#sandmanweek2022

Part i.

True peace is found in the still moments between dreaming and waking. Those moments in which the body and mind seem to exist on separate planes of existence. The body, just awakening to sensation; the mind, being coaxed back to reality after the uninhibited freedom of slumber. The infinite possibilities found in the realm of dreaming.

As your body calls your mind back home, you cling to the last remnants of your dream. A field of wildflowers, bursting with red poppies, purple bellflowers, yellow lady’s bedstraw. Standing tall before you, your love takes your face in his rough, calloused hands. You lean into his touch, relishing in the thought that tomorrow, your hands will be joined in the sanctity of marriage within this very field. Your heart flutters at the thought.

Your love’s dark eyes gaze tenderly into yours. You open your mouth to state your vow, one you’ve surely told him a thousand times, “I love you.”

Suddenly, there is a sharp tug within your chest. You’re yanked back, the scene before you fading to a pinprick. Your mind collides with your body with a force that is physically painful.

The first sensation you register is a pair of rough, calloused hands gripping tightly around your windpipe. Pushing, pressing.

The second is a pair of familiar dark eyes hovering over you.

There is no tenderness there.  

. . .

Consciousness can be an alarming thing. While it has been many hundreds of years - or perhaps thousands, you’ve begun to lose count - since you’ve dreamed, even deities must rest. Your mind recoils back into the Waking World as your eyes snap open with a gasp. On instinct, your hands fly to your neck, hastily prying away a grip that’s not there.

No one is here. Your bedroom is quiet and empty. As always.

Heart hammering in your chest, you run your fingers along your scalp, peeling away the strands of hair plastered to your skin with sweat. Breathe, you tell yourself, inhaling deeply. Just breathe. Exhale. You relish in the feeling of air flowing in and out of your lungs, uninhibited and free. You are alive.

Well, sort of.

The end of your bed dips lightly, and you open your eyes. Your foster pup, Theo, peers up at you attentively. He places one white paw between your feet, his dark eyes twinkling with reassurance. You smile at him and lean forward, ruffling the mop of brown fur between his wide ears. “Good morning, my friend. Checking on me, are you?”

Sunlight streams through the thin curtains of your bedroom window, bathing the room in a golden glow. Your peace lily by the windowsill reaches for the sun, craning its green stems and white blooms toward the glass. A fantasy novel lays on your bedside table, colorful bookmarks denoting all your favorite passages.

And there, just under your bedroom door, is a stack of papers.

Slowly, a bright smile pulls across your face. Your rude awakening retreats to the back of your mind, waiting to strike again with a new dawn.

It’s time to start a new day.

. . .

“Oh please, Theo, don’t look at me like that,” you groan as you walk into the kitchen, shimmying into a pair of dark jeans as you go. Theo sits regally at your feet, eyes wide and gleaming, eager for a lick of the cream cheese warming on the kitchen counter. You drop to the floor to tie your sneakers, eyeing him carefully.

He stares at you. You stare at him. After several long moments of watching you tie your shoes, he sticks his pink tongue out and grins.

Your heart grows two sizes as your tough act breaks. “Oh, fine. How am I supposed to say no to that face?” In a jiffy, your toasted bagel has been slathered with cream cheese, and an extra dollop has been added to the rim of Theo’s food bowl. He sits triumphantly by the bowl and grins as you dip to rub him behind the ears. “You be a good boy today, okay? I’ve got a busy day ahead, but I’ll drop in at lunch. And please, no chewing on the trim. We really can’t afford another maintenance charge. Got it?”

Theo pants and gives your palm an appreciative lick. You grin and kiss him between the ears. “That’s my boy.”

The tender autumn sun warms your cheeks as you step out of your townhouse and onto the sidewalk. It’s a Wednesday morning and the streets are busy, everyone shuffling to jobs, school, daycare. You make the brisk walk to the small mom-and-pop coffee shop a couple blocks away, hoping to beat the line that is sure to be forming soon. The shop owner, an elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and a kind, wrinkled face - Cliff, you remind yourself - smiles kindly at you as you walk in. “G’morning, miss. You’re off to an early start today, aren’t you?”

“The sun is awake, so I’m awake,” you reply jokingly, placing the exact change for your beverage into his waiting hand at the counter. “We’ve got a busy day ahead, Cliff. Your coffee is going to carry me through.”

“Good thing I’ve got it ready for you, then,” Cliff jests, sliding a to-go cup across the counter. “Have a g’day, miss.”

“You truly are a lifesaver, Cliff. Mankind thanks you for your service,” you say as you take the first sip. The dark brew slips down your throat, warming your insides as it goes. Nothing refreshes the immortal soul for a day of work quite like a good coffee.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” you call with a grin, turning on your heel to head back out the front door. As you approach, a young man carrying a backpack, likely a college student, prepares to open the door. The street outside is busy, easy to disappear into. You turn over your shoulder to ensure Cliff is looking away. His back faces you, busying himself with cleaning the espresso machine behind the counter.

Turning to the young man in front of you, you slip through the door as he opens it. He makes eye contact with you, opening his mouth to give a greeting. You smile and, reaching out, touch your fingertips to the soft gray hoodie over his heart. You close your eyes, reaching out, reaching through. A warm breeze whistles through your hair. And when you open your eyes, you’re in to vasíleio tis proskóllisis. The Realm of Attachment.

It is an absolute kaleidoscope of colors. The most stunning masterpiece you have ever seen. Hundreds, thousands, millions of threads bursting forth from the hearts of the mortals surrounding you. Some are linked to an individual beside them, some halfway across the city, some halfway across the world. Each thread thrums, alive with the promise of connection, of attachment to another individual. Each thread glows with the promise of what bond these two mortals are to share.

Gazing around this masterpiece, your masterpiece, your chest grows tight with emotion, heart warm, mind buzzing. This is your purpose. This is what it means to be Agape, the Deity of Love.

You turn to the young coffee shop customer you passed through, who is now glancing around, looking quite dazed and confused. “Well,” you say, knowing full well he can’t hear you, “I suppose I should get to work, shouldn’t I?”

  You pull the folded pieces of paper from your bedroom floor out of your pocket, unfolding them carefully. The first names on the Fates’ list are alight with a purple halo. You smile fondly. Erotoropia - playful, flirtatious attachment. These are always fun. You close your eyes and skim your fingertips over the words, reaching out for the attachment there. When you open your eyes, you find yourself in a high school hallway crowded with shuffling bodies. The air is thick with a heady combination of cacophonous chatter, cheap body spray, and raging teenage hormones.

A thick web of attachments surrounds you, burning brightly with reds, purples, blues, and whites. A combination of romance, flirtation, self-love, and friendship or romantic soul ties. Ah, to be a teenager, you muse, overwhelmed by the sheer number of connections around you. You inhale deeply and wade through the crowd, honing in on the attachment you have come to foster.

Ah, there they are - a young brown-skinned girl with hair the shade of night and a fair-skinned boy with bright blue eyes. They stand side by side at their lockers, the boy rummaging for books, the girl applying a thin streak of eyeliner to both eyes in her small mirror. A faint purple thread connects them at the heart, yearning to be established. You feel it call out to you, tugging at your heart, drawing you closer.

You smile, running the purple strand between your fingers. Let me see what I can do for you.

To your right, a stocky boy in a football jersey barrels down the hall, clearly late for some type of practice. You incline your head toward him and lift a hand, crooking your pointer finger ever so slightly. At your gesture, the boy’s shoe rolls over a pen on the hallway tile and he stumbles, shoulder colliding with the back of the brown-skinned girl. Her eyeliner careens across her temple, leaving a dark line in its wake. She gasps, rearing backward.

“Hey, watch it!” She calls out to the football player as he scurries away, too concerned about being late to pay her a glance. She leans back into her locker, examining the damage in the mirror. “Aw, shit.”

The fair-skinned boy glances at the girl to his side, glances away, glances back again. Obviously weighing the pros and cons of speaking up. You place an encouraging hand on his back. Go on.

“Sorry about that,” the boy finally says, briefly pausing in his quest to find his books. “Jocks, am I right?”

“No shit,” the girl groans. She pulls a Q-tip from her purse and leans in close to the mirror, trying to salvage her look. “This was the worst possible day for this to happen to me. I’m supposed to audition for Catswith the drama club after school.”

The boy grins, turning to face her more fully. Gaining courage. “What , a cat eye wasn’t what you were going for?” he prods, eyebrow raised.

The girl pauses in her wiping to return his friendly gaze. A playful twinkle lights in her eye, dancing as a smile pulls across her face. “How do you even know what a cat eye is?” she laughs.

The boy shrugs, closing his locker with a stout clang. “I may or may not have three older sisters. My knowledge of makeup is vast and, quite frankly, a little embarrassing.”

You glance down at the thread between your fingers as the two chat. Once pale purple, the thread now glows brightly. You smile with satisfaction. Your work here is done.

. . .

