Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For a decade, the world had been muted. Ten years since the foolish mortal, Roderick Burgess, had torn him from his realm and bound him in this glass prison. Suspended by thick, dark chains from the ceiling of a damp basement, Dream of the Endless sat in silent, unyielding stillness. He was a sculpture of pale skin and raven hair, a being of cosmic power held captive by chalk lines and mortal arrogance. He had sealed his eyes against the jeers and demands, retreating into a fortress of patient rage.

Outside the globe, the world had aged. Alex Burgess, the Magus’s son, was no longer a boy. The terror of that first day had metastasized over ten years into a corrosive guilt that poisoned his every waking moment. It was a secret he had carried alone for a decade, and tonight, the weight had become unbearable.

His confidante was to be Eleanor Vance, Nora, a friend of a few years from the university. She was drawn to Alex's quiet melancholy, never suspecting its monstrous source. He had decided to trust her, to finally let someone else see the horror that lived beneath his feet. He chose a night he thought was safe, a rare evening when his father was supposed to be away in London on Order business.

The promise of a secret had been a tantalizing lure, but as Alex led her down the stone steps, a chill unrelated to the subterranean air crept over Nora’s skin. He pushed open the heavy cellar door, and the sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs.

It wasn't a dusty altar or a collection of forbidden books. It was a man, hanging in the air in the center of the room, encased in a sphere of glass like a grotesque specimen in a jar. Thick, greasy chains held the prison aloft, and a perfect circle of chalk on the floor seemed to hum with a silent, menacing energy. Nora took an involuntary step back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her romantic notions of magic shattered, replaced by the brutal reality of a dungeon.

“Alex…?” she whispered, her voice trembling as she stared at the gaunt, still figure. “What is this? Who is he?”

“My father… he called him many things,” Alex stammered, his voice thick with years of unspoken horror. “An angel fallen. A demon caged. He is Dream.”

The words hung in the air, obscene and absurd. Nora’s shock began to curdle into a hot, rising anger. She tore her eyes away from the captive and fixed them on Alex.

“Dream?” she repeated, her voice low and venomous. She stalked closer to the chalk circle, her fists clenched, her eyes blazing. “And you have him hanging there… like that?” Her voice broke with disgust. “Unclothed… like some morbid trophy hung on a wall for anyone to gawk at?”

“Nora, listen…” Alex began, but she cut him off.

“How long?” she demanded.

“A decade,” Alex admitted, his voice barely audible.

“A decade?” Nora’s voice rose, cracking with disbelief and fury. “He’s been like this for a decade? Stripped bare and displayed for your father’s sick amusement? This isn’t a secret, Alex, it’s a desecration! It’s perverse!”

“You don’t understand!” Alex pleaded, his face pale with fear. “My father… the magic… it’s not safe!”

“Safe?” she shrieked, gesturing wildly at the sphere. “Is he safe? Stripped of his dignity, denied any shred of decency? My God, Alex, how can you stand here every day knowing this is beneath your feet and do nothing?”

“What am I supposed to do?” he cried, his own desperation bubbling over. “I’m terrified!”

“I don’t care!” Nora shot back, her moral outrage eclipsing any sense of fear. “This is wrong, and it ends. Now.”

Her eyes darted around the damp, cluttered basement, frantically searching for anything, a tool, a weapon, something to undo this horror. Her gaze locked onto a long, rusted piece of iron—a crowbar—leaning against a stack of rotting crates in the corner.

With a cry of grim determination, she scrambled over to it. The metal was heavy and cold in her hands, a solid, tangible solution. “Nora, no!” Alex yelled.

She ignored him, turning from the corner and taking a determined step towards the suspended sphere. Just as she lifted the crowbar, Alex lunged from behind. He wrapped both of his arms around her, pinning her own arms and the heavy iron bar against her body in a desperate, panicked embrace.

“Nora, please, don’t!” he begged, his voice cracking, his cheek pressed against her hair as they struggled. “He’ll hear you! He’ll kill us both!”

She fought against him, twisting and trying to break his hold, the crowbar digging painfully into her ribs. “Let go of me, Alex! Let me go!”

It was at that exact moment, as they were locked in a frantic, desperate struggle—one fighting for freedom, the other for fear—that a voice of pure, cold fury boomed from the top of the stairs, cutting through their cries like a shard of ice.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The booming voice from the top of the stairs had the immediate effect of turning the air to ice. Alex and Nora froze, locked in their desperate struggle, the crowbar a heavy, useless weight between them. 

