
Then:
“That still does not answer my question.”
Morpheus closed his eyes briefly.
“You are persistent.”
“Yes.”
He opened them.
Lucienne waited.
“Do you love her?”
This time he did not evade. Not immediately. Outside, the first stars began appearing over the Dreaming.
Morpheus watched them.
Then said:
“Yes.”
His voice was lower when he continued.
“I believe I do.”
Lucienne's expression softened.
Then Morpheus turned fully from the window.
“But love has brought little good before.”
Lucienne's smile disappeared.
She knew immediately where his thoughts had gone.
“This is not Nada.”
The name altered him.
Not visibly to anyone who did not know him.
Lucienne knew him.
The faint withdrawal. The ancient wound.
“No.”
“And she is not Calliope.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Nor is she any of the others.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
Morpheus looked sharply at her.
Lucienne continued.
“Because you have a remarkable talent for treating the possibility of repeating an old mistake as though it makes the present one inevitable.”
A shadow moved across his face.
“Nada once suggested that perhaps my kind is simply incapable of love.”
Lucienne remained silent.
His gaze drifted towards the darkened windows.
When he spoke again, his voice had grown distant.
Ancient.
“At the time, I believed her wrong.”
A pause.
“But perhaps she was not.”
He looked at his own hand.
“Perhaps my kind was not made to love as mortals do. As gods do. Perhaps what we call love becomes something else when measured against eternity.”
Lucienne's brow furrowed.
Morpheus continued before she could interrupt.
“We endure.”
His eyes lifted.
“That is the nature of the Endless. We remain when kingdoms become dust. We remember when those we loved have become stories, and when even those stories are forgotten.”
The shadows around him deepened.
Not threatening.
Melancholy.
“We mistake permanence for virtue because permanence is what we are.”
Lucienne listened.
“And one such as she may love while understanding that love is permitted to change. That another may choose to leave. That time may alter what was once promised without rendering it false.”
His expression tightened.
When he spoke again, there was bitterness beneath the quiet dignity of it.
“I have never possessed such grace.”
A pause.
“I have never excelled at release.”
Lucienne thought of Nada. Of Calliope. Of Orpheus. Of a thousand lesser griefs Morpheus had stored like relics.
He went on.
“So, perhaps Nada understood me more clearly than I permitted myself to understand then.”
A pause.
Lucienne's eyes narrowed.
“And so your solution is what?”
Morpheus looked at her.
“I did not say there was one.”
Lucienne stepped closer.
“My lord, you speak as though loving her the way you do is itself some act of harm.”
“It may become one.”
“Anything may become harm if done badly.”
He said nothing.
“Friendship may become possession. Duty may become control. Protection certainly can.”
That struck.
Lucienne did not soften it.
“You have demonstrated that yourself.”
Morpheus's gaze lowered.
“But love does not become noble merely because you refuse to speak of it. Nor is heartbreak inevitable simply because of what you are.”
He said nothing.
“You are not the same man who condemned Nada.”
His expression tightened.
“You have changed since then.”
A pause.
“And, difficult though you may find the admission, you are changing still.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Change may not be enough.”
“Perhaps not.”
Lucienne did not look away.
“But neither is failure inevitable merely because you have failed before.”
Something restless moved through the shadows around him.
At last, frustration broke through the careful stillness of his face.
“And what would you have me say?”
His voice sharpened.
“That I love her?”
The lamps flickered.
“That the thought of her leaving this realm has occupied me from the moment she discovered the truth?”
The shadows spread further across the floor.
“That I sat before a chessboard last night knowing she would not come and remained there like a fool because some part of me imagined I might hear her footsteps?”
Lucienne went very still.
He had not intended to reveal that.
Morpheus knew it too.
His expression closed.
But the words were already there.
Lucienne spoke gently.
“Yes.”
He looked at her as though she had suggested madness.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps not precisely like that.”
A tiny, dangerous narrowing of his eyes.
“But yes.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“Tell her something true.”
Morpheus gave a humourless laugh.
Rare enough that it sounded almost wrong.
“And place what burden upon her?”
“Truth is not always a burden.”
“It is when given for the purpose of altering a decision.”
“Then do not give it for that purpose.”
Silence.
“Tell her because she deserves to know what she is deciding between.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“Leaving the Dreaming is not merely leaving a palace.”
A pause.
“And staying is not merely remaining under your protection.”
He said nothing.
“If she is deciding whether she wants a life here, then perhaps she should know whether you imagine yourself part of that life.”
Something raw flickered in his eyes.
Immediately hidden.
“I have no right to ask that of her.”
“You have every right to ask.”
Lucienne's tone sharpened.
“You do not have the right to decide her answer.”
That stopped him.
She let the distinction sit between them.
At last, Morpheus looked towards the darkening windows again.
“She is still angry.”
“Yes.”
“She addressed me formally on several occasions now.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched despite the seriousness of the conversation.
Morpheus noticed.
“You find this amusing as well.”
“I find it effective.”
His expression became deeply displeased.
Lucienne cleared her throat.
“She has always possessed a certain instinct for finding precisely the weapon most likely to inconvenience you.”
“It is petty.”
“Extremely.”
“Childish.”
“Certainly.”
A pause.
“You dislike it.”
Morpheus stared at her.
Lucienne smiled faintly.
“Very much, apparently.”
He looked away.
Lucienne continued more gently.
“You know, there is a difference between giving someone space and disappearing from them entirely.”
His expression shifted.
Very slightly.
“I invited her yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She declined.”
“I know.”
“Then I will not ask again.”
Lucienne sighed.
“My lord.”
“She made her preference clear.”
“For one evening.”
He gave her a flat look.
“I am not going to pursue her through my realm with repeated invitations after she has refused one.”
Lucienne considered him.
“No.”
A pause.
“That would be excessive.”
“Precisely.”
“But you might speak to her tomorrow.”
His expression became suspicious.
“I speak to her when necessary.”
Lucienne stared.
“You are both exhausting.”
Morpheus looked genuinely affronted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
She returned to the table.
Morpheus remained by the window.
After several seconds, Lucienne opened the book she had abandoned earlier.
She read exactly one line.
Then Morpheus spoke.
“Did she ask where I was?”
Lucienne looked up.
His back was still to her.
A smile threatened.
She suppressed it.
“Yes.”
He did not move.
“What did she ask?”
Lucienne considered how much she was entitled to reveal.
“Whether training had been cancelled.”
Silence.
“And?”
“When Nuala told her you were occupied, she asked what you were doing.”
Morpheus turned slightly.
“Nuala told her?”
“That you were preparing for the possibility of her departure.”
His expression tightened.
“I did not instruct her to do so.”
“I know.”
“I did not wish the preparations to appear an attempt at emotional coercion.”
Lucienne's brows rose.
“You have thought about this a great deal.”
He ignored that.
“How did she respond?”
Lucienne looked at him.
There was no king in the question.
Just a man attempting to sound indifferent and failing spectacularly to someone who had known him for centuries.
“You could ask her.”
Morpheus's face immediately returned to its usual severity.
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Chapter 36: Day Two. Dream floods his own room. Reader ignores him entirely.
Chapter 37: Day Three. Mopey emo music from the Nineties resonates throughout the palace. Reader pretends not to like Evanescence. Lucienne considers reincarnation as a lemming.
Chapter 38: Day Four. Matthew swears he saw the boss lying face down in a puddle of his own tears. Austin requires proof. Lucienne throws them both out of the library. Reader ignores all of them suspiciously but slips her full erotica collection to Nuala.
Chapter 39: Day Five. Field flowers and gold roses have unfurled through half of the palace walls. A long, plaintive howl can be heard from His Majesty's balcony. That night, tragic ballads echo beneath the Reader's windows. She drops a flowerpot randomly. A muffled thud can be heard in the dark below.
Chapter 40: Day Six. Reader finds out that Lucienne has not missed one of the episodes of the show The Librarians and that her Reader/Flynn Carson porn-with-plots are pretty famous within the fandom. The Corinthian reports that Lord Morpheus was seen in the gardens, under the personal storm cloud that follows him everywhere, with bandage around his head.
Chapter 41: Day Seven. Reader waits on the threshold to the Dreaming. Dream shows up with flowers. He cries in them. A lot. He has a black eye and a box of chocolates.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning, you woke to rain. Not ordinary rain. The sort of rain that struck the windows in great, relentless sheets, driven sideways by a wind strong enough to make the ancient glass tremble in its frame.
You opened one eye. Another gust battered the palace.
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the towers.
You closed your eye again.
For approximately five seconds. Then lightning flashed bright enough to turn the inside of your eyelids white.
“Oh, for fuck's sake.”
You pushed yourself upright.
The curtains were moving despite the windows being shut. Beyond them, the Dreaming had disappeared beneath a wall of grey.
Yesterday there had been stars. Before that, a pale morning sky. Today apparently the entire realm had decided it was starring in a gothic tragedy.
You climbed out of bed and crossed to the window.
Rain streamed down the glass so heavily you could barely make out the courtyard below. Trees bent beneath the wind. Dark clouds hung impossibly low over the palace towers. One of the gargoyles on the opposite roof looked profoundly offended by the entire situation.
You stared.
Another rumble of thunder.
Your eyes narrowed.
The rain intensified.
You folded your arms.
“Oh, very subtle.”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered you. You looked towards the ceiling.
“Really, Morpheus?”
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
He was probably standing somewhere pretending this had absolutely nothing to do with him.
You pulled the curtains shut. Then immediately opened them again because that felt too much like conceding defeat to the weather.
“You are billions of years old.”
Lightning cracked across the sky.
“Apparently that has not helped.”
You turned away. You had no intention of letting his emotional weather ruin your morning.
Unfortunately, the weather appeared to have other ideas.
By the time you had dressed, the rain was worse. By the time you had finished breakfast, there was hail. By the time you stepped into the corridor, one of the palace servants was quietly moving several potted plants away from a window because the glass looked as though it might implode.
You stopped.
The servant stopped.
You looked at the window.
Then at her.
She very carefully said nothing.
“Does this happen often?”
Her eyes moved towards the ceiling.
“The weather in the Dreaming is responsive, my lady.”
“Responsive.”
“Yes.”
A particularly violent gust shrieked around the tower.
You looked back through the window.
“Right.”
The servant lowered her head and hurried away before you could involve her further.
You continued towards the training hall.
You were still angry. Very angry. That had not changed overnight.
If anything, waking to find the entire realm apparently experiencing Morpheus's feelings on your behalf had sharpened it.
He had known there was a way to relinquish his claim under the treaty. Known you could leave. And he had kept that from you.
It did not matter that he had eventually agreed to give you the choice. It did not matter that he had promised that if, after one week, you still wished to leave, he would release you. It did not even matter that you understood why he had done it.
Perhaps that was the worst part.
You understood him perfectly.
He had been afraid. Afraid of what would happen to you outside the Dreaming. Afraid of Ereshkigal. Afraid of Olympus. Afraid of Odin. Afraid of your power. Afraid that you would make a decision while angry and regret it. Afraid that you would leave him.
And so Morpheus had done what Morpheus always did when fear became intolerable.
He had turned it into control.
You hated that you understood it.
You hated even more that part of you still wanted to go find him.
So you made a decision before you reached the training hall.
For the next week, you would give him nothing unnecessary. Nothing he could mistake for forgiveness. Nothing you could mistake for reconciliation.
You would train. You would work. You would continue your investigation. You would behave exactly as you would if he were merely the ruler of the realm in which you were temporarily residing.
No chess. No walks. No wandering into his chambers because you were bored. No asking whether he wanted to see something ridiculous you had found in a book. No arguments that existed purely because arguing with him had somehow become entertaining. No teasing. No casual conversation. No lingering.
No Morpheus. Only Lord Morpheus.
You reached the doors to the training hall.
They opened before you touched them.
Naturally.
Morpheus stood inside.