The Fates know how to keep you busy, and you thank the powers that be for the millionth time that you love your work as much as you do. By lunch, you’ve traveled halfway across the world, fostering a rainbow of bonds. Theo gets a quick check-in at lunch, something that lifts your spirits as much as it does his, before you dive back into the fray. By dusk, there is only one final set of names on your list.

As you lift your fingertips from the page, you find yourself on the landing at the top of a staircase. A large window to your right reveals the quiet cul-de-sac outside. The hallway is dark with shadows, every door lining the corridor closed firmly. All is silent.

And then, a sniffle. You turn to the first door down the corridor to your left. While no light peeks through the crack at the bottom of the door, the sound of quiet sobbing is unmistakable. The pitch and tone tells you that it is the crying of a young girl. Through the door pass two distinct threads; one faded and green, the other a pulsating black. At the sight of the black thread, you grow very still, a lump forming in your throat.

Desire the Endless has been here.

You take the threads in your hands and follow them down the staircase, moving quickly. You find that the threads trail into the heart of a middle-aged man lying on the couch. A comforter has been thrown onto the floor beside him; he tosses and turns in his sleep, restless.

You swallow quickly and close your eyes, gripping the black thread tightly. Show me, you command. In response, dark images flash through your mind: A family of three, happily moving into their new home. The father taking a new job. Casual glances at a co-worker turning into sly ones. Desire boiling until the pot overflows. One early morning run turning into multiple. The fallout. A wife working late to push the pain away.

A daughter crying in the room upstairs. Your heart sinks, forming a pit in your stomach.

Slowly, you shift your hands to grip the green thread. Gazing down at the restless face of the adulterer below you, you can’t help but wonder whether he deserves your gift. Whether he deserves you re-enforcing his family’s unconditional love for him. You can’t help but wonder whether, with Desire around, he’ll make the same grave decision again. You almost let the thread go. And then, you remind yourself, You don’t decide who or what. You are here to choose the how and to ensure that all proceeds as it is meant to.

“You will awaken and call your wife at work,” you command slowly, voice barely more than a whisper. “You will grovel at her feet. You will do marriage counseling, family therapy, anything that she requests. You will become a father that your daughter can be proud of. All of this will be as I have spoken it.”

You pause. In your hands, the green thread solidifies and glows, warm and alive. As you turn to leave, you whisper one final wish, “And you will shut Desire out of your heart from this point onward.”

It’s the only thing out of your control. The only thing you can’t guarantee.

. . .

You step through an evening jogger and onto the sidewalk in front of your townhome, back in the regular Waking World once again. The colorful threads of the Realm of Attachment no longer leap into view. The street is quiet, dark, and mundane. Admittedly, after a long day of work, it’s a sight for sore eyes.

As you fumble through your pocket for your house keys, a bright bubble of laughter rings through the open window of the townhome next to yours. You can’t help but smile softly and take a slight step back, craning your neck to peek through the open curtains. Inside, a young husband and wife - Ava and Matt, you think fondly - sit on the couch watching a game show rerun on TV. Ava throws her head back and laughs, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Matt places an affectionate kiss on her temple. His broad hand shifts to rest on her stomach, cradling the small bump that has begun to rise there.

Your heart flutters at the sight. You’ve been guiding their love story for a long time. You were there for their first meeting, first date, first kiss. Blessing their vows, inhaling in excitement when they learned that they were pregnant. Some were moments the Fates required you there for, while others were for your own satisfaction. While you cared for all mortals that crossed your path, there was something special about these two. In retrospect, you suppose they were the closest thing to family that you had.

Well, besides for Theo.

“Theo!” you call as the front door squeaks closed behind you. At the jingle of your house keys falling into the catchall by the door, Theo rushes to your side, pawing at your ankles. “Hello, little love. How was the rest of your day?” You lift his tiny body into your arms, and he gives your cheek a long, rough lick. “That’s my boy. Let’s get cleaned up, shall we?”

You pad quietly through the living room, down the short hallway, into your bedroom. And nearly bite your tongue at the sight of a dark silhouette standing stark against the streetlights streaming through your curtains.

“For the love of -” You slap the lights on with one hand, gripping Theo a little tighter with the other. As light floods the room, your adrenaline rush halts, energy suddenly pent up with nowhere to go. “...Death?”

Death of the Endless turns from looking out your window, offering you a sweet, toothy smile. “Hello, Love. Long time, no see.”

You breathe out a laugh, setting Theo down on the floor. He promptly runs to lick at Death’s ankles, and she crouches to scratch behind his ears. “Yeah, long time no see. What has it been? A hundred years, at least?”

“More, my friend. Unless you count our brief encounters on the battlefield,” Death says, lifting Theo into her arms. He nudges his nose into her dark curls and licks her cheek. “You grow stronger with each passing century, Love. You’ve progressed so well. You should be proud.”

You think back on the past hundred years, remembering the wars, sicknesses, and tragedies that occured in that time. Certainly, it was a busy time for humanity. In those days, you and Death often worked side by side. The sight of her sweeping wings was well known to you then. You think of those she carried to eternal peace, of the battles that ended in the name of love. You tuck your chin, smiling sheepishly. “Thank you. Surely you didn’t serve me a heart attack simply to flatter me. What brings you here, Death?”

Death quirks an eyebrow, her dark lips dropping into a playful pout. “What, an Endless can’t drop in to see an old friend? And her adorable dog?” At your laugh, Death smiles kindly and sits herself and Theo down on your bed, patting the spot next to her. “But you’ve caught me. There is something we need to talk about,” she murmurs.

At her change of tone, your throat tightens with nerves. You breathe in deeply as you sit at her side, gazing at her expectantly. Your anxious fingers shift to scratch Theo’s head absentmindedly.

Death’s lips part slightly. She seems to contemplate for a moment. “I’ve spoken to my brother recently. Destiny. As well as the Fates,” she starts quietly. Another pause. “They seem to be worried about your scales.”

“Ah, I see,” you say, your throat suddenly dry. Your fingers move more quickly, and Theo inclines his head to peer up at you. You give him a half hearted smile.

Death leans in closer, eyes asking questions before her mouth does. “What’s going on, Love? Share with me. Let me help you.”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing you can help with,” you say quietly. “Desire and I have never seen eye to eye, but lately it’s become more and more difficult to keep up with their work. They’re moving more quickly, becoming more ambitious. They’ve been disrupting my romantic attachments and soul ties, in particular. They know what they mean to me.”

“As do I. Which is why I don’t want to see you lose them.” Death places a comforting hand on yours atop Theo’s head, stilling you. She dips her gaze to make eye contact, eyes searching yours. “I’ve come to warn you of this as your friend. You know I care for you. But if you are unable to keep your side of the scales balanced, I’m afraid of what may happen. Nothing is guaranteed for gods and goddesses. And your kind is not so easily replaced as the Endless.”

The lump in your throat rises higher. You swallow thickly. “I know. And thank you. I appreciate your friendship, appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, more than you’ll ever know.” You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Grounding yourself, gathering your thoughts. The beauty of the Realm of Attachment burns brightly in your mind, a kaleidoscope of color that you created. “I won’t let them take it from me. It’s all I truly have left.”

Death feigns a gasp. “All you have left? What are we, Theo? Chopped liver?” You laugh, the weight of your heart becoming a little lighter in your chest. She elbows you in the ribs softly. “I’m kidding, of course, but I love the sentiment. Any thoughts on how to tip the scales back in your favor, my friend?”

One idea does immediately come to mind. Whether it’s a good or bad one, you’re not sure. You start to rethink it, but it’s evident when you lock eyes with Death that she’s already seen the thought register on your face. You smile hesitantly. “The last time we spoke, truly spoke, I did mention one idea of mine. However, you weren’t much for it at the time-”

“Ah, Dream! My dear, mopey brother,” Death exclaims, remembrance dawning on her face. “Of course I remember. Granted, at the time, I did not think it was likely to be successful. Dream was, well… being Dream, which does not mean much in the way of collaboration.” Her bright smile softens into a wistful one. “However, much has changed for Dream in the last hundred years. He’s gained a new perspective on things, I think. And Desire has done quite a bit of meddling in my brother’s affairs lately. He might be open to a partnership.”

Your heart rises, chest fluttering with hope. “You think so?”

“I think it’s worth a shot, if nothing else,” Death states matter-of-factly. With a loving pat on your hand, she rises, walking to the window. “And after all, you and my brother are not so different. You’re certainly the brighter ray of sunshine, but neither of you are much in the way of getting out. You spend all your time with mortals, and he spends all his time with - well, his librarian. And his raven. Perhaps this arrangement will be good for the both of you.” You open your mouth to protest, and she gives you a playful shh. “You know it’s true, Love. Now, I wouldn’t waste any time. The faster you can work to balance your scales, the better. And if my darling brother gives you any trouble, do let me know, yeah?”

You shake your head incredulously, giving her a small smile. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.”

“You can thank me later, when your scales are balanced. I’ll be seeing you, Love.” And with a grin and a swoop of black feathers, Death is gone.

