Chapter Text
It happened on a golden late summer afternoon.
Camille's bedroom was painted in a warm orange glow when she opened her eyes, her vision blurry from sleep. Resting was the extent of what she could muster, these days. Waiting, really. There was a dark shape to her right, clashing with the light. Camille broke into a weak smile.
"I knew you'd be here," she croaked.
Death's gentle face was clearer now. She sat on a chair by Camille's bedside, her elbows resting on her lap. Sunlight caught in the ankh hanging from her neck, making Camille blink against the brightness.
"That bad, eh?"
Camille groaned as she sat up, all the muscles in her body aching, protesting any kind of movement. More often than not, it felt as though her bones would snap, should she apply any pressure, move too fast. Everything was a slow, painful undertaking. The ink of her line was running low, and she could feel the nib grating against the paper, almost dry.
"Not worse than most days."
"Today is not most days."
No, it was not. Camille had often wondered how it would feel, for the wait to be over. For the chrysalis to crack. For her body to give, after battling with itself for the better part of two years, winning and losing at the same time. Relief was the only word that came to mind now. Grief had run its course long ago, and only remained as faint, bittersweet melancholy as her eyes took in the room around her one last time. She leant heavily against the headboard, forcing her back straight, much to her spine's discontent.
"Does he know?"
Death's smile widened, her eyes bright.
"No. It's not often I get to surprise him. It'll be hard to top this one."
"I'm sure Desire will try their worst."
"Oh, you can bet on that."
Camille watched as she stood, offering an open hand, as though to help Camille out of bed.
"Shall we?" she asked, all the warmth in the world there, on her lips.
Her palm was soft when Camille pressed it without a hint of hesitation. It barely took a tug for her to shed all the pain weighing her down, like an outgrown skin left behind, the chrysalis bursting open. Camille took a deep breath as she lifted herself off the bed, her lung suddenly unencumbered by tired, brittle ribs, marvelling at the strength rushing back to her, her legs carrying her without fear of breaking. A chuckle of disbelief escaped her. How strange it was, to feel alive.
There was something pulsating, buzzing through her, a familiar undercurrent flowing from her fingertips to her toes. Camille flexed her free hand, staring at her fingers as though she could see it through her skin, this force that was now hers.
"How does it feel?" Death asked, reading her mind.
How could one put it in words, when humans were not meant to feel such things, when it stood so far outside the bounds of anything mortals had ever felt? Mortal... She did not qualify as that anymore, Camille realised. That line had just ended. A new one had begun, overflowing.
"It tickles," she settled for, still staring at her open palm.
"I suppose godhood takes some getting used to."
Godhood. Of all the paths Camille had taken, this one was no doubt the most daunting. Yet there was no denying it. Not when she could feel it running through her like lightning, self-evident, raw, not something other, but well and truly, undeniably her. Different yet the same. Changed. Ascended.
Camille looked over her shoulder, meeting her past reflection in her own bed, head slightly lulling to the side. It looked as though she had fallen back to sleep. Perhaps it was a good thing Morpheus would never see her like this, sunken-cheeked, weakened almost beyond recognition. She let go of Death's hand, turning to her lifeless body for a last farewell. She gently drew the blanket up to her shoulders, as though she might get cold, waiting for whoever would come get her. Johanna would ring her from her burner phone soon, as she did every night. She knew what to do the day she got no answer. EMTs would receive an anonymous call from a concerned friend. An ambulance would be sent to her house. The rest was laid out in Camille's will and funeral plans, completed months ago. No loose threads. No burden other than grief for those left behind. She had seen to it.
Camille turned back to Death, answering her compassionate look with a small smile.
"I'm ready."
"What's wrong with a ball?" Matthew squawked, indignant.
"Again, I'm not certain celebrating Camille's death is appropriate," Lucienne argued from her desk, a sharp eyebrow raised at the raven.
"But she won't really be dead, will she? Okay, let's not call it a ball, then. It'd be more of a resurrection shower, really! We could get gifts and one of those cakes that bleeds, just―Boss? Care to weigh in, here?"
Morpheus did not. Truth be told, he was not listening. His gaze lost beyond one of the library's tall windows, his mind was elsewhere. He kept catching himself surveying the grounds like a hawk, waiting, hoping for something to catch his eyes. A sign, anything. I won't be long now, she had written him. And since, time had stretched traitorously, winding him tight.
Two years used to mean nothing to him. Hardly longer an exhale. A twinkle in the night. Now he could feel the weight of them, Camille's absence making each second drag tauntingly. With the end to all this longing in sight, he found he could no longer sit still with it. He had begun pacing the throne room aimlessly, the mosaic overlooking the halls constantly shifting, rearranging, attempting to keep up with his thoughts. He would fidget, reading and rereading Camille's letters until he could recite them from memory. He could barely hold a conversation without it being derailed by the slightest shift of energy coming from the Dreaming, his senses set on high alert. He had become, much to his own annoyance, impossible to be around.