He was already waiting.
Black robes fell around him in severe lines. His hair looked somehow even more disordered than usual. Behind him, the tall windows revealed a sky nearly black with rain.
You stopped.
For one ridiculous instant, the familiar sight of him struck something soft inside you.
You crushed it immediately.
Morpheus looked at you.
His gaze passed over your face as though searching for some indication of what kind of morning this was going to be.
You gave him none.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Silence.
Not long.
Barely a second.
But you knew him well enough now to notice it.
His expression did not change.
“Good morning.”
You walked past him towards the centre of the hall.
Behind you, the doors closed.
Thunder rolled.
You dropped your bag onto the bench.
Then turned towards the windows.
“The weather is terrible.”
Morpheus's gaze shifted briefly towards the storm.
“So it would appear.”
You stared at him.
He looked back at you with perfect solemnity.
You waited.
Nothing.
“Right.”
You began stretching.
The rain slammed against the windows.
You looked at him again.
“You know everyone can tell, don't you?”
His brow lowered slightly.
“Tell what?”
“Nothing.”
You bent to touch your toes.
“Absolutely nothing.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Good.
At least you could still irritate him accidentally.
Morpheus approached the practice circle.
He did not immediately begin.
Instead, he stood several feet from you.
“Before we proceed, there is something I would ask.”
You straightened.
“What?”
“Do you wish to continue your training this week?”
You frowned.
That had not been what you expected.
“Why wouldn't I?”
“Because you are angry with me.”
Direct.
No attempt to soften it.
You folded your arms.
“I am.”
“And because the agreement we reached yesterday was intended to give you space in which to determine what you wish without further pressure from me.”
You watched him carefully.
“So?”
His gaze remained steady.
“Training requires my presence.”
“Unfortunately.”
A tiny pause.
Normally he would have reacted.
A look.
A cutting response.
Perhaps a dry observation about your gratitude.
Today he merely continued.
“If you would prefer to suspend it until you have made your decision, you may.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, anger rose again.
Not because he was doing anything wrong.
That almost made it worse.
Everything he was doing this morning was reasonable.
Careful.
Respectful.
Exactly what you had wanted from him yesterday.
And some immature part of you deeply resented that he had apparently decided to become excellent at boundaries overnight.
“No.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Very well.”
You did not move.
“That's it?”
“Would you prefer that I argue?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
You exhaled through your nose.
Infuriating man.
You stepped into the circle.
“I want to continue.”
“Then we shall.”
You picked up one of the practice blades.
Then added, because you needed him to understand:
“I'm not losing my routine because you made a mistake.”
His face became very still.
The rain seemed to soften for half a heartbeat.
“No.”
His voice was low.
“You should not.”
You looked away.
The training began.
For the first twenty minutes, nothing was unusual.
Or rather, everything was unusual because nothing was wrong.
You controlled your power.
Two dreams entered the circle.
You allowed them close.
Neither began worshipping you.
A third brushed deliberately past your shoulder and your influence flared, but you pulled it inward before the dream's expression could change.
Morpheus dismissed it.
“Again.”
You reset your stance.
Another construct approached.
It stepped too close.
You felt that familiar pressure beneath your ribs—the instinctive expansion of something ancient and golden that seemed to interpret proximity as attention and attention as something to claim.
You contained it.
Barely.
The construct passed.
Morpheus watched you.
“Better.”
You looked at him.
Praise from Morpheus was rare enough that your instinct was to smile.
You stopped yourself.
“Thank you, my lord.”
There.
Again.
His eyes sharpened slightly.
You turned away before he could respond.
The next exercise required him.
That had become common recently.
Dreams responded differently to you than he did. Mortals differently again. Lesser gods differently still.
Morpheus was useful because your power could not simply overwhelm him.
Which meant he could stand close enough for you to practise without anyone ending up on their knees.
Usually he entered the circle without ceremony.
Today he stopped at its edge.
“I will approach from behind.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
“I know the exercise.”
“Yes.”
You waited.
He still did not move.
“What?”
“Do you wish me to proceed?”
You frowned.
“Yes.”
Only then did he cross the line.
You felt him before you heard him.
Morpheus always had a presence.
Not power exactly.
Something larger.
Like the sudden awareness of a night sky overhead.
He stopped behind you.
Normally, he would place one hand around your wrist and reposition it.
Instead:
“May I touch your wrist?”
You turned your head.
Actually turned your entire body.
“What?”
Morpheus remained exactly where he was.
Hands at his sides.
“Your wrist.”
You stared.
“I heard you.”
He waited.
You looked down at your hand.
Then back up at him.
Something uncomfortable shifted inside your chest.
Yesterday, he would not have asked.
Last week, he would simply have taken your wrist.
Not roughly.
Never that.
But naturally.
Thoughtlessly.
As though the physical familiarity between you had developed so gradually that neither of you had ever stopped to determine when touching one another had become ordinary.
A hand at your elbow.
His fingers against your shoulder.
Your hand catching his sleeve.
You leaning across him to reach a chess piece.
His palm at your back.
Normal.
Until suddenly it wasn't.
And now he was standing there waiting for permission to touch your wrist.
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
Only then did he move.
His fingers closed lightly around your wrist.
Far more lightly than necessary.
“Your power is gathering here.”
His thumb hovered near the pulse point.
“You are still treating containment as resistance.”
“Because it feels like resistance.”
“It is not.”
He adjusted your hand.
“Do not force it backwards.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Allow it to exist without permitting it to expand.”
You glanced at him.
“That's extremely helpful.”
Under other circumstances, the sarcasm would have started something.
Today he simply said:
“Again.”
Annoyingly, that irritated you more.
You tried.
Failed.
The air around you flashed gold.
Morpheus released you immediately.
Not because the power had hurt him.
Because you had not given permission for him to continue holding you beyond the demonstration.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
You tried again.
This time the power folded.
Not disappeared.
Not suppressed.
It remained inside you, warm and restless, but yours.
Morpheus watched.
“There.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“I felt it.”
“Again.”
You reset.
Ten minutes later, your shoulder was wrong.
He stopped beside you.
“May I?”
You looked at his hand.
“Yes.”
He repositioned your shoulder.
Later:
“Your centre is too far forward. May I touch your back?”
You stared at him for half a second longer this time.
“Yes.”
His palm settled between your shoulder blades.
The contact was brief.
Functional.
Nothing more.
And yet you felt every finger.
Not because of attraction.
Not entirely.
Because each request reminded you of yesterday.
Of the argument.
Of everything he was trying desperately not to repeat.
It became impossible not to understand what he was doing.
He was forcing himself to distinguish between what he was permitted to do and what he had merely grown accustomed to doing.
He was asking.
Every time.
Even when the answer seemed obvious.
Especially when the answer seemed obvious.
You said nothing.
You were not ready to reward him for behaving as he should have behaved all along.
But something in your anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Just... shifted.
At the end of the lesson, Morpheus stepped back.
“Enough.”
You lowered your hands.
You were sweating.
Your hair had escaped whatever attempt you had made to contain it.
Outside, the storm had diminished to heavy rain.
You looked at the windows.
Then at him.
Interesting.
You walked to the bench and retrieved your things.
Usually, you would have stayed.
Asked how badly you had done.
Demanded a numerical assessment despite his repeated insistence that magical control could not reasonably be quantified.
Made some comment about how you deserved chocolate for not accidentally founding a religion during training.
Today you slung your bag over your shoulder.
“Thank you, Lord Shaper.”
Morpheus looked at you.
There was that pause again.
“You need not address me so.”
You met his gaze.
“I think formality is appropriate.”
You watched the words land.
There was no dramatic reaction.
No darkness spilling across the walls.
No thunder.
Only the faintest tightening around his eyes.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Very well.”
You moved towards the doors.
“If that is all, my lord.”
This one hurt more.
You knew it the instant you said it.
Something changed in his face.
Not anger.
That would have been easier.
He simply looked at you as though you had taken several steps further away while standing directly in front of him.
“That is all.”
You nodded.
“Then I'll see you tomorrow.”
You left before he could answer.
Outside, the rain had become heavier again.
You looked towards the nearest window.
“Oh, don't start.”
A palace servant passing with a stack of linens gave you a startled look.
“Not you.”
She hurried away.
******
Lucienne was already in the library when you arrived.
So were enough documents to suggest she had personally raided every archive in the Dreaming.
You slowed.
Your usual table had disappeared beneath stacks of paper.
There were folders.
Scrolls.
Three tablets.
Several books.
One disturbingly large black volume held shut by metal clasps.
Another pile sat on the chair.
You looked at Lucienne.
“Am I being punished?”
Lucienne glanced over her spectacles.
“Not by me.”
You approached.
“What is all this?”
“Information.”
“That's usually what libraries contain.”
“Information concerning Ereshkigal.”
That stopped you.
You looked down.
The first folder was labelled in Lucienne's neat hand.
Apparently he had entered through another doorway rather than following directly behind you, which you appreciated more than you wanted to.
You looked back at the table.
“All of it?”
“All that we possess.”
You picked up the first folder.
It was heavy.
“This is just Ereshkigal?”
“No.”
You gave him a flat look.
“Wonderful.”
Lucienne shifted a second stack towards you.
“That concerns Ishtar.”
A third.
“That concerns known divine transfer rites.”
A fourth.
“And that concerns treaties involving custodial authority.”
You looked at the expanding fortress of paper.
“I preferred it when everyone was lying to me.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
Morpheus's did not.
You opened the Ereshkigal folder.
The first section was familiar.
Her decline.
Her worship.
The death of Ishtar.
The attempted transfer.
Then you reached material you had not seen before.
Possible motivations.
Possible methods by which Ereshkigal might attempt another transfer.
Possible consequences if the fragment inside you was truly Ishtar's.
You stopped on one page.
A heading had been written across the top.
POTENTIAL HOST RECLAMATION THROUGH BLOOD-BEARER.
Your eyes moved down the page.
You read three lines.
Then five.
Then looked up.
“You think she might try to use me to restore herself?”
“It is a possibility.”
“You didn't tell me that.”
Morpheus did not defend himself.
“No.”
You read further.
There were notes in his handwriting beneath Lucienne's.
Some crossed out.
Some uncertain.
Some followed by phrases like insufficient evidence and unlikely but cannot be excluded.
You turned another page.
“You don't even believe half of this.”
“Belief is not the issue.”
“This says you've got no evidence she can even do it.”
“Correct.”
“Then why am I reading it?”
Morpheus met your eyes.
“Because yesterday I would have decided that the possibility was too speculative to trouble you with.”
You went still.
There it was.
Not dramatic.
Not apologetic.
Just precise.
A statement of exactly what he was trying to change.
You flipped several more pages.
More theories.
More uncertainty.
Some were ridiculous.
Some were horrifying.
Some contradicted one another entirely.
After ten minutes, you dropped the folder onto the table.
“I don't need every thought you've had in the last twelve hours.”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
“I am attempting not to determine for you which information is relevant.”
Silence.
You looked at him.
That landed.
Horribly.
Because that was exactly what you had accused him of doing.
Not merely keeping information from you.
Deciding what you were permitted to know based on what he believed you could handle.
You looked away.
“Right.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You pulled the folder back towards yourself.
“Fine.”
You opened it again.
“I'll decide what's useless.”
“Yes.”
You glanced at him.
Something about the immediate agreement annoyed you.
“Stop being reasonable.”
Lucienne abruptly lowered her eyes to her paperwork.
Morpheus stared at you.
“I was unaware that reasonableness had become objectionable.”
There he was.
Only slightly.
But there.
You almost smiled.
Almost.
You looked down before he could see it.
“It's suspicious.”
The silence that followed was different.
For the first time that morning, not entirely hostile.
Morpheus ruined it by becoming serious again.
“There is something further.”
You sighed.
“Of course there is.”
He approached the black book.
You had seen books like it before.