All is quiet in your townhome. You release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, falling back onto your pillows. Your hand trails over Theo’s fur absentmindedly as your mind races with possibilities. Besides Death and Desire, you’ve never associated with an Endless in person before. Despite his influence on your work, you’ve never met Destiny in the flesh, receiving your assignments through the Fates, instead. In fact, you rarely associate with any other deities at all. Let alone one with a reputation such as the Dream Lord’s.

Part ii. 

For a moment, you think you must still be dreaming. Your eyebrows furrow as you stare up at your love, taking in the coldness in his eyes, the hard line of his mouth. You open your mouth to speak, but no breath comes. Your throat spasms, seeking air. You can feel your heartbeat raging in your throat, pounding against his fingers. 

He must feel it, too, because he grips tighter. And the foundation of your world crumbles away as you realize that this is not a dream. 

A wave of adrenaline crashes through you. Your skin is fire, nerve endings prickling like live wires. Your hands fly to his wrists, pulling desperately, clawing at the skin there. He grunts, hastily repositioning his body to sit on your chest, pressing down harder. You feel your head sink into your pillow, feel the unforgiving slab of ground beneath your sleeping pallet press against the back of your scalp. With another forceful push from him, you feel a sickening snap just under your jaw. 

And all hell breaks loose. 

At the bright burst of pain that tears through your throat, your fight or flight response roars. On instinct, your knees coil up to your chest and you kick, hard, with all your might. Your love’s hands are ripped from your throat as he is flung backward, away from the edge of your pallet. Your mouth gapes in eagerness to relieve the crushing ache within your lungs, but no relief comes. Only pain. 

You have the sinking feeling that something irreversible has occurred. Something which you will never come back from. 

A fire crackles in the hearth at your bedside. Turning toward it, you throw one hand outward, pulling yourself toward the flames, grasping for the fire iron there-

. . . 

Tap tap tap. 

You sit upright, stiff as a board. A muddled mix of vertigo and residual pain clouds your brain, and you shake your head gently to dispel it. While gods may not dabble in activities as mortal as sleeping or dreaming, even gods need time to recharge. To retreat into their own selves, sink away from the world, and simply be. You have the distinct feeling that your own rest has been prematurely interrupted. 

Glancing around the room, you find that you’re right. Night drapes your room in shadows. The clock by your bedside reads just past midnight. You only laid down an hour ago. 

Tap tap tap. Your attention turns to your bedroom window. There sits a raven, its profile pressed closely to the glass. It's dark eye blinks owlishly at you. 

With a sigh, you comb your fingers through your hair and prepare to lie back down. It had been five long days since you’d carefully penned your note requesting an audience with the Dream King. Each day that passed since your messenger dove had departed with no response in return left a heavy feeling in your stomach. It only soured with each black thread of selfish desire that you encountered in your Realm. Though you’d doubled down on your efforts to combat Desire’s meddlesome attachments in the last few days, you couldn’t rid yourself of the gnawing feeling that you were running out of time. It was exhausting. You needed rest. 

As you move to lie down, something makes you pause, though. Call it a feeling, an intuition. Your eyes shift back to the raven at your window. It’s dark eyes lock your gaze, hold it. 

“He spends all his time with - well, his librarian. And his raven.”

You approach the window slowly, perching yourself on the sill. With a resolute click, you unlock the window and slide the glass upward. The raven makes no move to flee. No, this is definitely no ordinary bird. 

“Hello,” you greet your guest quietly. You extend your arm in invitation, and the bird accepts, wrapping its talons around your forearm. You notice a cloth pouch tied to his right leg. “I don’t suppose you came here looking for breadcrumbs, did you?” 

At first, there’s silence. The raven peers at you curiously. And then- “No, but really though, do you have any food? ‘Cause I would kill for something to eat right now. Traversing the Waking World is hard wor– uh, I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.” You laugh, pulling your arm and the raven past the windowsill and into your bedroom. Although you’d expected some type of outburst, you can’t help but be slightly taken aback. It’s not every day you see a talking raven, after all. 

“Please, don’t be. To whom do I owe the pleasure of this midnight visit?” you ask kindly. 

The raven pushes his chest out proudly and dips his head with dramatic respect. “My name is Matthew, and I am the messenger raven of Dream of the Endless. I mean, if you really want to know, I’m basically his best friend, but he wasn’t much for making that an official title, so.” You chuckle at him. “And you are Agape, Deity of Love, I hope? Because it would be really unfortunate if I came and blew my cover to the wrong girl. Not that it’d necessarily be the first time that happened. Or the second.”

You smile kindly at Matthew. What a funny little guy. “You can just call me Love. You’ve come to the right place. I assume the Dream King got my message?” 

“He did. Sorry it took a few days for us to get back to you. Dream- Ah, Lord Morpheus just wanted to reach out to his sister and vet what you said. Make sure you really were who you said you were. He’s protective when it comes to the Dreaming.”

Now, that gets your attention. You can’t help but wonder what Death might have told the Dream Lord about you. Wonder what he might have even known in the first place. “That’s understandable. We want to protect the things we love. I’m kind of the deity of that. So, what says your Dream Lord?”

Matthew straightens to his full height and ruffles his feathers, a messenger preparing to deliver his news. “Your audience with Lord Morpheus has been granted, ma’am,” he declares. He dips his beak to the cloth pouch at his ankle and snips the string. You move your hand swiftly, catching the lumpy pouch in your palm. “When you’re ready, all you gotta do is use the sands in that pouch to travel to the Dreaming. Don’t worry - they know where to go.” 

“Thank you, Matthew. I appreciate you and your lordship’s hospitality. Please pass on my sincere gratitude to him. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

“Hey, any pal of Death’s is welcome in Dre- er, Lord Morpheus’ world,” Matthew says, fluttering his wings. You guide him back to the window, passing your arm through for him to hop out on the other side. “Will we be seeing you soon?”

You smile fondly. “I’ll let your Dream Lord do his work tonight. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Matthew caws and nods his head. “We’ll see you soon, Lady Love!” he calls as he takes flight, a speck of black in the twilight.

You gaze out into the soft darkness until he disappears. Your hand closes around the pouch of sand of its own accord. “See you soon.” 

. . . 

“What do you think, Theo? Too much?” You spin away from your mirror to face him. Your soft white peplos swishes around your bare ankles, skimming your brown sandals. A crown of small red rosebuds is woven into your hair. It’s been ages since you’ve doned your official attire. As soft and roomy as the peplos is, you’re starting to think you should wear it more often. 

Theo seems to have a different opinion. Looking at your ancient garb, he cocks his head, ears drooping. You groan. “I know. Too much, isn’t it? I haven’t seen a deity in traditional attire in a century, at least. Not that I see deities much, or that there’s many of us left. It is comfortable, though.” With a wave of your hand, the peplos disappears. Instead, you lace up your canvas sneakers, shimmy into a set of fitted pants and a blouse, and throw on a blazer for formality’s sake. Theo lifts his head in recognition and satisfaction. You ruffle him between the ears. “I’m keeping the crown, though. Got it?”

You turn to your bedside table, eyes settling on the small pouch of sand there. Ever since Matthew left, you’ve been unable to stop thinking about it. You cup the pouch in the palm of your hand, feeling the sands shift and settle through the cloth. Funny how it can weigh so much more in your mind than it does in your hand. 

You turn to Theo, giving him a small, hopeful smile. “Wish me luck, buddy.” Deja vu washes over you. For the second time today, you get the feeling that something is occurring which you can’t turn back from. 

You open the pouch carefully, dipping your fingers into the sands within. They’re surprisingly soft as they brush against your fingertips. Taking a handful, you raise your palm and allow them to sift through your fingers. They spill over your hand, down to the floor, whispering against the floorboards. 

For one concerning second, nothing happens. Then, as if a breeze or a whisper has stirred them, the sands begin to scatter, swirling at your feet. The remaining sand in the pouch leaps out to join in, swirling around your ankles, knees, thighs, rising higher and higher. Small grains whip up to brush your cheeks, gaining speed. You close your eyes, shielding them against the vortex of sand twisting around you. 

You feel the exact moment that the crescendo of the winds seem to change, the moment that something shifts. Your senses alight at a crisp, fresh scent piggybacking along the winds. Salt water. You feel the soles of your shoes sink into something soft. The vortex around you dissipates. The sands return to the earth with a soft sigh. 

Nothing could prepare you for the magnificence lying in wait beyond your closed eyes. A cloud-freckled sky is draped above you, bathing Dream Country in golden sun and baby blue. The swaying sea behind you seems to touch the end of the world, interrupted only by the occasional rock formation peeking out of the waters. Beachrock crumbles into black sand, one of the most extraordinary sights you’ve ever seen. The black beach is rolled out like a tapestry, reaching as far east and west as you can see. And then there’s the sight in front of you - a towering stone wall that must stretch for miles between two mountain ranges. Two massive, ornately carved gates are set within the wall. The gate to your left features tall, curved spires that frame and surround the circular gate. Curved and pale as they are, they almost remind you of ox horns. The gate to your right appears smooth, its ivory surface gleaming in the sunlight. 