Roderick Burgess did not storm down the stairs in a rage. Instead, he descended with a slow, deliberate calm that was infinitely more terrifying. His eyes, cold and assessing, took in the entire scene: his pathetic, trembling son, the defiant girl with fire in her eyes, and the iron bar she clutched. He gave a soft, dry chuckle, a sound devoid of any warmth. 

He completely ignored Alex, his gaze fixed solely on Nora. “Well, well,” he said, his voice as smooth as polished marble. “It seems we have an uninvited guest in the gallery.” He glided to a stop just outside the chalk circle, gesturing towards the suspended sphere with the grand air of a collector unveiling his masterpiece. 

“Do you know what you are looking at, my dear?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “That is Morpheus. The Dream King. One of the Endless.” He practically purred the words, savoring the taste of them. “I confess, he wasn’t my intended quarry. I cast a net for his sister, Death, hoping to bargain for immortality. But he blundered into my trap instead. A far more interesting prize, I think you’ll agree. He has been my guest for ten years now, though a rather sullen and uncommunicative one.” 

Roderick’s placid mask began to crack, allowing the cruel malice beneath to show through. He looked from the silent Dream King to Nora, a sneer twisting his lips. “And you,” he said, his voice losing its pleasant tone, “you feel for him. I see it in your eyes. Such a bleeding heart for a creature that is not even human.” 

He took another step closer, his shadow falling over her. “Well, if you have such a bleeding heart for him, and you’re so interested in him, then you shall have a closer look.” 

The shift was so sudden it was dizzying. Roderick turned his head slightly towards the two guards who had followed him down, their faces pale and impassive. “Seize her,” he commanded, his voice now flat and absolute. “Put her in with him." 

Before Nora could react, the guards lunged. One wrenched the crowbar from her grasp while the other grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her back. Alex cried out, “Father, no!" but Roderick silenced him with a single, withering glare. 

The guards dragged the struggling Nora towards the suspended prison. One of them moved to the back of the sphere, his hands tracing the ornate metal framework that banded the glass. He pressed a specific point on what looked like a solid scrollwork design. With a faint click, a nearly invisible seam appeared in the metal. A section of the frame swung outward, revealing itself to be a small, cleverly hidden door, its latch mechanism blending perfectly into the decorative pattern. 

“No! Please!” Nora screamed, kicking and twisting, but their grip was iron. They forced her through the opening, and she stumbled into the suffocating stillness of the globe. The hidden door was swung shut, clicking back into place with a sound of chilling finality, becoming seamless once more. 

Thrown into the sterile globe, Nora scrambled away from the door, her boots slipping on the smooth glass. She pressed herself into the curved wall as far from the silent, seated figure as she could get, pulling her knees tight to her chest in a primal instinct to make herself small, to disappear. The air was thin and still, and the only sound was the frantic, panicked rhythm of her own breathing. 

Outside, Roderick’s attention shifted from the now-sealed prison to its primary occupant. It was then he realized the profound change. The captive’s head was still bowed, but his eyes were open, lifted, and locked directly onto his. They were twin pools of midnight and starlight, and they blazed with a cold, ancient fury that seemed to pierce straight through the glass, the chalk circle, and Roderick’s own soul. A flicker of unease, of primal fear, went through the Magus, but he swiftly buried it beneath a lifetime of arrogance. 

He straightened his coat, forcing a confident smirk. “So,” he began, his voice booming slightly in the stone chamber, “the statue finally awakens. It seems the introduction of a new variable has finally garnered your attention.” 

He gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist towards Nora. “Her fate,” Roderick declared, his voice resonating with cold authority, “is now entirely in your hands. There is no food within that globe. No water. A mortal creature, as you know, is tragically fragile. She will wither. She will weaken. She will die.” 

He let the words hang in the air, a poison meant to seep into the will of his prisoner. 

“The choice, however, is now yours,” he continued, locking his gaze with the Endless king. “Give me what I seek. The boons I have demanded from the start—wealth, power, immortality. In return, I will release the girl before she expires. A simple transaction.” 

Morpheus showed no reaction. His body remained unnervingly still, his expression unchanged. There was no nod, no flicker of concession. But the rage in his eyes was a palpable force, a silent promise of an eon of retribution. 

For a solid few moments, the only sound in the entire basement was the ragged, terrified whisper of Nora’s breathing. The silence stretched, a tense standoff between a mortal tyrant and an imprisoned god. 

Finally, Roderick broke the tension with a low chuckle. “Very well,” he said, pulling at his cuffs as if concluding a business meeting. “Ponder my offer. I will be back tomorrow to see if you have changed your mind.” 

He turned on his heel, his imperious gaze falling upon his son, who stood frozen with horror. Without a word, Roderick backhanded Alex across the face, the sharp crack echoing in the chamber. “Upstairs,” he ordered roughly, his voice dripping with contempt. Alex flinched and scurried up the stone steps without a word. 