Restricted archives.
Material Lucienne would only retrieve under direct instruction.
Morpheus placed two fingers against the clasp.
The seal dissolved.
“Any record held within this library which concerns you directly is now accessible to you.”
You looked at him.
“What?”
“The restrictions have been altered.”
Your eyes moved to Lucienne.
She nodded.
“Anything concerning your birth, your parentage, the treaties, Ishtar, Ereshkigal, Olympus, Odin, Valí, previous incidents involving your power, or any other matter in which you are the subject rather than merely incidental to the record.”
You stared.
“I don't need permission?”
“No.”
“From you?”
“No.”
“From Lucienne?”
“No.”
You looked between them.
“What if something is dangerous?”
Morpheus answered immediately.
“Then I shall tell you that I believe it dangerous.”
“And if I still want to read it?”
A fractional pause.
Old instinct.
You could almost see it.
The answer he would once have given struggling briefly against the one he had decided he must give now.
“Then you may.”
You watched him carefully.
“Even if you think I'm making a mistake?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you strongly advise against it?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I'm being reckless?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are frequently reckless.”
There.
You almost smiled again.
“That wasn't the question.”
“And yet it remains true.”
Lucienne made a small sound that might have been a cough.
Morpheus continued.
“If the information concerns you, I will not conceal it from you.”
The humour vanished.
His voice lowered.
“Not again.”
You looked at him.
For several seconds neither of you said anything.
You could have thanked him normally.
You almost did.
Instead you reached for the report.
“Thank you, Lord Morpheus.”
The distance returned instantly.
His gaze dropped briefly.
“You are welcome.”
He turned to leave.
You watched him go.
Only after he disappeared between the shelves did Lucienne speak.
“You know, of course, that you are under no obligation to forgive him merely because he has begun correcting his behaviour.”
You looked at her.
“I know.”
Lucienne adjusted the stack in front of her.
“Good.”
You waited.
She added:
“Though I suspect calling him Lord Morpheus may prove considerably more effective than any punishment you might devise.”
You stared at the doorway through which he had disappeared.
“Good.”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“You are enjoying that.”
“A little.”
“I thought so.”
**********
Austin returned just before midday.
You did not notice him enter.
You noticed the book that appeared beside your elbow.
You looked at it.
Then up.
Austin stood beside the table.
“You.”
He smiled.
“Me.”
You glanced automatically around the library.
No Morpheus.
No raven.
No suspiciously positioned nightmare.
You looked back at Austin.
“You're allowed here without supervision again?”
Austin pulled out the chair opposite you.
“Apparently.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He sat.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What did he say?”
Austin immediately understood who you meant.
“Very little.”
“Austin.”
“Fine.”
He leaned closer.
“He informed me that I was free to resume my usual work in the library and that your friendships are not his to regulate.”
You blinked.
“He said that?”
“Not in those words.”
“What words?”
Austin straightened, lowered his voice into a terrible approximation of Morpheus and said:
“Your association with her is not mine to prohibit.”
You stared.
Austin added:
“Then he looked at me for several seconds in a manner that suggested he wished very much that it were.”
A laugh nearly escaped you.
You smothered it.
“That's not funny.”
“It was extremely funny.”
“He could turn you into something horrible.”
“Yes, which considerably improved the experience.”
You shook your head and returned to your book.
Austin watched you.
“Are you all right?”
Your eyes remained on the page.
“No.”
His expression softened.
You immediately added:
“But I'm not discussing it.”
“All right.”
That was one of the reasons you liked Austin.
He actually understood the concept.
He opened his own book.
For the next hour, you worked side by side.
Nothing happened.
No doors opened ominously.
No storm cloud appeared inside the library.
No one informed Austin he needed to relocate to another wing of the palace.
It was so aggressively normal that you noticed that too.
Morpheus was removing the unnecessary restrictions.
One by one.
You wished it did not matter.
It did.
*********
Valí was another matter.
You found him that afternoon near one of the smaller council chambers.
Two guards stood at the end of the corridor.
Not beside him.
Not surrounding him.
But close enough to intervene.
You stopped walking.
“Oh, come on.”
Valí looked at you.
Then followed your gaze.
“They're not for you.”
You folded your arms.
“That's reassuring.”
“They're not exactly for me either.”
“There are two guards following you.”
“Technically they're watching the corridor.”
You looked at the completely empty corridor.
“Valí.”
He sighed.
“Odin.”
Your irritation shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“What about him?”
“Dream still thinks my father might try to use me to reach you.”
You glanced at the guards again.
That was, unfortunately, reasonable.
Valí leaned closer.
“He also told me very clearly that I'm not forbidden from speaking to you.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he grit his teeth while saying it?”
“Possibly.”
You almost smiled.
Then the council doors opened.
Morpheus emerged.
Of course he did.
His eyes found you immediately.
Then Valí.
Then the guards.
You folded your arms more tightly.
“I was just admiring my freedom.”
Valí muttered:
“Here we go.”
Morpheus approached.
“Valí is not under guard because of his association with you.”
“So I've been told.”
“Odin remains a credible threat.”
You looked at the guards.
“And if I want to talk to Valí?”
“Then you may.”
You blinked.
“Alone?”
This time there was a pause.
Not refusal.
Consideration.
“If you wish.”
Valí's eyebrows climbed.
You continued.
“Without anyone listening?”
“Yes.”
“Without you appearing halfway through?”
A faint coldness entered his expression.
“I do not habitually appear halfway through your private conversations.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Valí wisely took one step away.
You decided not to litigate that particular claim today.
“Fine.”
Morpheus continued.
“I ask only that you remain within the palace wards while Odin's intentions remain uncertain.”
You noticed the word immediately.
Ask.
Not command.
Not forbid.
You hated that you noticed every single one.
“That's reasonable.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Thank you.”
You looked at him.
Then deliberately:
“Of course, Lord Morpheus.”
Valí's expression became fascinating.
He looked between you.
Morpheus went so still he might have been carved from stone.
“If you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
He walked away.
Valí waited until Morpheus disappeared around the corner.
Then looked at you.
“You're terrifying.”
“Good.”
“I think he preferred it when you were shouting.”
“Good.”
Valí stared after him.
“You're going to keep doing that, aren't you?”
“Absolutely.”
*********
By evening, your anger had become exhausting.
Not weaker.
Just exhausting.
Maintaining distance from Morpheus required far more effort than you had anticipated.
You had developed habits around him.
Small ones.
Stupid ones.
At dinner, you saw something ridiculous carved into the handle of a serving spoon and instinctively turned to point it out.
He was not there.
In the library, you found an obscure reference to a Mesopotamian dream ritual and your first thought was that you wanted to ask him whether it actually worked.
You did not.
While walking back to your chambers, you passed one of the windows overlooking the courtyard.
The rain had finally stopped.
The clouds had begun to break apart.
You wondered whether he was feeling better.
Then became irritated with yourself for wondering.
By the time you reached your room, you wanted nothing more than to stop thinking about him.
So naturally, you found a note from him.
It appeared shortly after seventh bell.
One knock.
Only one.
You looked up from the report spread across your bed.
No second knock came.
You waited several seconds.
Then climbed down and opened the door.
No one.
A small folded sheet of black paper rested on the table outside.
You stared at it.
“Of course.”
You picked it up.
His handwriting was unmistakable.
If you wish to play, the board will be prepared. No answer is required.
You read it twice.
Then again.
That was all.
No I hope you will come.
No I would like to see you.
No attempt to make chess part of some grand reconciliation.
No pressure.
No request for an answer.
He had left the door open.
Nothing more.
You carried the note inside.
Placed it on the table.
Walked away.
Opened the Ereshkigal report.
Read three lines.
Looked at the note.
“No.”
You returned to the report.
Five minutes later, you were staring at the same paragraph.
You shut the folder.
The seventh bell had always meant chess recently.
Not officially.
Neither of you had ever declared it a routine.
It had simply become one.
You would finish whatever you were doing and appear in his chambers.
Sometimes he already had the board ready.
Sometimes wine.
Pretzels.
Chocolate.
You would play.
You would argue.
You would accuse him of cheating despite knowing perfectly well he did not.
He would tell you that accusing an anthropomorphic personification of manipulating a chessboard was beneath you.
You would tell him nothing was beneath you when you were losing.
Sometimes you talked.
Sometimes neither of you did.
Sometimes you stayed for hours.
You looked towards the door.
Going did not mean forgiving him.
You knew that.
You could play one game.
You could sit opposite him without resolving anything.
You could even leave immediately afterwards.
Your feet touched the floor.
You stood.
Walked towards the door.
Stopped.
Your hand reached for the handle.
You could almost picture him on the other side of the palace.
Waiting.
That was the problem.
You wanted to go.
Not because of chess.
Because you missed him.
It had been one day.
One ridiculous day.
And you missed him.
You hated that.
You lowered your hand.
“No.”
This time you said it firmly.
You walked back to the bed.
Picked up the report.
You did not absorb a single sentence for nearly half an hour.
********
Morpheus had prepared the chessboard before seventh bell.
He had almost not done so.
He had considered that leaving the invitation at all might constitute pressure.
Then he had considered that failing to leave it might suggest that your anger had resulted in the removal of something you enjoyed.
He had spent an absurd amount of time determining the wording.
Nothing that requested your presence.
Nothing that implied disappointment should you decline.
Nothing requiring an answer.
The board was prepared.
He had almost placed your glass on the table.
He stopped himself.
That presumed you would come.
So there was one glass.
His.
Untouched.
There were no pretzels.
He had considered those too.
There was, however, chocolate nearby.
That had already been there.
He told himself this mattered.
The seventh bell sounded.
Morpheus sat.
The fire burned quietly.
Rain tapped now rather than hammered against the windows.
Five minutes passed.
He did not look towards the door.
At seven minutes, he looked.
Only briefly.
He returned his attention to the board.
Ten minutes.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
The Dreaming knew you were not coming.
Of course it did.
The realm had known the instant you placed his note on the table and walked away from it.
Morpheus could have known too.
He chose not to.
At eighteen minutes, his hand moved towards one of the white pawns.
Your pieces.
He stopped before touching it.
You usually opened with that pawn.
Unless you were attempting something you had read in one of the chess books Lucienne had found you.
Or unless you were deliberately doing something absurd to see whether he would react.
Once you had opened by moving your knight and announced:
“Chaos.”
He had informed you this was not a recognised strategy.
You had replied:
“It is now.”
The memory came without permission.
Morpheus's hand lowered.
Twenty-three minutes.
Your spot remained empty.
At twenty-seven minutes, Morpheus finally accepted what he had known from the beginning.
You were not coming.
He remained seated.
Not because he expected you.
Because putting the board away felt too much like admitting how much he had expected you.
The fire burned lower.
Outside, the clouds gathered again.
Morpheus noticed.
His expression tightened.
The rain stopped before it could begin.
At last, he rose.
The pieces returned slowly to their places.
Black first.
Then white.
The board folded itself.
His glass vanished.
The table remained.
Morpheus looked at where you would usually sit.
The seat was empty.
He thought of your voice that morning.
“Good morning, Lord Morpheus.”
Then later.
“Thank you, Lord Morpheus.”
And finally:
“If that is all, my lord.”
He had been called Lord Morpheus by gods.
Kings.
Nightmares.
Entire civilisations.
Never had the title sounded quite so much like a door closing.
With a small movement of his hand, the cushions you liked disappeared.
The chamber became larger without them.
He stood alone beside the extinguishing fire.
For the first time since yesterday, there was no anger in the Dreaming.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The palace knew before Morpheus did.
Gold threaded through the walls as you walked.
Not enough to damage them.
Not yet.
But enough that the marble beneath your feet warmed.
Enough that flowers in distant courtyards opened and closed out of season.
Enough that dreams passing through the corridors stopped talking as you went by.
You barely noticed.
You were not thinking about the power.