You look around, soaking in the view. And the fact that you are completely, utterly alone. 

You weren’t exactly sure what you were expecting upon your arrival in Dream Country, but a polite welcome and some directions probably would have made the list, if you’d had one. As you eye the circular gates before you, you suppose they’re as good a place to start as any. But which gate? you think. Staring at the two options before you, the ivory gate certainly looks less intimidating, what with the lack of colossal horns and all. 

Lost in thought, you almost don’t notice the shift in the air. It’s subtle, so subtle that you can’t pinpoint the moment that it emerges, only the recognition that it is suddenly there. A lingering breeze in your hair, a whisper against your skin, a stirring in your chest. You reach out your hand, feel the sensation against your fingers. Though you can’t see anything, it’s unmistakably there. Follow, it seems to say. 

And you do, feet shifting through the dark sands, trailing after the call that leads you toward the horned gate. As you draw nearer, the intricate carvings become more clear to you: Fantastical creatures, flora and fauna, detailed renditions of people and faces. The largest carvings portray a man with wild hair and a mask with a long nose, not so different from the gas masks you’ve seen on the battlefields of mortals. However, this is decidedly more ancient. You get the distinct feeling that this place has always been here, from the dawn of time. And if it belongs to an Endless, you suppose it has. 

Your hand reaches out on instinct, fingertips pressing softly against the horned gate. At your touch, the mountainous door begins to groan open. 

If you thought the beach was spectacular, you were definitely not prepared for this. Beyond the gate lies mountains and forests, a rolling blanket of green that only ends when it reaches snow-capped mountain ranges in the far distance. Pockets of villages dot the landscape, their clay tile roofs glowing a warm orange under the sun. In the center of the scene is a circular lake reflecting the sky above like a mirror. Glimmering waterfalls feed into it from all sides. At its center stands a towering silver and bronze palace. Its grooved towers shine in the sunlight, its spires reaching for the heavens like the hands of prophets.

The seasalt breeze steals your breath away, carrying it toward the palace like an offering. It’s magnificent, indescribable - truly a place of dreams. 

As you take a hesitant step through the towering gate, you find a dark-skinned woman waiting on the other side. Dressed in a purple suit with long coattails and tennis shoes, she is the pinnacle of regality and functionality. Her bespectacled eyes meet yours, and she smiles. “Welcome, Agape, Deity of Love,” she says kindly. “You’ve reached the Dreaming.” 

. . . 

The walk to the Dream Lord’s palace was long, but Lucienne made for excellent company. While this was your first diplomatic visit to another realm, you thought that there surely couldn’t be another ambassador in any plane of existence who could top Lucienne. Although she insisted she was only a librarian, she took it upon herself to relate to you the history of the Dreaming, including its recent return to glory. She guided your eyes to the location of the House of Secrets, the House of Mystery, and Fiddler’s Green. No citizen of the Dreaming was a stranger to her, and she introduced you politely to all you passed. Her love and loyalty to the Dreaming was unmatched, even palpable. It brought a smile to your face. 

As you finally pass through the palace doors, Lucienne says, “I apologize for our long journey, Agape. I can assure you, should you visit the Dreaming again, you will not have to travel all this way. All who enter the Dreaming must pass through the Gates of Horn and Ivory at least once so that their intentions may be assessed.” 

“There’s no need for an apology. And please, just call me Love,” you say in kind. After a pause, curiosity gets the better of you. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you mean by assessed?”

Lucienne looks over her shoulder as she guides you up a set of winding staircases, climbing higher and higher. Through the palace windows, you swear you can see all of Dream Country. “Lord Morpheus carved those gates eons ago when the Dreaming was first created. Those who walk through the Gates of Ivory harbor lies and deception, but the Gates of Horn will only allow those with intentions of truth to pass through.” 

“Ah, I see.” You weren’t sure what it was that seemed to draw you toward the Gates of Horn in the first place, but whatever it was, it had been growing stronger the closer you got to the palace. With each passing step, you felt it hum more potently against your skin, the stirring in your chest strengthening into a gentle pull. Calling you somewhere. But where? 

With a gloved hand, Lucienne opens a set of oak doors before you. The enchanting scents of leather and paper flood your senses as you pass through the doorway. You find that she’s led you into some sort of library. The ceiling hovers stories above you; below it are floors and floors of walkways leading to shelves upon shelves of books. On the ground level, tall bookcases line the walls, towering ladders propped up against them to help readers reach the highest of volumes. You can see that there are spaces between some bookcases on either side of the room, giving way to yet more areas with even more books. Several wooden tables are set up down the center of the room, adorned with lamps, ink, quills, magnifying glasses and, yes, even more books. 

“This is absolutely amazing. What is this place?” you say in awe. You spin in a slow circle, trying fruitlessly to soak in the full majesty of the scene around you.

Lucienne smiles proudly, clearly pleased with your reaction. “This would be my library, ma’am,” she explains. She walks to the wall on the right, reaching her fingers out to brush the book spines affectionately. “In this library, I keep a record of every dream that has ever been dreamt. Every book that has ever been imagined, or lost, even if it was never published. I can remember the title, author, and location of each one. I am their keeper.” 

You pause in following her, trailing your fingertips along the leather cover of a book on the table next to you. Every dream ever dreamt. Could that mean that you- 

No, you cut yourself off firmly. Seeking to divert your attention, you turn to Lucienne and smile. “This is absolutely incredible, Lucienne. You know, I’m something of a librarian myself. I have a whole library in the Realm of Attachment with a book detailing the attachments of each mortal spanning past, present, and future. They serve as a record of the work I have done, and the work I have yet to do.” 

Lucienne regards you with interest, brown eyes twinkling behind her vintage eyeglasses. “Well, that is something I should quite like to see,” she says. She waves a hand, beckoning you toward a pair of colossal stained glass doors at the opposite end of the library. “Perhaps that will be an excursion for another time. For now, Lord Morpheus awaits.” 

Eyes settling on the doors that lead to the throne room, panic begins to rise in your chest. You feel as if your heart could crawl right up your throat  and run as far away from here as possible. Finally faced with the situation you’re about to walk into, you feel wholly, entirely unprepared. Perhaps this was a terrible idea. 

No, you tell yourself. You force yourself to trudge forward, taking one step, then another. You can do this. You have to fix this. And being here is your best shot. 

Lucienne seems to sense your apprehension, pausing as she places a gloved hand against one of the throne room doors. She eyes you carefully. “Are you ready, ma’am?” 

You want to spend all day in her library. You want to run away. You want to throw up. But your mouth says, “Yes.” And with a curt nod, Lucienne sweeps open the doors to the throne room. 

While all of the palace rooms have been magnificent, this is the one that steals your breath away. Your footsteps echo on the polished stone floor as you walk into the cathedral-esque room. Tall columns line the room on either side,  featuring the stone busts of characters from history’s most infamous stories. Characters born from dreams, you realize. On the far end of the room are a set of stained glass windows, three short ones, three tall ones. The tall windows are stained blue, red, and green, casting twinkling prisms throughout the room. The cathedral trusses above your head hold up a twilight sky of swirling clouds, constellations, and glimmering stars. 

And there, standing halfway up the winding staircase leading to a simple throne, is a tall, black silhouette. The Dream Lord. Though his back is to you and no introductions have been made, you know it could not be anyone else. Lucienne confirms this when she stops the two of you several feet away from the base of the stairs. “Lord Morpheus,” she calls, dipping her head in respect, “your honored guest has arrived.” 

Though he surely heard you coming, the Dream Lord only turns at Lucienne’s call. As he does, you finally observe the cold-hearted Dream King you’ve heard so many rumors about. He is the darkness of night in human form; long black coat, black shirt, black pants, black boots, dark hair that swoops over his forehead, ruffled like raven’s feathers. Like a run of ink, he bleeds into the scene around him, a stark contrast to the brightness of the throne room. The darkness only makes his other features more striking. His skin is marble, cold and pale, with facial features that could cut. His mouth is small and pink as a rosebud. If the rest of him wasn’t intimidating enough, there’s his eyes - deep as oceans, glimmering like blue crystals. No, like stars. Studying, analyzing. 

And they’re on you. 

Suddenly, you realize that while you’ve been lost in thought, he’s come to the bottom of the staircase. You get the itching feeling that you have been staring for entirely too long. Hastily, you mirror Lucienne’s stance and dip your head in respect. 

The Dream Lord takes the final step off the staircase, standing but a few feet before you. Standing so close to him, you realize that the sensation you’ve felt since you arrived in the Dreaming has been coming from here the whole time. From him. Here in his throne room, you can’t deny it. Your mind mulls over the call that greeted you, the feeling that led you here. You can’t imagine what it would feel like to hold power like that. Don’t discount yourself, you chastise. You have to be confident if this is going to work. 