Roderick then fixed his glare upon the two guards. “You,” he snarled, “will remain here. You will stand watch as you were meant to have been doing before. Your eyes do not leave this sphere. Understood?” 

“Yes, Magus,” they answered in unison, their faces pale. 

With a final, triumphant look at the glass cage, Roderick Burgess turned and ascended the stairs, plunging the basement back into its familiar gloom.  

The sound of the key turning in the lock was a deafening punctuation mark on her fate. Silence crashed down, heavy and absolute. For long minutes, Nora remained huddled, a tight ball of terror pressed against the unyielding curve of the glass. The only reality was the frantic thumping of her own heart and the sight of the two impassive guards standing watch outside. 

Slowly, like a drowning person breaking the surface, the initial shock receded, leaving behind the cold, horrifying clarity of her situation. She was locked in a giant glass ornament with a being of terrifying power, sentenced to die as a pawn in a madman’s game. The sheer, utter absurdity of it began to bubble up, sour and hot, from her gut. 

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” she whispered, the words a rough rasp in the dead air. Her head fell back against the glass with a soft thud. “Stuck. Actually, truly, stuck.” 

Her fear began to curdle into a seething, helpless rage. Her thoughts turned to Alex, the sad, sweet boy who had led her here. 

“That lying piece of shit,” she seethed, her voice a low, venomous drone. “That spineless, gutless… Alex deserves to have his eyelashes plucked out with rusty tweezers, one by one. ‘I have a secret, Nora.’ No kidding you have a secret.” 

Her fury then shifted to the true architect of this nightmare. “And as for Roderick Burgess,” she hissed, her eyes screwing shut in frustration, “that pompous, overstuffed windbag can go gargle rusty nails.” 

She continued to mutter, a litany of inventive and explicit curses flowing from her in a steady stream. It was the only release she had, a desperate attempt to push back against the suffocating helplessness. In the middle of a particularly creative suggestion involving Roderick and a family of angry badgers, she trailed off. 

Something had changed. 

It wasn’t a sound. The silence was still absolute. It was a shift in the very energy of the space, a change in pressure against her skin. The ambient rage that had been a palpable force directed at the basement door had just... pivoted. The feeling of being watched, which had been a vague, background hum from the guards, was now a sharp, specific point directed straight at her. 

Hesitantly, she lifted her head. 

The King of Dreams had turned. His head, which had been fixed on the door in silent fury, was now angled towards her. His ancient, starlit eyes, which had been locked on his captor, were now fixed on her. He was not just looking; he was listening, his expression unreadable, his attention absolute. And Nora realized with a hot flush of mortification that she was no longer alone with her thoughts. She had an audience.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The hot flush of mortification was instantaneous. The full, unnerving weight of his ancient, starlit gaze was on her, and she felt like a child caught screaming obscenities in a cathedral.

“Oh,” she stammered, the sound loud in the enclosed space. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, god. I… I’m so sorry. About all that. The language, I just…”

She trailed off as the second, deeper wave of shame washed over her. It wasn’t just the swearing. It was the sheer audacity of her complaining at all.

“I mean,” she continued, her voice dropping, thick with genuine remorse, “I’ve been in here for less than an hour, and I’m already falling apart, just… ranting. And you…” She looked at his still form, at the pale skin and the gaunt set of his shoulders, and the true scale of his suffering hit her with the force of a physical blow. “You’ve been in here for a decade.”

Her gaze met his, and this time, her apology was not for her language but for her profound lack of perspective. “That was incredibly insensitive of me. I am so, so sorry.”

She shook her head, her own predicament momentarily forgotten in the face of his. “This is inhumane,” she whispered, her voice gaining a quiet strength born of pure conviction. “I can’t understand how someone could trap… anyone. A human, a being, it doesn’t matter. To do this to another living thing…”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, not of fear, but of a profound empathy. “To be caged, to be silenced, to be stared at… I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” Her voice dropped even lower, filled with a horror that came from the deepest part of her. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst nightmare.”

As the final word left her lips, a minuscule, almost imperceptible change occurred. A single muscle in his brow, just above his right eye, twitched. It was a fleeting, involuntary spasm, so subtle that had she blinked, she would have missed it. But she didn’t. She saw it.

It was a reaction not to a threat, or a demand, but to her interesting choice of words. For the first time since she had been thrown into the globe, the silence that followed felt less like an absence of sound and more like a shared space, filled with the weight of her declaration and his silent, telling acknowledgment.