You were counting.
Eleven days.
Training.
Eleven days.
Chess.
Eleven days.
Walks.
Chocolate.
His hand around your wrist.
His hands at your waist.
His mouth almost touching yours.
Do not.
You stopped walking.
For one horrible second, a new thought arrived.
Was that why?
Your anger shifted shape.
You started walking again.
Faster.
By the time you reached his chambers, the doors opened before you touched them.
Morpheus was standing near the windows.
The chessboard had already been prepared.
Two glasses.
The plate of pretzels.
Dark chocolate.
Something in you nearly broke at the sight of it.
He turned.
His expression changed immediately.
His eyes went to the folder in your hand.
He knew.
There was no confusion.
No need for explanation.
He simply looked at it.
Then at you.
The Dreaming darkened around him.
You closed the doors.
Morpheus said your name.
You held up the report.
“How long?”
Silence.
“How long have you known?”
Morpheus did not insult you by pretending not to understand.
“Eleven days.”
The answer hit harder hearing it from him.
You nodded.
“Eleven.”
“Yes.”
You walked further into the room.
The chessboard stood between you.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
“Eleven days ago you discovered I could leave.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“Yes.”
You laughed.
There was no humour in it.
“We trained.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“We walked through the gardens.”
Nothing.
“We played chess.”
His face tightened.
“Almost every night.”
“Yes.”
A flicker.
You kept going.
“Valí arrived.”
Morpheus became very still.
“You dragged the truth out of him.”
“I required him to tell you what Odin had done.”
Your eyes flashed.
“Oh, I remember.”
Gold crawled over your fingers.
“You stood there and told him I deserved the truth.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You asked me whether I had ever loved him.”
He looked at you.
“Yes.”
“Whether I had ever returned his feelings.”
“Yes.”
“You were very concerned about what I chose where Valí was concerned.”
He said nothing.
You stepped closer.
“Then Ereshkigal –“
The windows trembled.
“You told me everything.”
“Yes.”
“Ishtar marking me.”
“Yes.”
“Ereshkigal wanting what was inside me.”
“Yes.”
“You agreed when I said Zeus didn't own me.”
Morpheus's expression tightened.
“He does not.”
“You agreed Odin didn't get to decide who stood beside me.”
“He does not.”
“You agreed Ereshkigal didn't get to decide what happened to my body.”
“She does not.”
Your voice finally rose.
“You told me I belonged to no one while withholding the fact that I could leave.”
Silence.
The words struck the room.
Morpheus did not move.
You looked at him.
“Say something.”
His voice was low.
“You are right.”
That enraged you more.
“Stop doing that.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“Doing what?”
“Agreeing with me after you've already done the thing.”
The gold flared.
A vase on a distant table cracked.
Neither of you looked at it.
“You don't get to stand there now and tell me how correct I am.”
“No.”
“Morpheus.”
He fell silent.
You opened the report and threw it onto the chessboard.
Pieces scattered.
The black king fell sideways.
“Why?”
Morpheus looked at the document.
Then at you.
“At first, because the finding required confirmation.”
You folded your arms.
“Fine.”
“The relevant law predates Zeus's present authority over several Olympian domains. I would not tell you that you were free to leave until I knew he could not use an older provision to compel your return to Olympus.”
“Fine.”
Your voice remained sharp.
“Then it was confirmed.”
“Yes.”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Morpheus held your gaze.
“Odin.”
You laughed.
“Of course.”
“And Ishtar.”
“Yes.”
“Then Ereshkigal.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
It was almost absurd laid out that plainly.
“And every time you decided you would tell me after the next problem.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“When things were safer.”
“Yes.”
“When you knew more.”
“Yes.”
Your eyes burned.
“There will always be something, Morpheus.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You stepped closer.
“There will always be another god.”
Silence.
“Another prophecy.”
Nothing.
“Another person who wants something.”
Morpheus's face was grim.
“Another reason.”
You shook your head.
“Lucienne understood that.”
A tiny shift.
You saw it.
“She told you.”
“Yes.”
“And you still said nothing.”
“Yes.”
Your voice dropped.
“Why?”
This time the rehearsed reasons seemed to leave him.
For several seconds he simply looked at you.
Then:
“Because another realm may not be safe for you.”
Wrong.
Entirely wrong.
The room reacted before you did.
Gold exploded across the floor.
Not fire.
Light.
It raced through the cracks in the marble and climbed the pillars in brilliant veins.
Morpheus's expression changed.
You laughed in disbelief.
“There it is.”
“That is not an attempt to—”
“Neither did Zeus apparently.”
Morpheus stopped.
You took another step.
Your hands were shaking now.
“He couldn't control me, so he gave me to you.”
“I have never accepted his right to—”
You interrupted again.
“Odin had strategy.”
Your voice cracked through the room.
“He put Valí beside me because he had plans and contingencies and whatever other clever fucking word he uses for deciding what my life should look like.”
Morpheus did not interrupt.
“Ereshkigal has inheritance.”
The gold climbed your throat.
“She doesn't want to steal from me. No. She thinks she's entitled to something that belonged to her sister.”
You pointed at him.
“And you pretend that all of this is for safety.”
Morpheus went completely still.
You felt tears threaten.
That made you angrier.
“Every one of you has a different word for why the choice belongs to you instead of me.”
Silence.
The light in the room pulsed.
“Control.”
A pulse.
“Strategy.”
Another.
“Inheritance.”
The windows shook.
“Safety.”
You looked at him.
“Different word. Same fucking thing.”
Morpheus could have argued.
You could see arguments in him.
That Zeus had intended ownership.
That Odin had manipulated.
That Ereshkigal wanted power.
That he had wanted you alive.
That his intentions were different.
He did not say any of them.
Because none answered the question that mattered.
Who had chosen?
Not you.
You laughed shakily.
“You can't even argue with me.”
Morpheus's voice was quiet.
“No.”
“Because I'm right.”
“Yes.”
“Stop saying yes.”
His mouth closed.
You turned away.
The chessboard caught your eye again.
The sight of it was unbearable.
Eleven evenings.
Eleven days in which you had sat across from him believing you had nowhere else to go.
Your thoughts returned to the corridor.
His refusal.
You went still.
Slowly, you looked back at him.
“Is that why?”
Morpheus's expression changed.
He knew immediately.
That made your stomach twist.
“Why you kept pulling away from me.”
Silence.
Your face burned.
“Was that why?”
Morpheus answered.
“Yes.”
You stared.
For some reason, that hurt differently.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And suddenly you couldn't kiss me.”
His voice became lower.
“I could not allow myself to take something from you while you still believed you had no choice but to remain in my realm.”
You flinched.
Morpheus saw it.
“Do not make that sound noble.”
His face tightened.
“I do not.”
“You withheld the choice.”
“Yes.”
“Then congratulated yourself for not kissing the prisoner.”
Something almost wounded moved across his face.
“No.”
“What else was I supposed to think?”
“That I was a coward.”
You stopped.
Morpheus looked directly at you.
There was no king in his voice now.
No sovereign.
No carefully constructed legal defence.
“I knew that if I kissed you while withholding this, whatever passed between us would be built upon a truth you did not possess.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the report.
“I could not do that.”
You stared.
“But you could keep me here, against my will, while I had a choice to leave.”
A brutal pause.
“Yes.”
The answer visibly cost him.
Good.
You hated yourself for thinking it.
You wanted it to cost him.
“Do you know what the worst part is?”
Morpheus waited.
“I thought I'd done something wrong.”
His expression broke.
Barely.
But you saw it.
“No.”
“I thought you changed your mind.”
“I did not.”
“I thought I had imagined all of it.”
“You did not.”
Your throat tightened.
“I nearly kissed you three times.”
“I know.”
“Yes. You were there.”
His eyes closed briefly.
You turned away again.
“God.”
The gold was becoming unstable now.
Morpheus took one instinctive step towards you.
You spun.
“Don't.”
He stopped immediately.
That mattered.
You hated that it mattered.
You looked at the report.
Then at him.
There was only one thing left to say.
“Release me.”
Morpheus answered without hesitation.
“I will.”
You stopped.
You had expected resistance.
Arguments.
Warnings.
A command.
Anything except that.
“What?”
“I will relinquish the claim.”
You stared.
Morpheus's face was pale even by his standards.
“If you wish to leave the Dreaming, I will release you.”
For the first time since entering the room, the gold stopped spreading.
You looked at him suspiciously.
“Now.”
Morpheus paused.
“No.”
The entire room erupted.
The chess pieces shot from the board.
One embedded itself in a curtain.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
Gold burst around you in a wave.
“You unbelievable—”
“I am not refusing you.”
“You just did.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
Not command.
Urgency.
“I am asking for time.”
You laughed furiously.
“You have had eleven days.”
“I know.”
“I do not owe you another hour.”
“No.”
“Then release me.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“You are furious.”
“Excellent observation.”
“With me.”
“Another triumph.”
“And you should be.”
You stared.
“Do not tell me what I should feel.”
His expression tightened.
“Very well.”
He tried again.
“You are furious with me.”
“Yes.”
“And I fear that my betrayal has made leaving indistinguishable from punishing me for it.”
You went still.
The words landed.
You hated that they landed.
Morpheus continued carefully.
“I am not saying your anger is invalid.”
“Don't.”
“I am saying that if you leave tonight, I do not believe you will know whether you left because you wished to leave this realm or because you wished to hurt me.”
Your jaw clenched.
“Maybe I do want to hurt you.”
Something in his face changed.
“I know.”
His voice was quieter when he continued.
“And that is precisely why it would be dangerous to make such a choice tonight.”
You looked away.
Part of you wanted to walk through the nearest door into the waking world and never look back simply so Morpheus would know what it felt like to have no control over whether you returned.
That knowledge disgusted you.
Not because he did not deserve consequences.
Because that still wasn't choice.
It was reaction.
Morpheus took no advantage of your silence.
He stood exactly where you had told him to stand.
“What are you asking?”
His eyes lifted.
“Seven days.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“Seven days in which no obligation changes.”
“Morpheus—”
“Hear me.”
You glared.
He corrected himself immediately.
“Please.”
That stopped you.
Morpheus almost never said please.
You folded your arms.
“Talk.”
“Seven days.”
His voice was measured.
“You remain because you have agreed to consider the choice, not because I claim the right to keep you.”
You said nothing.
“During those seven days, I will make preparations for your safety beyond this realm.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“I didn't ask you to.”
“No.”
A pause.
“I am asking permission to do what I can.”
That word again.
Permission.
You hated how badly he was learning.
Too late.
But learning.
“And at the end?”
Morpheus looked at you.
“At the end of seven days, if you still wish to leave, I will dissolve the claim.”
You watched him carefully.
“Regardless of what happens.”
“Yes.”
“No new reason.”
“No.”
“No suddenly discovering another ancient god wants my kidneys.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“Your kidneys?”
“Stay focused.”
“No new threat will alter my promise.”
You stepped closer.
“Even if Ereshkigal appears in your realm tomorrow?”
Not a flicker.
“Yes.”
“Even if Odin comes for Valí?”
“Yes.”
“Even if Zeus decides he wants me back?”
Morpheus's eyes hardened.
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I'm being reckless?”
Morpheus went silent.
You stared.
There he was.
The King of Dreams.
Ancient.
Proud.
Certain that he saw consequences others could not.
Certain that duty sometimes gave him the right to act.
His jaw tightened.
You waited.
“Morpheus.”
A long pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
You searched his face.
“No argument?”
“I cannot promise not to tell you when I believe you are in danger.”
You opened your mouth.
He continued.
“But I will not use that danger to prevent you from leaving.”
You stared.
“No appeal to safety.”
“No.”
“No treaty.”
“No.”
“No locking gates.”
Pain crossed his face.
“No.”
“No deciding I need another week because you're frightened.”
A pause.
“No.”
You exhaled.