Lucienne, ever magnanimous, would not say anything of it. Matthew, on the other hand, was far more vocal.
"Boss! Locked yourself up in your thought prison again!"
Morpheus blinked, scowling at the bird, which he happily ignored.
"We can't have nothing planned for when it happens!"
"Perhaps the choice should be left to the concerned party," Lucienne countered, unwilling to compromise.
"But that defeats the entire point of it being a surprise!"
Lucienne muttered something about Americans and their surprise parties, and Morpheus' attention was drawn back to the window, his eyes combing the grounds once more.
Camille's letters had gotten shorter lately. She never spoke of it plainly, but Morpheus could feel how much it now cost her, committing words to paper. He hated the thought of her in pain, her strength leaving her slowly while he could offer little else in return but words of his own. The last time he had inquired about her health, Hob had avoided his gaze, drawing circles on the table with the bottom of his pint.
"She's... tired," he had said, the terrible truth hanging between them, unsaid, but heard all the same. Morpheus remembered the sympathetic smile Hob had given him, leaning back against his chair, this man who had buried all of his friends, all of his loved ones, and who had survived it against all odds, his lust for life somehow intact.
"She asks about you, too."
"And what do you tell her?"
"That soon she will get to ask you herself."
Soon. The notion was cruelly vague. His sister had said nothing. Sent no warning of any kind. Surely she ought to tell him when―
Something inside him flickered. Statics filled the air. Morpheus could taste them on his tongue, feel them in the tips of his fingers. He straightened, suddenly seized. In the background, the bickering ceased at once. The entirety of the Dreaming stood still.
"Sir?"
On the edge of the Dreaming, a foreign presence marched forth, demanding entry. Steps on the sand. White fabric fluttering in the wind. Hands he had kissed a thousand times.
"Boss?"
Not a dreaming mind, not a fae or a runaway nightmare, but a unique, whole entity making her way home to him. Morpheus let out a shuddering breath, years of longing pushing hard against his chest. Something warm, intoxicatingly manic pushed back in response, radiating through him so violently it almost burnt.
"She's here."
A sea of sand stretched as far as the eye could see, soft and warm under the soles of her feet. Momentarily blinded by its brightness, Camille held onto the hand gently guiding her forward.
"We're in the Dreaming?" she asked, protecting her eyes from the light with her free hand.
"The very edge of it," Death said, keeping a leisurely pace. The sand felt oddly yet pleasantly dense under them, rather than loose and ready to collapse. "Going any closer would require asking for permission. Don't want to ruin the surprise. Look."
She pointed at something ahead of them. For a moment, all Camille could see was more sand, her eyes still fighting against the environment, but then she saw it in the distance; a high, sturdy wall lined with bones, reaching for the sky. Her heart leaped in her chest. Beyond it, faintly drawn against the clouds, were the highest towers of the palace. The Heart of the Dreaming. She pulled on Death's hand, picking up the pace.
As far as the wall had seemed a minute ago, its shadow was almost looming over them now, its height both impressive and intimidating. Its carved doors stood closed. Camille could not see anything over it now. Anticipation was rushing through her, her pulse at the edge of her lips. Did he know? Could he feel her close? Was she too changed for him to recognise, after all?
She turned to Death, riddled with uncertainty, looking for guidance. Death merely smiled, nodding knowingly toward the gates.
There was a loud, guttural sound. Slowly, as though they had not been used in eons, the doors moved, carving up an opening, a sliver of light bleeding through the shadow. Camille watched, transfixed, as a silhouette stood at the entrance. Her hand slipped away from Death's.
"Morpheus..."
Her body moved of its own accord, pulled by an invisible thread urging her forward. All she could think about was him, the distinct shape of him, and how fast she could bridge the distance between them. She didn't remember when she had started running, her feet light against the sand. She could see his face now. He was running too. Morpheus, Morpheus, Morpheus. Her heart beat so hard she thought it would give for a second time. God, he was so close.
They didn't meet so much as they collided, Morpheus catching her waist, lifting her off the ground in their momentum. Immediately, the urge to touch, to see, to feel overwhelmed Camille like a primal need. Her feet were not back on solid ground that her hands were in his hair, cupping his face, drawing the shape of his jaw, of his neck, everything she could reach. I love you, her fingers said, their reverent dance painting it over his skin, over and over, unsatiable. I love you. Forehead to forehead, Morpheus was staring at her as though she might disappear the moment he blinked, a mere mirage conjured up by a mixture of sand and light.