“Greetings, Agape. Welcome to the land of the Dreaming.” Though he may look young, the voice that passes over the Dream Lord’s lips is decidedly ancient. It’s the crashing of a wave against a shore, a rumble of thunder in the night, the etching of a story into stone. It reverberates through the entire throne room, each word slow and deliberate. Some distant part of you recognizes it, and you suppose you should. 

Lucienne takes a few polite steps back, giving the two of you space to talk. Up above, you hear the flutter of feathers. Inclining your head, you find a very familiar raven perched on one of the stone busts above. Matthew. Vaguely comforted by a somewhat familiar presence, you turn your eyes back to the Dream King. Will yourself to hold his gaze. Be confident. 

“Greetings, Dream of the Endless. I have been known by many names - Ishtar, Inanna, Freya, Aphrodite, Venus, Parvati, Agape. You can simply call me Love. It is much simpler that way.” Feeling your nerves settle slightly with introductions out of the way, you give him a small smile. “Thank you for your hospitality and for granting me an audience on such short notice.” 

The Dream Lord dips his head slightly in acknowledgement. His eyes don’t stray from your face; they remain affixed there, studying thoughtfully. “Of course. A companion of my sister’s is welcome here in the Dreaming. Admittedly, I did not know whether to believe you when you stated as such in your letter. However, a visit with my sister remedied that quite effectively.”

There it is again, that gnawing curiosity as to what Death told him about you. It pokes and prods incessantly at the back of your mind. This time, you can’t resist it, saying, “If you don’t mind me asking, what did your sister share about me, Dream Lord?” 

Dream of the Endless inclines his chin, eyeing you with interest. Though his face is impassive, his eyes seem to challenge you. “Inquiring about the affairs of Endless when we’ve only just met? It is bold of you to assume I might share the details of intimate conversations with my sister with a stranger.”

Oh, now that response gets your attention. While intimidation is something you tend to shrink away from, a challenge is something you are more than happy to work with. “On the contrary, Dream Lord, I think I should be privy to information that involves my character,” you challenge, diplomacy slipping a bit. As you step out of your ambassador facade and more into your true self, your confidence grows. “Or does Dream of the Endless keep his gossip to himself?” You quirk an eyebrow at him. 

The Dream Lord pauses, watching you for a long moment. Perhaps to see if you’ll squirm. Just when you think you might’ve made a terrible mistake, he blinks, responding, “She refrained from sharing all the details of your history and circumstance. I should like to learn of those directly from you.” With a long glance, he turns toward the stained glass windows, clasping his hands behind his back. “What she did share is that you were once a mortal whom my brother, Destiny, deemed worthy of becoming a goddess. And that now my sibling, Desire, threatens the stability of your realm and your conditional divinity with their meddling. Which has brought you here, to me.” 

And there it was - your secret, laid bare in the light of the throne room. Above your head, Matthew ruffles his wings, clearly intrigued by this turn of events. You don’t turn to gauge Lucienne’s reaction. If there is anyone other than the Dream Lord who knows the truth, you figure it would be her. You inhale deeply, calming your unsettled nerves. You’d come this far; it wasn’t time to back down now. 

“You are correct, Dream Lord. I was once a mortal, until your brother and sister made me what I am today,” you say quietly. Building courage, your voice grows louder, “While I may not be Endless, my love and loyalty to my Realm knows no bounds. I will do whatever I have to in order to maintain balance between selfish desire and selfless love, for the good of my people. Your sibling, Desire, and I have been at odds for a long time. As they grow bolder, I’m afraid it’s becoming harder to outrun them.” You lick your lips, pondering your next choice of words. With a deep breath, you continue carefully, “I know that they have meddled in your affairs, too, as of late. As long as their ambition for mischief continues to grow, both of our Realms are at stake. That is why I am here, asking for your help.” You swallow thickly. “I have a proposition for you.” 

For a long moment, the Dream Lord says nothing. No one in the throne room dares to breathe. Though he does not turn around, Dream of the Endless does incline his head toward you slightly. “Go on,” he murmurs. 

You take a few bold steps forward, seeking his face. Seeking to convey just how much this means to you. “I propose that we form a partnership. Your sibling is taking a particular interest in interfering with my eros and philia attachments - romantic and soul ties. I believe that we could work together to combat this. If you supply the dreamscape, I can supply the subject matter. If we place their romantic partners and soul ties in their dreams, perhaps when mortals encounter them in the Waking World, they will be more likely to resist Desire’s temptations and fulfill the attachment.”

No response registers on the Dream Lord’s face. His eyes remain affixed on the stained glass windows above you. They cast his alabaster skin in shades of crimson, crystal, and emerald. After several quiet minutes, his eyes meet yours. “And what do I stand to gain from this proposition of yours?”

“A little work taken off your own plate. With me worrying about the subject matter, you will have fewer dreams to conjure up. And with their dreams seemingly coming true in the Waking World, mortals will be all the more eager to see what happens next in their dreams. The Dreaming will grow in power.” 

Another pause. “And if I decline your proposition?”

Your breath hitches. Your mouth tightens into a hard line. You have no response for that one. 

Dream of the Endless nods, your lack of response seemingly all the answer he needs. Slowly, he stalks toward the staircase leading to his throne, sitting down on one of the lower steps. His long coat spills around him like a shadow. His crystalline eyes fix on yours, holding your gaze. After several still moments, he finally replies, “While your proposition is intriguing, Agape,” you flinch slightly at the continued use of your formal title, “I am afraid I will have to decline. While Desire has been a thorn in my side as of late, I do not wish to sour the blood between myself and my siblings. In addition, my attention to the Dreaming has been divided for too long. Now that I’ve returned, my own Realm requires my full attention.” 

A tingling sensation passes through you as you try to process this news, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers. Numbness is left in its wake. Your stomach shifts, suddenly nauseous. The throne room and your company within it feel incredibly far away.  This can’t be happening. In the distance, you think you hear the Dream Lord ask Lucienne to escort you away. This can’t be happening.

A gentle hand touches your shoulder, and you recoil instinctively. When you turn, you find it’s just Lucienne, eyeing you solemnly. Up above, you hear Matthew let out a startled caw, swooping down to land on the staircase beside the Dream Lord. “Hey, boss, don’t you think-” 

“Come, ma’am,” Lucienne says quietly, her kind eyes conveying a silent apology. “Allow me to escort you out of the Dreaming.” 

Your hands fist at your sides. No. 

All eyes in the throne room turn to you. You blink, startled. You hadn’t realized that you’d said it aloud. But now that you had, there was no turning back. Dream of the Endless rises slowly, methodically. Shadows sweep down from his feet, crawling toward you. “No?” he says, the indignance in his voice thinly veiled. You can feel him in the air, his powerful presence angry and oppressive, pushing in toward you. His bright eyes darken to lone stars within two pools of space. “You presume to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own-” 

“No, Lord Morpheus,” you say hastily, lifting your hands in apology. At your change of title and tone, the shadows halt their approach. “I would never. You have been so gracious to welcome me here for an audience. I want to offer you an invitation in return.” You pause, licking your lips. While his shadows have ceased, the fire in his eyes has not snuffed out. You know you must choose your words carefully. “Please, visit me in my Realm. The Realm of Attachment. I can show you my function, what I do, how I do it. I can show you what I have to offer mortals, what I have to offer you. Please. And then decide whether you want to decline my proposition.” 

You’re unsure of exactly how much time passes. It could be merely a second, it could be hours. You hold careful eye contact with Lord Morpheus as he absorbs, processes, ponders. You don’t dare breathe as he studies you. 

And finally, he nods. The shadows retreat back into his coat. The darkness dissipates from his eyes. The air around you lightens. “Very well, Love. You have intrigued me.” Your heart is hammering so loudly in your ears that you barely notice his change of your title. “I shall accompany you to your Realm of Attachment, after which time I will pass judgment on your proposal.” 

You breathe in deeply, relief washing through you. You turn to Lucienne, whose brown eyes regard you with surprise. Too elated to read into her expression, you turn back to the Dream Lord. “Thank you, Lord Morpheus. I cannot begin to tell you how much this means to me.” You grin brilliantly at him. “When should I expect you?” 

At that, the Dream Lord gives no response. Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his long coat, revealing a palmful of sand. Though his expression remains stoic, you swear there is a tiny twinkle in his eye as he brings the sand to his lips and blows. Like a tidal wave, the sands sweep over you. You shield your eyes behind the sleeve of your blazer. 

When you open them, you are no longer in the throne room. Instead, you’re back in the Waking World, standing in your bedroom with sand in your hair. Theo’s head perks up from his spot on your bed, his dark eyes looking at you expectantly. 

. . .  

Part iii.