The gold dimmed.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
You looked around the room.
At the scattered chess pieces.
At the pretzels.
At the untouched chocolate.
At the life that had somehow begun forming around you here while you were busy resenting the fact that you could not leave it.
That was the worst part.
If you hated the Dreaming, the decision would have been easy.
You didn't.
You loved the library.
You loved Nuala.
Lucienne.
Mervyn, although you would deny it.
The ridiculous markets.
The palace gardens.
The view from your rooms.
Training, sometimes.
Chess.
Him.
You shut that thought down immediately.
You were too angry for it.
But that was precisely the problem.
Morpheus was right about one thing.
If you left tonight, part of you would be leaving for the pleasure of making him watch you go.
And you refused to let even your anger decide for you.
Your choice had already belonged to too many other things.
You would not hand it to rage as well.
You looked at him.
“Seven days.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“I am not doing this for you.”
“I know.”
You hated this.
You hated all of it.
“Seven days.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Seven days.”
You stepped around him.
He did not try to stop you.
At the doors, you paused.
There was one more thing.
You turned.
Morpheus was standing beside the ruined chessboard.
For eleven days, he had been Morpheus.
Sometimes Dream.
Occasionally an insult.
Never this.
You looked directly at him.
Your voice was perfectly cold.
“Seven days, my lord.”
You bowed.
Morpheus went motionless.
The title hit exactly where you intended it to.
You had called him that when you first arrived. When you were arguing. When he was your custodian.
Your jailer.
Your king.
Before chess.
Before gardens.
Before almost-kisses.
Before Morpheus.
You watched recognition move through him.
You opened the doors.
He said your name.
You did not turn.
Instead, you simply walked away.
The doors closed behind you.
Morpheus remained where he was.
The Dreaming was silent.
Slowly, his eyes moved towards the chessboard.
The pieces lay scattered across the floor.
Your white queen had landed beneath the table.
His black king remained on its side.
The two glasses of wine were untouched.
So was the chocolate.
Morpheus stared at it for a very long time.
Seven days.
He had asked for seven because it seemed simultaneously very little and impossibly much.
Seven days to prepare protections that would function without him.
Seven days to determine what Ereshkigal could reach beyond his borders.
Seven days to provide Lucienne with every relevant record.
Seven days to make certain that, if you walked through the Threshold, you would not simply exchange one captivity for another.
Seven days in which he could not command you to remain.
Could not appeal to treaty.
Could not use fear.
Could not even rely upon your affection, because he no longer knew whether you would permit him near enough to invoke it.
He looked towards the empty place where you usually sat.
Only that morning, he had believed there would be another game tomorrow.
Another argument.
Another evening in which you accused him of cheating despite possessing no evidence whatsoever.
Now he understood something much simpler.
The next seven days might be the last seven days you ever spent in his realm.
And for the first time since discovering the means to release you, Morpheus understood that the choice was no longer something he could postpone.
You are a young goddess, daughter of Zeus, whose unstable power has made you a problem Olympus would rather hand to someone else.
That someone is Dream of the Endless.
Placed under Morpheus’s protection by treaty, you find yourself trapped in the Dreaming while ancient secrets surrounding your power begin to surface—and while your increasingly complicated relationship with its king becomes impossible to ignore.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
Even despite everything else happening around you—the increasingly detailed enquiries into Odin, Ishtar, Ereshkigal, the transfer rite, the old divine laws, and exactly how many gods might now have reason to take an interest in you—one much smaller problem had begun occupying an irritating amount of your attention.
Several days after you had found out about the rite, you had reached the conclusion that Morpheus was either courting you very badly or had abruptly decided not to court you at all.
You were leaning toward the second possibility.
Which was irritating.
Mostly because, until very recently, you had been reasonably certain you had not imagined the change between you.
The chess had continued.
Every evening, unless something genuinely required the King of Dreams elsewhere, you found yourself in his chambers opposite the same board.
Sometimes there was wine.
There were always pretzels, although Morpheus continued to behave as though their presence were a regrettable concession to mortal vulgarity rather than something he had begun providing without being asked.
And there was chocolate.
Your favourite. Also always. So, there was nothing unusual about the chocolate. Morpheus had been putting it beside your chair for long enough now that its absence would probably have been more noticeable than its presence.
Still, on the first evening after the truth about Ishtar had been revealed, you looked at the little plate beside you and then across the board at him.
“At least one thing remains predictable.”
Morpheus was arranging the black pieces.
“I was unaware chocolate had become a source of stability.”
“You would be surprised.”
His fingers paused on a bishop.
“Your standards for stability are concerning.”
You smiled.
“And yet you continue supplying it.”
His eyes lifted briefly to yours.
“Your move.”
You smiled wider.
He did not.
But something faint had shifted around his mouth.
That was the problem.
There were still moments like that.
There were still long conversations after the game had ceased to matter.
Still walks through the palace that somehow became walks through the gardens.
Still occasions when you would find Morpheus waiting outside the library despite having absolutely no reason to be there.
Still the strange sense that the two of you had begun circling something neither of you had properly named.
And then, every time you moved too close recently—
he withdrew.
Not dramatically.
Not cruelly.
That might almost have been easier.
He simply stopped.
The first time happened during training.
The training itself had changed considerably.
Containment was no longer enough.
Morpheus had begun teaching you direction.
Not merely how to hold the power inside yourself, but how to choose where it went.
The first exercise involved three dreams standing apart from one another in the training hall.
One was instructed to approach.
You had to influence only him.
That was considerably harder than influencing everyone.
Apparently your power had spent its entire existence believing subtlety was beneath it.
The first attempt ended with all three dreams staring at you as though you had personally arranged the stars.
You groaned.
“Fantastic.”
Morpheus stood behind the boundary line, arms folded.
“Again.”
“They are all looking at me.”
“I had noticed.”
“Fix them.”
“You will.”
You looked at him.
“That sounds suspiciously like effort.”
“It is training.”
“Your training remains deeply committed to ruining my mornings.”
One of the dreams took a reverent step towards you.
You pointed.
“See? He is doing it again.”
Morpheus's expression did not alter.
“Release him.”
You looked back.
That was new too.
Previously Morpheus had repaired whatever you did.
Now he made you do it yourself.
You concentrated.
Nothing happened.
The dream continued looking at you with unsettling devotion.
“I don't know how.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. Very useful.”
Morpheus stepped into the circle.
Your attention shifted immediately.
It always did when he came close now.
He stopped behind you.
Not touching.
Close enough that you could feel him there.
“You are attempting to suppress the influence.”
“Isn't that the point?”
“No.”
His voice came low beside you.
“You sent it outward. Call it back.”
You frowned.
“Like what?”
“A command.”
“To myself?”
“To the power.”
Your mouth twisted.
“You make it sound like a badly behaved dog.”
“Considering your previous comparison regarding your own training, I assumed the metaphor might appeal to you.”
You turned your head.
He was much closer than you had realised.
You almost laughed.
Then you didn't.
Morpheus looked down at you.
You looked at him.
There was a moment.
Not imagined.
Not this time.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Your breath caught.
Neither of you moved.
The gold beneath your skin warmed.
Not dangerously.
Just enough that Morpheus noticed.
His gaze returned to your eyes.
You thought—
finally.
You turned slightly towards him.
Morpheus stepped back.
The moment broke so abruptly that you almost wondered whether it had existed at all.
His expression closed.
“Again.”
You stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“Your concentration has broken.”
“I wonder why.”
Silence.
You waited.
Nothing.
Morpheus returned to the edge of the circle.
You stared after him for several seconds before turning back to the thoroughly besotted dreams.
“Fine.”
You lifted both hands.
“Apparently we're pretending nothing happened.”
One of the dreams smiled adoringly.
You glared at him.
“Not you.”
From behind you came Morpheus's voice.
“Focus.”
You nearly sent the entire hall through a wall.
Instead, after another twenty minutes and one accidental wave of collective affection directed towards a marble pillar, you finally managed it.
You chose one dream.
Only one.
The gold moved from you in a narrow thread rather than a flood.
His face changed.
Not worship.
Attention.
Intense, complete attention.
You felt it.
The connection.
For the first time, you did not panic.
You held it.
Then you pulled.
The gold came back.
The dream blinked.
His expression cleared.
You stared.
“I did it.”
Morpheus approached.
There was unmistakable approval in his face.
“Yes.”
You turned towards him, grinning before you could stop yourself.
“I actually did it.”
“You did.”
You threw your arms around him.
It was instinctive.
Pure triumph.
You did not think until your arms were already around his neck.
Morpheus went rigid.
You froze too.
Then his hands came to your waist.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
You leaned back enough to look at him.
His hands were still there.
His face was inches from yours.
Again.
That unbearable almost.
You felt his fingers tighten.
You thought he might kiss you.
Instead he released you.
Immediately.
He stepped away.
“Again.”
Your smile disappeared.
“Right.”
Morpheus looked at you.
Something almost pained crossed his expression.
It vanished too quickly to understand.
You turned away.
“Again.”
You were much less pleased with yourself after that.
********
Chess was worse.
Because chess provided considerably more opportunities for awkward silence.
Three nights later, you were sitting on the floor opposite him, one leg tucked beneath you, glaring at the board.
Morpheus had taken your rook.
You considered this a personal insult.
“You did that deliberately.”
His eyes lifted.
“The majority of successful chess moves are deliberate.”
“You knew I wanted that rook.”
“I knew you had positioned it poorly.”
“I was using it.”
“Badly.”
You reached for one of his pieces.
Morpheus caught your wrist.
“No.”
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“I wasn't cheating.”
“You were about to move my knight.”
“I was inspecting it.”
“You have inspected it six times.”
“Maybe I'm very interested in horses.”
His thumb was resting against the inside of your wrist.
Neither of you seemed to notice at first.
Then you did.
Your eyes lifted.
Morpheus was already looking at you.
The room went very quiet.
His fingers loosened but did not release you.
You did not move your hand.
Neither did he.
You leaned forward.
Slowly this time.
Deliberately.
Giving him every opportunity to stop you.
He did not.
Not immediately.
You were close enough now to see the impossible depth of his eyes.
Close enough that your knees had nearly touched beneath the chessboard.
His gaze dropped.
Your lips parted.
Then Morpheus let go.
He sat back.
“Your move.”
You stared.
A beat passed.
“What?”
“It is your move.”
“I know whose move it is.”
Morpheus said nothing.
Your embarrassment arrived as anger because anger was much easier to carry.
“Did I do something?”
A tiny change in his expression.
“No.”
“Then what was that?”
“What was what?”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“Oh, don't do that.”
“I do not know to what you refer.”
“Yes, you do.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“You are mistaken.”
That hurt more than it should have.
You sat back.
“Fine.”
You moved a pawn without looking.
Morpheus stared at the board.
“That is an exceptionally poor move.”
“I don't care.”
“You generally care considerably when losing.”
“Maybe I'm developing as a person.”
“I see no evidence of that.”
Normally you would have laughed.
You didn't.
Morpheus noticed.
The game continued.
You lost spectacularly.
Neither of you mentioned why.
*********
The final time happened in the corridor outside your chambers.
It was late.
You had spent nearly three hours arguing over divine succession law with Lucienne and then another two losing at chess more slowly than usual.
Morpheus walked you back.
He did that sometimes now.
Despite the fact that his realm knew where you belonged.
Despite the fact that there was nothing between his chambers and yours remotely capable of harming you.
He walked you anyway.
You stopped outside your door.
“Well.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Good night.”
He turned.
You caught his hand.
Morpheus stopped.
You had not planned it.
But you were tired of wondering.
“Morpheus.”
He looked down at your joined hands.
Then at you.
“Yes?”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“I am standing directly before you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Silence.
You stepped closer.
He did not move.
“Did I misunderstand something?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“What do you believe you misunderstood?”
You almost laughed from sheer frustration.