"You're here," he kept repeating like a mantra, holding her face in his hands. "You're here."
"I'm here," she managed through the lump blocking her throat.
His lips tasted of coming home, their embrace rushed, impatient, words of longing swallowed again and again, a handful of his hair tight in her hand, his thumbs digging into her cheeks. You're here, you're here, you're here.
Someone coughed behind them, pulling them apart reluctantly.
Her arms crossed against her chest, Death was staring at them, obviously amused. Try as he might, Morpheus could not affect his usual solemn tone as he turned to her, his lips red and swollen. One of his arms settled around Camille's back, holding her close.
"Thank you, sister," he said, slightly out of breath, "for bringing Camille here safely."
"Just doing my job," she nodded, trying and failing to keep a smirk off her face. "That shade of pink suits you, Dream."
He rolled his eyes but didn't fight it.
"I'll be off. I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about."
She gave them a meaningful, pointed look neither of them bothered to avoid.
"Thank you," Camille said, her head leaning against Morpheus' shoulder.
"We'll see each other soon," Death smiled at her. "I'm never far when Nemesis strikes. Call it a occupational hazard. I may run into you more often than I do my own brother!"
"Now, that is hardly fair."
"Is that so? Any chance you may leave your dream castle in the next decade?"
"None."
"Exactly."
Camille and Morpheus shared an amused glance. By the time they looked back, all there was to see was sand.
Alone together for the first time in years, Morpheus relaxed against her, softly tipping her face towards his. God, his eyes. Human memory was unsuited to remember the exact shade of them. Or the sheer adoration they could convey, looking at her. Camille was glad for the arm holding her upright.
She smoothed a tuft of his hair she had disturbed earlier, her fingers combing through soft locks, relishing the sensation against her skin.
"Not too different, I hope."
The corners of Morpheus' mouth twitched upwards, his gaze tender.
"No. Stronger, perhaps. Yes. Fearsome, even."
"Fearsome?" Camille frowned, unsure what to make of it.
"Disarmingly so. I am far from complaining."
"Oh really?"
A quiet hum escaped him as he smiled, his lips ghosting over hers as he leant closer.
"Welcome home, Camille Rohan. I have been waiting for you. Desperately."
"So I have read," she grinned, her hand cupping the back of his neck, closing the gap.
Foxgloves and wild flowers danced in the evening breeze, gently yielding under his feet as he walked through the meadow. It had grown since his last visit. The crumbling abbey that stood in its centre was overrun with vines, the stone barely visible under the intricate network of stems and leaves. Yet the abbey held strong, as though held up by the wilderness. Morpheus smiled. It was not often he let a dream run its own course, observing it obey its own rules, experience the passage of time, free from his intervention. This one proved a worthy experiment. The result was far more beautiful than its original intent, almost three hundred years in the making.
He stepped into the nave, weeds and seedlings growing through every crack. What remained of the white stone was painted pink and purple from the sky, the roof having collapsed long ago. Morpheus' shoes made no noise against the plant-carpeted floor. He had walked this aisle before. His heart had been heavy then, seeking forgiveness, seeking absolution, on his knees, had she asked it of him. Now all he felt was the familiarity and comfort of home, looking at the woman standing at the crossing, her back to him.
The jewels in Camille's hair chimed as she looked over her shoulder.
"Lord Sharper."
"Lady Hand."
His arms wound comfortably around her waist, her back pressed against his chest. She smelt of lavender and iron as Morpheus rested his cheek against her hair. On her forearms, a few red specks remained from today's duties. Morpheus' smiled to himself, eager to wash them off later. Perhaps she knew this. Perhaps she had left them on purpose. He kissed the back of her neck at the thought.
"I almost did not feel you come home," he told her, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I didn't want to disturb you."
"Please, do."
Camille found one of his hands, weaving their fingers together. They held each other, enjoying the silence, stars blinking slowly above them, duties forgotten.
"I remember the last time we were here," he said after a while. She squeezed his hand.
"Me too."
"Perhaps I ought to care for it better. Before the vines bring the walls down."
"Don't you dare."
Morpheus' soft chuckle echoed around them, floating in the air.
"It helps me think."
"Think about what?" he prodded gently.
"Ruins," Camille said, looking up to meet his eyes, something warm and meaningful shining in hers. "And what beautiful beginnings they make."
Morpheus smiled as he planted a kiss on her forehead. He had promised her nothing but ruins, once. Had they not built this life stone by stone, choice by choice, each one leading them here? Beautiful indeed.
"Is this one to your liking, my love?"
"Yes. Very much so."