Dirt digs under your fingernails as you crawl towards the hearth. Your fingertips brush the metal rod of the fire iron. You swear you laugh with relief, though all that reaches your ears is a broken croak. Your fingers tighten around the rod. Maker, that burning in your chest is all consuming–

A bright burst of pain explodes in the side of your head. You feel your grip on the rod slip. The room spins as your thoughts tumble and turn, incoherent. You’re a bird with a clipped wing, an acrobat in freefall. Where the ceiling of your hut once was, a sky full of stars now glistens. Dazed and confused, you slowly blink them away.

When the room rights itself, you find yourself on your back, your face mere inches from the flickering hearth. There’s a crushing weight in your chest as your love climbs atop you once more. Any residual air that might have been left in your lungs deflates at the pressure. Your spirit slips away with it.

He holds the fire iron in his hands now. His face is impassive and hollow, a mere husk of the man you know. The man you love. Looming above you, his eyes seem dark as night. Gripping the fire iron tightly on either end, he brings it to your throat and presses down. The agony is bright and burning at first. Then the numbness starts to creep in.

Your eyes sting with hot tears. Please, you mouth silently. What are you supposed to do when the person you desperately want to rescue you is the one inflicting the pain?

“You are bringing this upon yourself,” he whispers. His voice sends a chill up your spine. You remember the stories and sweet adorations that voice once whispered to you. Now it is cold, impassive, devoid of feeling. “Why can’t you just let me go? Let go.”

. . .

The soft sounds of morning birds and passing cars slowly coax you back into consciousness. Though you know you’ve just gotten a full night’s rest, you can’t help but groan at the emptiness you feel. It grows so tiresome to wake up this way. Always recharged, but never feeling rested. True rest aches within the back of your mind like a phantom limb, something that has been cruelly robbed from you. Though you haven’t slept or dreamt in ages, you still long for it. You suppose old habits die hard.

As your mind fully returns to itself, you do register one other sound. The fluttering of pages. It sounds so close–

You sit up swiftly. Of all the things you could have possibly seen, you definitely did not expect to find your gaze settling on the face of a certain Endless.

“For the love of– Dream Lord?” You’re dumbfounded. You blink, rub the residual grog from your eyes, and blink again, sure that your brain must be malfunctioning. No, he’s still there. “Why do you Endless insist on popping up in my bedroom unannounced?”

Dream of the Endless cocks an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, the movement so subtle you nearly mistake it for a twitch. He continues to thumb through the fantasy novel at your bedside, pages fluttering between his fingers. “Is this a frequent occurrence of yours?”

Realizing how that sounds, you shake your head hastily. “I– No– Yes– Maybe? I mean, if I had a nickel for every time an Endless showed up in my bedroom unannounced, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice in the past two weeks.” The Dream Lord gives no apparent reaction to your attempt at an icebreaker. Tough crowd. You take a deep breath, grounding yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Were you dreaming just now?” he deflects.

The question takes you aback. You eye him carefully. “No, of course not. Deities don’t dream. I should think you would know all about that.”

“I am well aware of the limitations on the resting capabilities of divine beings. You are also the first deity I have encountered who was once mortal. I only wondered if the case might be different for you.” You swear that pensive gaze could pin you straight to your headboard.

“You could have just gone into my head to find out,” you point out. Though you’re glad he didn’t.

From beneath his tousled black hair, the Dream Lord’s blue eyes appraise you thoughtfully.  “I considered as much, then came to the conclusion that it might be viewed as intrusive of me to do so if we are to be considering a collaboration.”

You almost laugh at that, then think better of it. Well, he has morals, at least. Shaking your head incredulously, you ask again, “What are you doing here, Dream Lord?”

“I seem to recall you extending an invitation for me to observe your function in the Realm of Attachment.” Your fantasy novel makes a quiet thud as he closes it swiftly, laying it back on your nightstand. “That invitation will be coming to fruition today.”

. . .

“Is this your messenger or emissary?”

Your eyes fix on the Dream Lord as you walk into your living room, fully dressed with daily assignments in hand. He stands by the front door with his hands in his coat pockets, staring down at Theo, who sits proudly at his feet.

“Uh, neither. And he’s not my royal librarian, either. He’s my foster dog.” You dip to rub Theo between the ears. “I don’t have assistants. I typically work alone. Though I’m hoping that’s about to change.” You offer him a small smile.

The Dream Lord gives only a low hum in response. His gaze slowly sweeps across the rest of your home. It’s certainly no palace with towers and spires. You can’t help but feel like he’s not really looking at your decor, though, but rather trying to read you. Acutely self-conscious, you change the subject. “Speaking of work, what were you hoping to observe today? I’m not sure how much time you have…”

“You are seeking my blessing to form a collaboration with you in which I will be interfering with the machinations of my mischievous sibling,” he replies, eyes continuing to study your humble townhome. His blue gaze finally comes to land on you. “I would suggest you give me the full breadth of experience, Deity of Love.”

Your heart stutters with a mix of nerves and excitement. Intrigued to let someone else have a small glimpse into your world, to actually share with someone for once. But terrified that it won’t be enough. Not just enough to get him to help you, but that the first person you truly open up to won’t see your work the way you do.

You swallow, pushing away those anxious thoughts. “Well, I suppose we’ll just start from the beginning. Each day starts with checking my list of assignments.” You extend the stack of papers to him, watch as his eyes flicker over the names there. “My daily assignments come from the Fates, who in turn base their assignments on information from your brother, Destiny.”

“Destiny,” Dream of the Endless breathes. His cool gaze settles on you. “My brother has never spoken of you before.”

You’re not sure if that should offend you or not. You decide to let it roll off. “That doesn’t surprise me. We’ve never actually met in person. And I don’t do much associating with other deities or Endless. I tend to keep to myself.” As you fish for your house keys in your pocket, you guide the Dream Lord out the front door. “So, that’s step one: Check my list for the day.”

“And what is next?”

You grin at him as the front door lock slides into place. “I get coffee.”

The Dream Lord’s face draws a blank. “Coffee,” he echoes back to you, clearly trying to connect the dots on how this is relevant.

“Indeed, Dream Lord. You said you wanted the full ‘Deity of Love experience,’ didn’t you?” The sidewalk is quiet and mostly empty this morning as you begin walking toward Cliff’s coffee shop. The golden autumn sunlight seems to endow his pale skin with a slightly warmer glow. You suddenly realize that he’s swapped his regal floor-length cloak for a more casual knee-length wool coat in an attempt to look more human. Something about that thought sticks out to you. You smile, slipping that thought in your pocket for another time.

As you approach the coffee shop, you turn to him and say, “Thank you again for accepting my invitation to come here. For giving my proposition a chance. I truly can’t tell you what it means to me.”

The Dream Lord glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his face stony and serious. “There was a time when I would have banished you to the Darkness for pulling such a stunt in my throne room. Deity or not.” He holds your gaze sternly for several seconds, then looks away. “But recent events have made me more….amiable.” He swallows, pink lips pursing. “Lucienne and I have discussed trying to be a more…adept listener.”

You gulp. If his reaction from the other day was his definition of “amiable,” you shudder to think of how he might have reacted before “recent events.” You had heard whispers of the Dream Lord throughout the ages, tales of a cruel prince who would unmake dreams and nightmares without a second thought, who sent a lover to rot in hell for breaking his heart, who doomed mortals to nightmare realms from which they’d never wake up. Keeping to yourself as you did, you’d never been able to judge the truth of those whispers, and you’d never felt comfortable asking Death about them. While the Endless beside you now would not be considered friendly, he seemed to be more reserved than unfeeling. Closed-off, rather than devoid.

“Well, I think being an amiable listener is something that each of us can always grow more adept at,” you concede. You pull open the coffee shop door with a wide grin. “Hey, Cliff!” you call as you enter, your broody guest trailing behind you. “I’m here for the usual.”

“Of course, Miss Love.” He’s already slipping the coffee into your hand as he speaks. Cliff affixes you with a tender smile, then eyes the Dream Lord with something toeing the line between intrigue and confusion. “And this is your…friend?”

“Ah, yes.” You turn to the tall, dark Endless at your side, who gazes at Cliff with interest. “This is my friend…”

“Morpheus,” the Dream Lord answers, giving the shop owner a polite nod. Not the most incongruous of names, you supposed, but it worked.

“Ah,” Cliff says, unsure of how to respond to that. “And your friend would like…?”

You expect him to decline or ask for something tall, black, and bitter, which is why you’re all the more pleasantly surprised when he rasps, “Earl grey.” Your hand finds the change in your pocket as Cliff prepares the blend and hands it to Morpheus. “Have a good one, Cliff,” you smile as the two of you turn and head back toward the door.

“You do realize that Endless and deities do not require food or drink, don’t you?” he mumbles lowly as you walk out the door.

“I do. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t still enjoy them, does it?” you offer with a smile. He doesn’t return it. Maker, it was going to be hard to open him up. You pause on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. “Anyway, our next step is to go to the Realm of Attachment itself.” You look around for a mortal to pass through. With it being a weekend, the streets are much less crowded than normal. However, just a block away, you do spot a small flower stand with a few patrons milling about. You beckon Morpheus in that direction. As you walk, he takes a tentative sip from his to-go cup. A small, human-like gesture. If it weren’t for his wild mop of hair and the strange air about him, a mortal almost wouldn’t pay him a second glance. Almost.