“You.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You looked at him.
“I thought…”
That was more difficult to say than expected.
You tried again.
“I thought something was happening.”
Still nothing.
Your face grew hot.
“Between us.”
His eyes held yours.
That at least was answer enough to prove you had not imagined everything.
You took another small step.
“Was I wrong?”
Morpheus's voice was quieter when he answered.
“No.”
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
“Then why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
You made an exasperated sound.
“Coming close and then acting like I set you on fire.”
A pause.
“You have, on previous occasions, nearly set parts of my realm on fire.”
“That is not remotely funny.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“Morpheus.”
He looked at you.
You were still holding his hand.
He had not taken it away.
That gave you courage.
Or stupidity.
You rose onto your toes.
Morpheus went perfectly still.
You stopped a breath from his mouth.
This time you were not waiting for him to initiate it.
You were going to kiss him.
You knew he wanted you to.
His face told you.
His stillness told you.
The way his fingers suddenly closed around yours told you.
And then—
“Do not.”
You stopped.
The words were soft.
That somehow made them worse.
You lowered yourself.
Slowly.
Your hand slipped from his.
“Right.”
Morpheus's expression shifted.
“That is not—”
“No. It's fine.”
“It is not what you think.”
You stepped backwards.
“I don't actually know what I think anymore.”
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is true.”
“Great.”
You reached for your door.
“Good night, Morpheus.”
“Wait.”
You looked at him.
For one second, he appeared on the verge of saying something.
Something important.
Instead:
“Good night.”
You stared.
Then laughed once under your breath.
“Unbelievable.”
You went inside and shut the door.
Then stood there with your back pressed against it for several seconds, staring furiously at absolutely nothing.
Because what exactly were you supposed to do with any of that?
He sought you out.
He spent hours with you when he had absolutely no reason to.
He walked with you. Played chess with you. Remembered stupid little things you liked. Looked at you in ways that made your stomach turn over and your power warm beneath your skin.
He had almost kissed you once already. You were sure of it. If Mathew hadn’t interrupted, he would have kissed you.
And now, whenever you tried to close that final inch between you, he behaved as though kissing you would initiate the apocalypse.
Perhaps there had been something between you.
Perhaps there still was.
But whatever Morpheus wanted, apparently it did not include actually allowing anything to happen.
You dropped onto the edge of your bed.
“Maybe I imagined the courting.”
That possibility was becoming increasingly humiliating.
Perhaps none of it meant what you thought it meant.
Perhaps spending nearly every evening with someone was entirely ordinary when you were an Endless and had existed since before most concepts currently recognised by civilisation.
You were a goddess, technically.
A very young one.
Embarrassingly young, compared with him.
Less than a century old.
Morpheus was—
You frowned.
Billions?
Probably billions.
You weren't entirely sure anyone knew.
The difference between you was so absurd that thinking about it for too long made your head hurt.
Maybe that was what he had finally realised.
Maybe one evening, sometime between chess and training and you attempting to kiss him, Morpheus had looked at you and thought, What precisely am I doing?
Because why would he bother with you?
You were barely anything by his standards.
A young goddess who could not reliably control her own power, had recently demolished part of his palace, had divine relatives crawling out of antiquity to claim pieces of her and still occasionally knocked chess pieces over when annoyed.
Morpheus was Dream of the Endless.
Not a god.
That distinction seemed increasingly important.
Gods rose and fell.
Gods depended on worship, stories, temples, memory.
Even the oldest of them faded.
He was something else.
Something fundamental.
Dream existed because dreaming existed.
Long before you.
Long before Ishtar.
Possibly long after every god currently causing problems for you had vanished completely.
Perhaps he should be with someone equally—
You stopped that thought.
Important?
Ancient?
Appropriate?
Someone who did not require training sessions to prevent accidental mass worship?
The thought made something unpleasant twist in your stomach.
Then again, that argument did not entirely work either.
Because Morpheus had loved mortals before.
You knew enough of his history by now to know that.
A mortal woman.
A witch.
A muse.
Others.
Women who had been powerful, ordinary, immortal, mortal, divine and everything somewhere between.
So perhaps age and species were not the issue.
Unfortunately, that led you directly to the much less comforting possibility.
Every relationship you knew about had ended terribly.
Not merely badly.
Terribly.
Imprisonment.
Curses.
Centuries of resentment.
Broken hearts on a scale apparently only immortal beings could achieve.
You lay backwards across the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“Maybe Endless just aren't meant to fall in love.”
The words sounded ridiculous once they were spoken aloud.
But not entirely.
Perhaps that was what this was.
Perhaps Morpheus had realised where things were going and was doing the closest thing he possessed to sensible self-preservation.
Or—
You frowned.
Perhaps he was trying to protect you.
That possibility irritated you almost immediately.
Still, you could see it.
Morpheus knew his own history better than anyone.
Maybe he looked at every person he had ever loved and saw disaster.
Maybe he had looked at you—already surrounded by treaties, gods, inheritances and enough supernatural complications to populate several mythologies—and decided becoming involved with Dream of the Endless was the last thing you needed.
Perhaps every time he stepped away, he was not rejecting you.
Perhaps he was protecting you from himself.
From whatever catastrophe the two of you might become if this went any further.
You rolled onto your side.
That interpretation was slightly less humiliating.
Unfortunately, it was also extremely Morpheus.
Make a unilateral decision.
Say nothing.
Decide it was for someone's own good.
Then stand there looking tragic and mysterious while everyone else attempted to work out what the hell he was doing.
You buried your face in the pillow.
“Bloody. Endless.”
Morpheus remained outside your door for a long time.
You did not know that.
You were too busy deciding that perhaps you had not imagined what was happening between you after all.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Because if Morpheus wanted you and was deliberately refusing to act upon it, you had absolutely no idea why.
And you were not going to humiliate yourself a fourth time trying to find out.
So the next morning, you did what any reasonable person would do.
You acted as though you did not care.
You were extremely bad at it.
******
Lucienne noticed by eleven.
She was polite enough not to say so.
The two of you were sitting at one of the long tables in the deeper section of the library, surrounded by enough divine law to make you understand why mortals eventually invented parliaments.
The work had begun as research into Ereshkigal's supposed entitlement to whatever Ishtar had left behind.
It had expanded alarmingly.
Apparently the ancient world had been very enthusiastic about writing laws explaining how one powerful being could legally acquire another powerful being's property.
Unfortunately, the definition of property was often horrifyingly broad.
You turned another brittle page.
“This one says daughters can be transferred with the father's territorial obligations.”
Lucienne looked over the top of her glasses.
“That text predates most modern conceptions of individual legal identity.”
“That's a very scholarly way of saying it's disgusting.”
“I am a librarian.”
“You are allowed opinions.”
“I have several.”
“Is one of them that ancient gods were terrible?”
Lucienne considered.
“That would be an unnecessarily broad classification.”
You waited.
She adjusted her glasses.
“But not an entirely unsupported one.”
You laughed.
It helped.
A little.
The table between you was divided into categories.
Divine custody.
Inheritance.
Transfer of divine authority.
Succession by conquest.
Succession by blood.
Ritual transfer.
They all raised questions.
“If Ishtar intended me to inherit something, surely that makes it mine,” you eventually determined.
“That is the strongest interpretation.”
“Even if Ereshkigal is her sister.”
“Sibling inheritance generally applies only where no deliberate successor exists.”
You tapped your chest.
“Scar suggests deliberate.”
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
You continued reading.
Several minutes passed.
Then you found something else.
At first, it seemed unrelated to Ereshkigal entirely—a much older section dealing with divine treaties that had resulted in the transfer of power, titles, territories, or authority from one being to another.
You frowned as the same phrase appeared for the third time.
“What does custodial authority mean here?”
Lucienne leaned closer.
You pointed to the passage.
“This keeps coming up.”
She read it.
“In older divine treaties, custody does not necessarily mean what the word implies in modern mortal law.”
“Naturally.”
“It may refer to responsibility, protection, territorial guardianship, political sponsorship or legal claim.”
You frowned.
“Claim.”
“Yes.”
“Like Zeus's treaty with Morpheus.”
There was a pause.
Small.
Very small.
But Lucienne had never been particularly good at lying to you.
You looked at her.
She returned her attention to the page.
“There are similarities.”
You stared for another second.
Then let it go.
You had been suspicious enough of everyone lately.
You did not want to become suspicious of Lucienne too.
Another hour passed.
You found three dead gods, two divine divorces, a goddess who had legally transferred ownership of an island by sleeping with the sea, and one treaty that appeared to have started a war because nobody had properly defined the word heir.
Then Lucienne glanced towards the upper galleries.
Someone had called her name.
A young dream stood waiting near the stairs with a stack of cataloguing slips and the expression of someone facing an emergency of librarian proportions.
Lucienne sighed.
“I shall return shortly.”
You looked at the mountain of documents surrounding you.
“Take your time. I'm having so much fun.”
“Try not to rearrange anything.”
You looked offended.
“I have never rearranged anything in this library.”
Lucienne stared at you.
“Intentionally.”
“That qualifier is doing a lot of work.”
She left.
You continued.
At first, there was nothing unusual.
A reference to a dissolution provision.
A reference to rites where the transfer of a power had failed entirely.
Another to a custodial treaty.
A cross-reference number.
You followed it because that was what you had been doing all morning.
The associated record was in a thinner leather folder beneath several older documents.
You pulled it free.
The cover was unremarkable.
No ominous glow.
No dramatic divine warning.
Just a filing notation in Lucienne's precise hand.
You opened it.
The first page was densely written.
You skimmed.
Treaty classifications.
Authority.
Precedent.
Jurisdiction between divine realms.
It seemed irrelevant to the issue at hand. You were researching rites, inheritance and the transfer of divine power—trying to establish whether Ereshkigal possessed any legitimate claim to what Ishtar had left within you.
This was something else entirely.
Treaty law.
Custodial claims.
Jurisdiction between sovereign realms.
None of it appeared to have anything to do with Ishtar.
Your fingers were already beginning to close the folder.
Then you saw your name.
Your hand stopped.
You looked back.
There it was.
Not a title.
Not daughter of Zeus.
Not divine dependant.
Your name.
You frowned.
Read from the beginning again.
The next line contained Zeus.
Your stomach tightened.
Then—
Morpheus.
You sat straighter.
The room seemed quieter.
You read more carefully.
The report concerned the treaty.
Your treaty.
The arrangement by which Zeus had transferred responsibility for you to the King of Dreams.
You had seen references to it before.
You knew the language.
Custody.
Protection.
Claim.
Obligation.
Jurisdiction.
All the words everyone insisted did not mean ownership while somehow continuing to determine where you lived.
You nearly closed the file then.
Then another word caught you.
Dissolution.
You stopped.
Read the sentence again.
Dissolution of custodial obligation may be initiated by the receiving sovereign...
Your heartbeat changed.
You continued.
Relinquishment of claim...
Your eyes moved faster.
Release of protected party...
You swallowed.
Termination of custodial obligation...
You went completely still.
No.
You read from the beginning.
Slower.
The legal phrasing was convoluted.
You forced yourself through it.
Zeus had transferred his claim.
Morpheus had accepted custodial authority.
Because the transfer had been completed willingly between sovereign powers, Zeus could not simply retrieve you without Dream's agreement.
You knew that.
Then came the part nobody had told you.
Acceptance did not make Morpheus's obligation permanent.
The receiving sovereign could relinquish his claim.
The custodial provision could be dissolved.
The treaty could terminate without returning you to Zeus.
You read that sentence four times.
Your fingers began trembling.
Not with power.
Not yet.
You turned the page.
There were notes.
Questions Lucienne had raised.
Precedents.
Exceptions.
Possible objections.
Then a final conclusion.
Clear.
Unambiguous.
Verified against three separate legal traditions.
Upon voluntary relinquishment by the King of Dreams, no enforceable provision of Zeus's original treaty prevented you from departing the Dreaming under your own authority.
You stared.
Your mind refused to accept it.
You read it again.
Then again.
There was a date at the bottom.
You looked at it.
At first it meant nothing.
Then it did.
Eleven days ago.
The report had been completed eleven days ago.
You counted.
Once.
Then again because you were certain you had calculated incorrectly.
Eleven.
Days.
Your breathing became very quiet.
You thought backwards.
Eleven days ago.
Training.
Chess.
The market.
Austin.
The fight about Austin.
Valí.
Morpheus standing there while Valí admitted Odin had deliberately placed him in your life.
Morpheus demanding Valí tell you everything.
Morpheus asking whether you had ever loved Valí.
Whether you had ever reciprocated his feelings.
Morpheus telling you repeatedly that no one owned you.
That Zeus did not own you.
That Ishtar did not own you.
That Odin will not own you.
You remembered standing in this very library only days ago.
And it's not like I can leave the Dreaming anyway.
You remembered the tiny pause.
You remembered Morpheus saying Ereshkigal could not take you from here.
Not telling you that you could leave.
Your vision sharpened.
You turned another page.
There was Morpheus's mark.
Not merely Lucienne's report.
His acknowledgment.
He had read it.
Your heartbeat slowed.
That was worse.
Anger usually made you loud.
This did not.
Not yet.
The gold beneath your skin appeared as a thin line along your wrists.
Lucienne returned carrying three books.
She saw you.
Stopped.
Her eyes went immediately to the folder.
Everything in her face changed.
You looked at her.
Your voice was extraordinarily calm.
“What is this?”
Lucienne did not move for a moment.
Then she set the books down.
Carefully.
“It is the final treaty assessment.”
“I gathered that.”
You placed one finger on the page.
“What does it mean?”
Lucienne looked at you.
You watched her make the decision.
Not to protect Morpheus.
Not to attack him.
Simply not to lie.
“It means Lord Morpheus may relinquish the custodial claim transferred to him by Zeus.”
You waited.
“And?”
Lucienne's voice was gentle.
“If he does so, the treaty does not require your return to Olympus.”
Your throat tightened.
“I can leave.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
You stared at her.
The gold moved further up your arms.
“I can leave the Dreaming.”
“Yes.”
You looked at the date again.
Then at her.
“Does Morpheus know?”
Lucienne said nothing.
You watched her.
“Lucienne.”
Still nothing.
Your voice did not rise.
That was what made it frightening.
“Does Morpheus know?”
Lucienne closed her eyes briefly.
Then:
“Yes.”
Something inside you cracked.
You looked down.
“When?”
Lucienne hesitated.
“The principal conclusion was established twelve days ago. The final verification was completed eleven days ago.”
You nodded.
Once.
“Eleven days.”
“Yes.”
You looked back at the page.
“And he read this?”
“Yes.”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Yes.”
You laughed.
A tiny sound.
Lucienne's face tightened.
“I advised him to tell you.”
You looked up.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
That hurt too.
Not because Lucienne had done anything wrong.
Because now you knew there had been no confusion.
No obscure technicality everyone had somehow overlooked.
Someone had known exactly what should have happened.
You closed the folder.
“Did he say why he wouldn't?”
Lucienne chose her words carefully.
“He believed the situation was unstable.”
You stared.
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
She took a breath.
“Initially, he wished to ensure the interpretation could not be challenged. Then Valí arrived. Then the extent of Odin's knowledge became apparent. Then Ereshkigal came.”
You nodded slowly.
Every excuse arranged itself perfectly.
One after another.
Each reasonable.
Each temporary.
Each enough for another day.
“Did you tell him that there would always be something?”
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When he returned to the Dreaming, Morpheus told you everything.
That, more than anything else, should probably have warned you that something was wrong.
He did not soften Ereshkigal's account.
He did not omit the part where Ishtar had marked you as an infant.
He did not avoid telling you that Ereshkigal had killed her own sister.
He told you about the transfer rite. About the artifacts. About Ishtar's failing power. About Ereshkigal's own dwindling divinity and the reason Morpheus believed she had tried to take what remained of her sister.
He told you that Ishtar had anticipated it. That she had known for a very long time that her death was near, which is why she had done something to you.
Something deliberate.
Something no one had known about until it was already far too late to undo simply.
The library remained unusually quiet while he spoke.
Lucienne sat at the central table with several books open around her. Valí stood near one of the tall windows, arms folded tightly across his chest. The Corinthian occupied a chair backwards, chin resting on his crossed arms as though this were some particularly compelling performance.
You stood in front of Morpheus.
At first you said nothing.
Then you looked down at your chest.
At the place beneath your clothing where the scar sat.
Your fingers touched it automatically.
“She cut me when I was a baby and put part of herself inside me?”
Morpheus answered immediately.
“Not part of herself.”
You looked at him.
“Morpheus.”
“A trace.”
You stared.
“That is not significantly more comforting.”
A pause.
“No.”
That surprised you enough that your expression changed.
Normally he would have tried to distinguish the metaphysics until the distinction itself became the argument.
This time he simply accepted that it was horrible.
You looked away.
“So she knew.”
“She appears to have anticipated that someone would attempt to remove what remained of her power upon her death.”
“Ereshkigal.”
“Possibly Ereshkigal specifically.”
Your mouth twisted.
“Wonderful.”
You began pacing.
“So let me make sure I have this right.”
Morpheus said nothing.
You counted on your fingers.
“Zeus decided where I would live.”
One.
“Ishtar decided what would happen to my body before I could speak.”
Two.
“Odin decided who would stand beside me and why.”
Three.
Valí looked down.
You noticed.
You did not stop.
“And now Ereshkigal has decided that whatever Ishtar left inside me should belong to her.”
Four.
You dropped your hand.
“Did I miss anyone?”
The Corinthian raised one finger.
“Technically—”
Lucienne looked at him.
He lowered it.
“No.”
You turned back to Morpheus.
Gold had begun glowing faintly beneath the skin of your wrists.
Not surging.
Just there.
“Why does everyone think they can decide what happens to me?”
Morpheus’s expression became very still.
The question struck him harder than you realised.
You were too angry to notice.
“Why does everyone think they can control me? Claim me? Decide where I belong and who I belong to?”
Your voice sharpened.
“I am not a temple.”
You took another step toward him.
“I am not an artifact. I am not some throne somebody gets to inherit because they were clever enough to take it from the person before them.”
Your hands curled at your sides.
“I am not something Zeus can give away. I am not something Ishtar can hide inside. I am not something Ereshkigal can come here and take.”
Then, quieter, but somehow far more cutting:
“And I am not something someone gets to keep because they think they know what is best for me.”
Something shifted behind Morpheus’s eyes.
You did not see it.
“I am a person.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
Again.
Too immediate.
No argument.
No qualification.
“You agree very quickly today.”
His face revealed nothing.
“Because you are correct.”
That should have reassured you.
Instead it made you suspicious.
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
Morpheus continued before you could pursue it.
“Ereshkigal made an offer.”
You stopped pacing.
“What kind of offer?”
He did not soften that either.
“She believes the inheritance can be removed from you.”
You stared.
The room seemed to narrow suddenly.
Even the Corinthian lost some of his amusement.
“Removed how?”
“By another transfer rite.”
Your eyes immediately dropped towards the scar.
Morpheus noticed.
“Not the same rite used upon Ishtar.”
“That is not particularly comforting either.”
“I know.”
Again.
That strange willingness to concede the point.
You looked at him more carefully.
“And where would it go?”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“Into Ereshkigal.”
You laughed once.
It was entirely without humour.
“Of course.”
Valí's face hardened.
Lucienne pushed her glasses higher.
The Corinthian leaned back in his chair.
You looked at Morpheus.
“And why exactly does she think I would agree to that?”
“She believes the power is dangerous to you.”
“It is dangerous to everyone.”
“Yes.”
“And she thinks she's a safer place for it.”
“She claims so.”
The wording caught you.
“Claims.”
“Yes.”
You folded your arms.
“You don't believe her.”
“No.”
That answer was immediate.
“Why?”
Morpheus's expression became colder.
“Because she killed Ishtar while attempting to transfer what remained of Ishtar's power into herself.”
You knew that part.
Hearing it reduced to one sentence somehow made it worse.
“Because she was fading too.”
“That is what I believe.”
“And now she wants mine.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
“She wants what came from Ishtar.”
“Which is currently mine.”
A pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
You rubbed your thumb over the scar beneath your shirt without thinking.
“Can she do it?”
Morpheus did not answer quickly.
That frightened you far more than certainty would have.
“Morpheus.”
“Possibly.”
You looked at him.
“Safely?”
Silence.
Lucienne looked towards him too.
Morpheus's expression tightened.
“I do not know.”
You stared.
He continued before you could speak.
“Ereshkigal believes it can be done without killing you.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“It was not.”
He stepped closer.
“I do not know whether removing the inheritance would leave you unchanged.”
Your anger faded slightly.
“Meaning?”
Lucienne answered.
“The mark was made too early.”
You turned towards her.
She had several pages open now, her fingers resting against passages she had evidently been cross-referencing while Morpheus spoke.
“Your divine development occurred around it.”
You frowned.
“Around the power.”
“Around the capacity to receive it.”
Lucienne chose the words carefully.
“There may no longer be a clean distinction between what you inherited from Ishtar and what subsequently became part of you.”
You looked back at Morpheus.
“So removing it might take other things with it.”
His face had become unreadable.
“Yes.”
“My powers.”
“Possibly.”
“Memories?”
Lucienne hesitated.
“Possibly.”
Your stomach tightened.
“My personality.”
No one answered.
You laughed softly.
“Great.”
Morpheus's voice sharpened.
“You will not undergo such a rite without considerably more certainty than we presently possess.”
You looked at him.
“I wasn't planning to.”
He stopped.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Actually, I wasn't even finished deciding.”
That silenced him.
Lucienne glanced down.
Valí looked very deliberately away.
Morpheus held your gaze.
Then, with visible effort:
“No.”
You waited.
His jaw tightened.
“You were not.”
The correction was small.
It mattered anyway.
You took a breath.
Then:
“Would you tell me not to do it?”
Morpheus did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ereshkigal has demonstrated both motive and willingness to take divine power for her own preservation.”
His voice was quiet but absolute.
“Because her previous transfer failed due to precautions Ishtar concealed from her. Because she cannot tell me with certainty what else Ishtar may have done. Because she stands to benefit enormously if the rite succeeds.”
A pause.
“And because I do not trust her.”
You considered that.
“But if I wanted it gone.”
Something in his expression changed.
“Then we would seek another means.”
You stared.
“We.”
“If you wished it.”
Again that wording.
You noticed.
Morpheus noticed you noticing.
Neither of you commented.
You looked down at your hands.
The gold had faded.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then you shook your head.
“No.”
Morpheus's eyes lifted.
“No?”
“I don't want her touching it.”
A pause.
Then you corrected yourself.
“I don't want her touching me.”
Morpheus became very still.
“Very well.”
“And if we find another way later…”
You hesitated.
“Then maybe.”
“Yes.”
You looked at Lucienne.
“Can we?”
She closed one book and opened another.
“We can certainly investigate.”
“Something that doesn't involve handing me to Ereshkigal.”
“That would be my preference as well.”
The Corinthian lifted his head.
“She's growing on me.”
Lucienne ignored him.
You looked back at Morpheus.
“What happens now?”
“Ereshkigal may attempt to approach you.”
Your expression hardened.
“Can she get into the Dreaming?”
“Not without my knowledge.”
“Can she take the power from here?”
“No.”
That answer came with enough certainty to settle something inside you.
You exhaled.
“So I'm safe here.”
Morpheus looked at you.
“Yes.”
You nodded slowly.
Then shrugged.
“And it's not like I can leave the Dreaming anyway.”