As you draw near the flower stand, you lean toward him slightly. “I’ve never actually taken someone with me before, but based on the laws as I know them, I think we’ll need to be touching.” You offer him your elbow politely. His gaze flickers from your outstretched arm, to your face, then back to your elbow. Finally, his long fingers wrap lightly around your forearm. “Are you ready?” you ask him.

“I am.”

“Alright. Here we go, then,” you breathe. Slowing your pace, you guide your paths to pass behind an elderly couple looking at several pots of colorful mums. As the wife comes within reach, you gently touch your fingers to the back of her lightweight jacket. You close your eyes, reaching out to her heart, reaching through to the other side. Your muscles tense under Morpheus’s fingers. An autumn breeze kisses your cheeks. Your body hums, calling to the land itself like an old friend, and the land answers. You’ve made it.

You had never brought anyone to the Realm of Attachment before. You were largely a solitary being, and there had simply been no need to share this part of yourself with another before. When you turn to look at Morpheus, you do so tentatively, nervous to see his reaction.

While the street is largely empty, the flower shop patrons provide plenty of attachments for him to view up close in a variety of colors. Each thread is strong and radiating and alive. His blue eyes drink them in intently, a new, unfamiliar enigma for him to study. His gaze gradually glides to the buildings around you. Though no mortals are visible to your eyes, those residing inside send thousands upon thousands of threads bursting forth from the buildings in all directions. Some travel a block, some a mile, some a hundred miles, some more. His eyes slide up higher, roving over the sky above you. Unlike the Dreaming, there is no blue sky above. Instead, trillions of attachments blanket the heavens, every color of the rainbow intermingling and intertwining to form a radiant tapestry. His lips part ever so slightly at the sight.

It’s not much of a crack in his armor, but it is something. You know that he has seen and created countless fantastical realms as the Dream Lord. You can’t help but feel a little proud that your Realm seems to offer him something he hasn’t encountered before. “Welcome, Lord Morpheus,” you say quietly as you gauge his expression. “You’ve reached the Realm of Attachment.”

The Dream Lord is silent for several more moments. Finally, he murmurs, “It is…quite spectacular.”

“Thank you.” Your eyes follow his, drinking in the colorful heavens above you. “Sometimes it feels like I’m living in a ball of rainbow yarn,” you admit, only half joking.

You almost think you spot the Dream Lord’s lips twitch out of the corner of your eye. Almost. But when you turn your gaze to him, his expression hasn’t changed. “What are they?” he asks, eyes still trained above.

You smile. “These are my attachments.” One of your hands instinctively moves to graze the snow white thread connecting the elderly man and woman beside you. Morpheus’s eyes follow your movement. “These are the bonds of love that tie all of humanity together. This is my function.”

When Morpheus locks eyes with you next, you feel as if something subtle has shifted within them. Or maybe you’re imagining things. What you do know is that when he says, “Go on,” you feel as if he is expressing genuine interest for the first time since asking you about your sleep earlier this morning. It dawns upon you that in spite of the walls he seems to keep around him, he still harbors a desire for knowledge, to learn something new after eons of existence.  Appealing to his curiosity may be an effective way to get him to open up.

“Well, let’s start with the colors. Each color represents a different type of attachment.” You beckon him to turn in a circle, pointing out attachments as you go. “First, we have the red thread; that is eros, or romantic, passionate love. A classic, of course. But I take care of much more than just romantic love. Here we have purple, or erotoropia, which is playful and flirtatious.” Your eye spots a family of three up ahead. “See that family in the store over there? Their bonds are green; storge, or unconditional, familial love. The orange bond between the mother and father is pragma; companionate love that includes common long-term interests. Next, we have blue, which is philautia – compassionate self-love.” You spot a church ahead to your left, radiating a particularly impressive amount of yellow threads. “The yellow attachments are agape. That’s universal, empathetic, selfless love. It encompasses faith-based love, as well. And the white thread connecting this couple? This is philia – an intimate, authentic bond. That’s a soul tie. It doesn’t just have to be romantic, though. They can be platonic, too.”

“How do you distinguish what is romantic from what is platonic?” he asks. His pale hand reaches out to touch the radiant white thread between the elderly couple beside you. His dark eyebrows furrow when his fingers merely pass through it.

“You’re not far off,” you encourage him. Your own fingers move to hold the white thread gently. In your grip, it pulses and thrums like a heartbeat. “All I have to do is hold it to determine if the bond is romantic or not. The attachments speak to me, and I speak to them. If I call upon them, they’ll tell me what I want to know.”

For the second time today, Morpheus gives a contemplative hum in response. His eyes sweep over the street, turning to the mortals farther up the block. His gaze suddenly pauses, his hand lifting to outstretch a finger. “And that one?” he asks. You follow his inclination to find yourself staring at a black thread connecting a young man to his phone screen. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

“That is why we’re here. Why I’ve come to you for help.” Your feet instinctively lead you toward the black thread, and Morpheus follows. As you draw closer to the young man, you see that he is swiping through hookup apps on his phone. A pale red thread trails from his heart down the street, terminating somewhere out of sight. As your fingers grip the thread lightly, you take a deep breath and say, “You’ll find her through the app. Once you meet, you’ll both delete it.” Reinvigorated, the red thread solidifies. It glows brilliant crimson as if to say thank you.

Your eyes turn to Morpheus. His eyes are trained on your hands, watching them intently. “Black attachments are Desire’s handiwork. They’re a deviation in the plan, an interference with the love bonds between mortals. Desire will happily interfere with any attachment of mine, but they’ve been targeting my eros, pragma, and philia ties the most. As you saw.”

The Dream Lord’s clear eyes rise to yours. You can see the gears churning in his mind in the way he works his jaw, the intent with which he looks at you. “I should think that you and my sibling might collaborate at times. You do have similar functions.”

Your lips purse into a hard line. His assumption is good, one that you yourself had often thought in your early days of divinity. Before you were given a rude awakening. “I suppose you could say we walk a fine line. There have been times throughout history where we have worked together. After all, desire is often a part of love.” You pause, mulling over your next words, choosing them carefully. “But love is meant to be selfless. Something which Desire, in my personal experience, is not. They are ambitious, as well. That combination of selfishness and ambition has led to some…conflicts.” You swallow thickly, choking down a million words left unsaid.

The intensity of Morpheus’s gaze leaves you feeling like a riddle he’s trying to solve, a puzzle piece he’s studying the edges of. For the first time, it occurs to you that perhaps you are not the only one who feels they are in the presence of an enigma that needs solving. For a moment, you’re certain he’s noticed your difficulty speaking, certain he’ll inquire about all the words you didn’t say. Then, the moment fades. “I am still uncertain as to why you need my assistance with this matter.” He turns his gaze to your hands, to the red attachment that still thrums in them. “It appears you have already found a solution.”

“You make a good point. I am able to combat them. But there’s only so much I can do. Once the thread of desire has manifested, it often regains strength. I simply don’t have enough time to continually repair the bonds while also keeping up with my other attachments. Plus, as Desire grows more greedy, they create more and more ties. Look around you.” Morpheus mirrors you as you turn in a slow circle. A young couple with a white philia bond walks past you, the attachment dimming as a black thread snakes from the man to a woman across the street. Looking at the scene around you with new eyes, Desire’s dark bonds stand out starkly against the bright backdrop of your Realm, dark roots taking hold in a thriving ecosystem.

“I’ve been trying and trying. Not just recently, but for centuries. I simply can’t keep up. That’s why I came to you.” You turn to face the Dream Lord. You force yourself to display confidence, to raise your chin and hold his gaze. “I need your help.”

Dream of the Endless watches you for a long time. The sounds of the street dim to nothing in your ears, the kaleidoscope of colorful attachments blurring behind him. Again you feel the sensation that you are being read like a book, but this time you don’t fight it. You let him read you, see the determination in the set of your jaw, the earnesty in your eyes. You will him to see just how much this means. To feel it.

Finally, Morpheus raises his chin at you slightly. “Where are we to go next?” he murmurs.

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, then turn your attention to the list of names in your hand. You feel an all-encompassing warmth alight in your chest, like a fire taking spark in kindling. Your power. It calls out to the names on the papers. The colorful glows surrounding each one brighten in response. You lock eyes with the Dream Lord and smile. “Let’s get to work.”

…

Dream of the Endless had requested you give him “the full breadth of experience,” and you fully intended to give him the full breadth of experience. By the time you’d finished your coffee, you had enforced a storge attachment in a new single mother, strengthened the agape attachment in a persecuted evangelist, nurtured the pragma bonds of several young couples, and instilled philautia in an eating disorder treatment facility, to name a few. Not to mention the numerous eros and philia attachments you had fostered. You’d traveled halfway around the world, to boot. At this rate, you’d need another cup of coffee to make it through the day.