Everything inside Morpheus stopped.
Only for a fraction of a second.
You did not see it.
Lucienne did.
Her eyes lifted immediately.
Morpheus's face remained still.
Too still.
You were looking down at the table.
“So she can't exactly grab me and take me somewhere else.”
Silence.
You finally looked up.
“Right?”
Morpheus answered.
“No.”
A beat.
“She cannot.”
The lie was not in the words.
That made it worse.
He had said nothing false.
You were safe inside his realm.
Ereshkigal could not simply take you here.
And because you believed you had no lawful means of leaving, you believed that protection was absolute.
Morpheus knew otherwise.
He said nothing.
*********
Once the immediate investigation was complete, the Corinthian took Valí elsewhere under Lucienne's instructions, complaining loudly that he had somehow become both researcher and babysitter.
You remained with Morpheus only a few minutes longer.
There were practical matters now.
Security.
Visitors.
Ereshkigal.
Morpheus explained what he intended to change.
Every gate would be watched.
Every divine visitor would be identified before entering the palace.
Routes between the Dreaming and older divine realms would be monitored.
You listened with growing suspicion.
Finally:
“Are you going to lock me in the tower again?”
Morpheus stopped.
The question cut deeper than you intended.
“No.”
You waited.
“No?”
“No.”
You stared at him.
“That was very quick.”
“Because I have no intention of doing so.”
“What do you intend?”
He explained.
Not ordered.
Explained.
“I would prefer that you remain within the palace or its immediate grounds until we determine who else can sense the inheritance.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Prefer.”
Morpheus's mouth tightened.
“Yes.”
“And if I don't?”
A pause.
“Then I will ask that you take an escort.”
You stared.
“Ask.”
“Yes.”
Now you were certain something was wrong.
“Who are you?”
Morpheus looked offended.
“Do not be absurd.”
“You're using words like prefer and ask.”
“They are ordinary words.”
“Not from you.”
Lucienne looked down very quickly.
You folded your arms.
“Fine. I can live with an escort for now.”
Morpheus inclined his head.
“I choose who sometimes.”
He hesitated.
“Within reason.”
“That means yes.”
“It means precisely what I said.”
“Good enough.”
You glanced towards the doors.
“So now that we know who put the mark there, what do we actually do?”
Lucienne answered first.
“Research whether Ishtar's inheritance can be relinquished without transferring it into another being.”
You looked interested.
“Just… get rid of it?”
“Potentially.”
Morpheus looked towards Lucienne.
“If that is what she wishes.”
Again.
Lucienne heard it too.
“I shall begin immediately.”
You looked at Morpheus.
“And you?”
“Odin.”
Valí had already mentioned enough for all of you to know that name was no longer a side issue.
Morpheus's expression hardened.
“He knew too much too early.”
“You think he knew about the mark.”
“I think he knew enough to prepare Valí using material from the original rite.”
You rubbed your arms.
“And whoever else knows?”
“I intend to discover that as well.”
You looked between them.
“And if the power can't be removed?”
Lucienne's attention shifted towards Morpheus.
He looked at you.
For a moment he seemed to consider the answer with unusual care.
Then:
“Then I have approached your training incorrectly.”
You blinked.
“That's a first.”
His expression cooled.
“Do not become insufferable.”
“Too late.”
The faintest shift touched Lucienne's mouth.
Morpheus ignored it.
“Until now, the purpose of your training has been containment.”
“Yes. Don't accidentally make everyone worship me. Don't level buildings. Very inspiring.”
“Necessary.”
“I know.”
“But insufficient.”
You stopped.
Morpheus continued.
“If these powers remain yours, you must learn not merely how to prevent them from acting.”
His eyes held yours.
“You must learn how to use them with purpose.”
The idea unsettled you immediately.
“Use them on people?”
“Only when necessary.”
“That's incredibly reassuring.”
“You asked what happens if the inheritance cannot be removed.”
A pause.
“Then you learn to defend yourself with it.”
You stared at him.
“Against Odin.”
“If required.”
“Zeus?”
Morpheus's expression did not change.
“If required.”
You looked almost amused.
“I'd pay to watch his face.”
“I would not.”
That answer was too grim to joke with.
You looked away.
“Right.”
Morpheus's voice softened slightly.
“We are not there yet.”
“No.”
Then you looked back at him.
“But we might be soon.”
“Yes.”
There was no point lying to you.
He was learning that.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Not yet enough.
******
Long after you left the library, Morpheus remained.
He had told you everything about Ereshkigal.
Every ugly motive.
Every danger.
Every uncertainty.
He had watched your face as you discovered that yet another god had made decisions about your body before you were capable of understanding them.
And every time you spoke of choice, the hidden report became heavier.
He had almost told you.
When you said you could not leave the Dreaming anyway.
Almost.
The words had come very near.
You can.
Two syllables.
That was all.
He had not said them.
He stood now beside one of the high windows, looking down across his realm.
You believed yourself trapped here.
That was the simplest truth.
Whatever affection had grown between you, whatever evenings spent across a chessboard, whatever walks had become something perilously close to courtship, had all occurred while you believed departure impossible.
Morpheus did not know what remained when that belief disappeared.
That frightened him more than he cared to name.
He knew the arguments.
Ereshkigal could sense you now.
Odin had known of Ishtar's power before it fully emerged.
There were others.
You still could not reliably control what you carried.
A single uncontrolled surge had nearly brought down part of his palace.
Outside the Dreaming, there would be no Morpheus to stop the music.
No realm bending itself to contain the damage.
No guarantee that the next person who approached you would be Austin.
Or Valí.
Or anyone who wanted you for yourself rather than for what lived beneath your skin.
Those were facts.
He could build an impeccable case from facts.
That was precisely what disturbed him.
He had spent far too much of his existence turning fear into duty and duty into justification.
He knew what it was to be imprisoned by someone who insisted they required what he possessed.
The memory arrived unbidden.
Glass.
A circle on stone.
Decades measured by captors who always possessed another reason not to release him.
Morpheus closed his eyes.
You were not in glass.
You walked through his palace.
Argued with him.
Mocked him.
Played chess badly when distracted.
Dragged him through markets.
Demanded chocolate.
None of that altered the central question.
If you could leave—
and he had not told you—
what was the difference between protection freely chosen and protection imposed?
The answer was unpleasantly simple.
Consent.
And yours had not yet been asked.
His hand tightened against the window ledge.
The Dreaming shifted around him.
He could feel you somewhere in the palace.
Alive.
Safe.
Still here.
The thought of losing that presence opened something cold inside him.
If he told you, perhaps you would leave simply because you were angry that he had waited.
Perhaps you would leave because remaining would feel like surrender.
Perhaps you would leave because you had finally been given the right to do so.
He had no right to decide which of those reasons was sufficient.
He knew that.
He simply had not yet found the courage to act upon it.
*******
Lucienne found him later in the restricted archive.
He was reading Ereshkigal's history.
Or pretending to.
The same page had remained open for several minutes.
Lucienne approached carrying the treaty report.
Morpheus did not look up.
“You still have not told her.”
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
Lucienne set the report down.
“My lord.”
“Now is not the time.”
Lucienne's expression tightened.
“You said that before Valí arrived.”
Morpheus closed the book.
“That was before we knew Ereshkigal could sense her.”
“Yes.”
“Before we knew Odin possessed material from Ishtar's rites.”
“Yes.”
“Before we knew others may be searching.”
Lucienne watched him.
“And therefore?”
Morpheus stood.
“It is not safe beyond the Dreaming.”
Lucienne was quiet for a moment.
“It may never be entirely safe beyond the Dreaming.”
His expression darkened.
“Then perhaps she should remain here.”
Lucienne stared at him.
Morpheus heard himself.
So did she.
He corrected nothing.
Not immediately.
Lucienne's voice became very careful.
“My lord, what she is will always carry risk.”
Morpheus looked away.
“I know.”
“If she relinquishes the inheritance, Zeus remains her father. Odin remains interested in her. If she keeps it, others may seek her power.”
Lucienne moved closer.
“There will always be another reason why remaining within your realm appears safer.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“You cannot keep her here forever.”
His eyes lifted.
The answer came before restraint could stop it.
“Perhaps not.”
A pause.
His voice lowered.
“But I can try.”
Lucienne's expression changed.
Not shock.
Concern.
Morpheus looked away first.
“That was poorly phrased.”
“Was it?”
Silence.
Lucienne pushed the treaty report towards him.
“You do not need to decide whether she leaves.”
Her voice softened.
“You need to tell her that she can.”
Morpheus stared at the leather folder.
“I will.”
“When?”
He had no answer that did not sound like delay.
Lucienne waited.
Eventually Morpheus said:
“When I know she can survive the choice.”
Lucienne sighed.
“My lord, those are still not the same thing.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
At least he could admit that now.
Lucienne let the matter rest.
Not because she considered it resolved.
Because there was another problem before them.
She opened several notes concerning the Ishtar inheritance.
“Assuming she does not permit Ereshkigal to remove it, we must determine whether the power can be relinquished without another recipient.”
“Yes.”
“Returned to whatever source such divine domains arise from.”
“If such a process exists.”
Lucienne nodded.
“I shall research it.”
Morpheus moved around the table.
“And I will learn what Odin knows.”
“And who else knows.”
“Yes.”
Lucienne looked down at her notes.
“And if it cannot be relinquished?”
Morpheus became still.
This answer, at least, he had.
“Then I must teach her differently.”
Lucienne looked up.
“Not merely control.”
“No.”
His gaze moved towards the training records.
All those days spent teaching you not to influence.
Not to move.
Not to command.
Not to become dangerous.
“I have taught her how to restrain herself.”
His expression hardened.
“I must teach her how not to be helpless.”
Lucienne understood immediately.
“How to use it.”
“Yes.”
“Deliberately.”
“Yes.”
Lucienne considered the implications.
“Against gods.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Against anyone who attempts to take her.”
There was something in the wording.
Lucienne noticed.
Chose not to challenge it.
Not now.
“Will it be enough?”
Morpheus's answer was calm.
“Once she possesses full control?”
He considered the scale of what he had seen in the dance hall.
The way the Dreaming itself had responded.
The force required merely to resist her uncontrolled influence.
“More than enough.”
Lucienne raised an eyebrow.
Morpheus continued.
“Most ancient gods now carry a fraction of the power they once possessed.”
Ereshkigal was proof enough.
“Their worship has diminished. Their realms have contracted. Their names survive largely through story.”
Lucienne looked towards the records.
“And hers?”
“Her power does not depend upon worship in the same manner.”
He thought of desire.
War.
Fertility.
Things woven through mortal existence whether anyone called them Ishtar or not.
“Once she can command it instead of merely surviving it, neither Odin nor Zeus nor any other single deity I can presently identify would easily overpower her.”
Lucienne was silent.
Then, very softly:
“There is some irony in that.”
Morpheus looked at her.
“Explain.”
“Zeus spoke of her as though she were an inconvenient daughter he could no longer manage.”
Lucienne's mouth tightened.
“A problem to be transferred elsewhere.”
Morpheus's expression darkened.
“Yes.”
“And she spends most mornings complaining that she cannot keep a bookshelf standing.”
Despite himself, something almost amused moved across his face.
Lucienne continued.
“Meanwhile she may be becoming one of the most powerful goddesses remaining in this age.”
Morpheus looked towards the distant palace.
Towards where you were.
Oblivious to the scale of what you might become.
Still irritated about a scar.
Still furious with Valí.
Still convinced Morpheus was behaving strangely.
Still believing you could not leave.
His faint amusement disappeared.
“Which is precisely why she must learn before anyone else understands what she is.”
Queen, do you plan ahead when to post each part? I noticed you don’t always post the same number of parts every day, so I was wondering if you save the best parts for certain days.
No it literally depends on how busy I am. I’ve written about seven or eight parts ahead and some days I i write more. Others I edit.
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