Fresh off an eros assignment in Sydney, you open your eyes to find yourself and your guest standing on a cobblestone street in Sicily. The early-autumn sun bakes the cobblestones, their warmth radiating through the soles of your shoes. Swaths of vines adorn the tall stone buildings. Before you stands a simple oak door leading into what appears to be a set of apartments. A pot of flowers overflowing with yellow and pink buds compliments the doorstep. You can sense the attachment you’re seeking within the home, feel it calling out to you.

“Oh, magnifico,” you say with a grin. You gesture for Morpheus to follow as your ethereal form slips through the door entirely.

On the other side is a narrow staircase. As you scale them, Morpheus calls after you, “I must admit, your function is more…involved than I might have presumed.” “Oh?” you call back, feigning surprise. “Did you assume I flew around sticking mortals with heart-tipped arrows all day?”

“That is not what I meant.” You chuckle quietly as you guide the two of you down the hallway at the top of the stairs. Apartment doors line either side, but your eyes are trained on the one at the end. A pause, and then, “Does everything truly come to pass as you say? The events that you dictate when you foster their attachments.”

“Yes, they do.” The two of you have reached the final door at the end of the hall. On the other side, you can feel the thread you’ve come for calling out for help. It’s a powerful call – perhaps more than one thread? You turn to Morpheus. “There are some limitations. Say your sibling Desire decides to meddle, or your sister Death calls them home before my events can transpire, for example. That will override my work. But in general, if I speak it, it will happen. Your brother, Destiny, knows the who and the what of humanity’s love connections. It’s my job to execute them, to make sure that they actually happen. I am the when, where, why, and how.” With that, you proceed through the door.

The room that you step into is quiet and dark. There is a staleness to the air, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. As you walk forward, you spot dirty dishes on the table, a sink filled with murky water, a considerable stack of mail sitting on the counter. Morpheus spots them, as well; you see his dark form straighten slightly out of the corner of your eye. Your lips tighten.

The call in your veins leads you to a bedroom at the back of the apartment. As you step inside, you peer through the shadows to find a man and woman sleeping on the bed. They are tightly intertwined, their bodies wrapped around one another like armor. Your eye catches on the man’s furrowed brow, on the woman’s red, swollen eyes. Between their hearts are not one, but four threads; red, orange, green, and white. All pale, shuddering, and weary.

You swallow thickly, heart pounding in your ears. You look at Morpheus. Cloaked in the shadows of the room, he almost blends in entirely, save for his bright blue eyes. They watch you intently.

Your hand reaches out, slipping around all four threads at once. A gentle squeeze sends a sharp spear of pain through your gut, one that nearly buckles your knees. Images flash in your mind like an old time film reel: First date– first kiss– the wedding– she was the most radiant thing he’d ever seen– longing for a family– he was her rock– the test– the joy– the blood– so much–

“Are you alright?” Your eyes spring open at Morpheus’s rumbling voice. Though he hasn’t moved, you find that there is something new in his eye, a thinly veiled wariness.

You release the attachments, and with that the pain dissipates. But not the images in your mind. They remain imprinted there, a reel stuck on replay. “Yes, I’m fine,” you say quietly. You breathe in deeply, out slowly, re-centering yourself. As the warmth within your chest hums, the threads between the young couple quiver. I’ll help you, you think solemnly.

Slowly, you reach out your hand. You pluck them one by one, like playing a harp. In response to your touch, they seem to glow and sing. “You won’t give up,” you murmur. Your fingers strum the threads a second time, savoring the hum they echo against your fingertips. “Not on yourselves, not on each other, not on this life you want to build so desperately. Each others’ arms will be your greatest comfort. Each others’ smiles will be your greatest strength. You are each others’ safe haven.” You pause. Hot tears sting your eyes, and you blink them away. “Where you go, she will go; and where you stay, he will stay. Your unconditional love will be rewarded. I believe that.”

The threads in your hand give one final hum, then relax against your fingertips. Once dull and faint, they now shine brightly, illuminating the room. You feel a shift at your side and turn to see Morpheus beside you. He gazes down at the couple silently. Though his face is impassive, something smolders in his eyes. You can’t place what burns within them, but it is undeniably present.

“I know them,” he murmurs after several quiet moments. “I have often gifted them dreams of a contented family. I recall seeing them in the Dreaming not long ago. They were to call her Sofia.” He pauses. “They dream of her, even now.”

You close your eyes slowly, feel the hot tears slip down your cheeks. Standing still in this moment where your function, where your passion, has crossed paths with that of the Endless beside you. When you open your eyes, you look back to the sleeping couple at your side. “Love isn’t always easy, or clean, or beautiful. But each love is powerful and perfect in its own way.” You swallow, outstretching your fingers to strum the threads one final time. “This is humanity, Morpheus. This is what we live to protect.”

. . .

“Do you have time for one last quick stop?”

In spite of the late hour, the Realm of Attachment is colored just as brightly as it had been this morning. The sun never sets here, the land perpetually lit by the glow of your attachments. Morpheus stands beside you on the sidewalk outside your townhome, a dark smear of ink in the midst of so much color. You turn to him, offering him a small smile. “Thank you so much for accompanying me today. I know it’s getting late and that you must return to the Dreaming. A jogger passes by my townhome every evening; she should be here any minute now. Before that, there’s just one last thing I want to show you. It’ll only take a moment.”

Morpheus peers down at you thoughtfully. The rainbow sky swirls like nebulae in his bright eyes. With a dip of his chin, he says, “Did I not request the full breadth of experience?”

Your grin widens. You beckon him to join you by Matt and Ava’s window. Peeking through the open curtains, our eyes settle on the young couple sitting in their dining room. Plates of steaming lasagna and colorful salad sit before them, all but forgotten as they laugh and talk instead. Between their hearts thrum seven strings, one of each color: Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, white.

“Aren’t they amazing?” you breathe. Your eyes hang onto the love in Matt’s eyes, the joy in Ava’s smile, the vulnerability and intimacy that seems to shimmer in the space between them. They are in love. Something ancient aches in your chest at the sight, something you buried long ago. “It’s rare for two mortals to share every form of attachment with another person. Typically you’re missing one or the other. But they have themall.” You smile softly. “I’ve been with them since the beginning. I’m so proud of them.”

Though the Dream Lord says nothing, you can feel his eyes on you. Time seems to pass slowly as you stand on the sidewalk. Only the gradual loudening of quick footsteps pulls you out of your reverie.

“Ah, our ride is here.” You extend your elbow to Morpheus. He takes it without a word. As the jogger runs past, you close your eyes and reach out, fingers brushing over her arm. A cool breeze kisses your face; the light shining against the back of your eyelids dims. When you open your eyes, it’s just you and the Dream Lord on a dark street, standing under a sky full of stars.

“Well, that’s it. That’s a day in the life of Agape, Deity of Love,” you say with a shrug, stuffing your hands in your pockets. You eye Morpheus curiously, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Do you have any…questions?”

“I do, in fact. There is much I still wish to know,” he responds, voice crisp and clear in the cool evening air. He pauses, then adds, “But I presume you will have sufficient time to answer my questions at a future date, given that we will be working in tandem now.”

The autumn air seems to suspend itself around you. Your lips part ever so slightly in awe. One beat, two. You’re processing– or, rather, struggling to process what he just said. Did he just say– “Are you serious?” you ask breathlessly.

Morpheus inclines his head slightly. Is that a twinkle in his eye? Or is it the lamplight? You’re not sure. “I have come to the conclusion that a partnership between our realms may be mutually beneficial,” he says matter-of-factly. Spoken with his ancient timber, the statement feels as if it’s been etched into stone, immortalized for all eternity.

A heady, elating mixture of joy, relief, and nervous excitement washes through you. You smile, laugh, riding the emotional high in a daze. “This is incredible. Thank you so much, Morpheus. You have no idea what this means to me. Truly no idea.” You shake your head incredulously. The Deity of Love partnering with Dream of the Endless. Who might’ve guessed? “So, what’s next?” you ask.

“Next, you will observe my function in my Realm. Only after that time will we begin to work.” As the Dream Lord speaks, he tucks his arm into one side of his coat. Within the folds of fabric, you swear you catch a glimpse of a starry night sky as he pulls out a helmet with large glass eyes and a long nose. A strange sense of deja vu settles over you, and then you realize – this is the helm you saw on the Gates of Horn in the Dreaming. Morpheus places the helm on his head slowly, obscuring his blue eyes from view.

“In two days’ time, Matthew will gather you and bring you to the Dreaming,” he instructs. Through the helm, his voice sounds warped and far away. One pale hand dips into his pocket, procuring a palmful of sand. The grains seem to leap to life in his fingers, jumping, swirling, dancing, tumbling. You can already feel the winds picking up around him, forming a new vortex. You take a step back. “We shall see you soon, Love,” he rasps.

And with a tempest of sand, he’s gone.