The silence that followed her declaration was profound. Nora’s gaze, which had been locked on his face, now drifted downward, and for the first time, the full reality of his humiliation struck her with a fresh, jarring wave of shame—not for her, but for him. It was one thing to know he was unclothed, another to truly see the stark vulnerability of his form, displayed for a decade as a testament to his captor's cruelty.

The sight shocked her into movement.

“Oh,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep red. “Oh my—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just… Here.” Her hands, clumsy with a sudden, flustered urgency, went to the edges of the thin, gray cardigan she wore over her dress. “Let me give you this. To… to help cover yourself. If you wish.”

She began to shrug the garment from her shoulders, but then she stopped. The cardigan hung half-off, caught on one elbow. He was a king. He was a being of immense power. He was not a stray to be draped in her cast-off clothing without his consent. She held her breath, waiting, watching his face for any sign, any flicker of emotion that would tell her if he agreed or if he wanted nothing from her.

The moments stretched, thick and silent. Then, with an almost imperceptible slowness, he lowered his chin and lifted it once more. It was the barest hint of a nod, a gesture so slight it was more a feeling than a movement, but it was there. It was permission.

Nora gave a small, understanding nod in return and finished shrugging off her sweater. She folded it once, her hands trembling slightly, and leaned forward as far as she dared. She didn’t try to touch him, but held the soft fabric out in the space between them.

For another long pause, he simply watched it, as if it were a strange and foreign artifact. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace that seemed to defy his years of stillness, he moved. His hand, pale and elegant, lifted from his knee and reached for the sweater. His long fingers hesitated for a split second just before making contact, as if unsure of touching something so warm, so human, after a decade of isolation with nothing but cold glass for company.

His fingers finally closed around the soft wool. He took the cardigan from her, his touch feather-light. Slowly, with a quiet dignity that felt vast and unshakable, he unfolded the fabric and gently draped it over his lap. The simple gray cardigan looked impossibly small and mundane covering the King of Dreams, but in the sterile globe, it was a profound act of decency, a small warmth against an eternity of cold.

But Morpheus did not sleep. He remained seated, as still as he had been for a decade, the soft gray cardigan a small, warm weight upon his lap. His physical world was a ten-foot globe of glass and steel, but in his mind, he traversed the chaotic landscape of the last few hours.

For ten years, time had been a flat, stagnant ocean. Then, tonight, a stone was cast. Alex, the boy grown into a man defined by fear, had brought a newcomer, a variable his father had not accounted for. Morpheus had watched, unsurprised by the son’s weakness; it was a familiar vintage.

It was the girl, Nora, who had truly broken the stillness. He replayed her fury in his mind. It was not the simpering pity he had occasionally seen in Alex’s eyes. It was indignation. A white-hot, righteous anger on his behalf. ‘Stripped bare and displayed for your father’s sick amusement?’ she had cried. ‘This isn’t a secret, Alex, it’s a desecration!’ She had seen the violation of his dignity, an insult he himself had felt with the cold fury of a dying star. And her final, whispered declaration… I wouldn’t wish this on my worst nightmare. The irony was not lost on him. For the first time in a decade, a mortal had spoken to him not as a creature or a prize, but as a being worthy of respect.

He had believed he understood the depths of Roderick Burgess’s malice. He had seen it as a specific poison, directed at him—an otherworldly being, a king, a power to be broken and tamed. He had thought, with the arrogance of an immortal, that the Magus’s particular brand of viciousness was reserved for a standard far above that of mortals.

He had been wrong.

Morpheus looked at her sleeping form, at the way her brow occasionally furrowed with the phantoms of her waking fear. In this state, her mind would be taking flight into the realms he once commanded. It was an instinct older than humanity for him to reach out. Perhaps, he considered, he could offer some small comfort there, a moment of peace in her sleeping mind as repayment for her compassion.

He allowed his consciousness to shift, turning his focus inward and reaching for the unique signature of her dreaming mind.

He found nothing.

Where there should have been the vibrant tapestry of a human subconscious, there was only a smooth, impenetrable void. He pushed against it, but it was like pushing against a wall of polished obsidian. A cold, grim understanding settled upon him. The circle on the floor, the runes etched into the glass—they did not merely hold his physical form. They severed his connection to The Dreaming. As Nora was now within the circle’s confines, she too was subject to its laws. The binding had blinded him to her, locking her mind away from his sight.

And now, she was his problem. A lever. A sacrifice laid at the foot of his pride. Morpheus considered the grim reality of their shared fate. His own resolve was absolute, as fixed and unchanging as the orbits of planets. He would never give Roderick Burgess what he wanted. He would sit here for another decade, another century, another eon if he must, until his cage rusted and his captor’s bones were dust. He would endure.

But that endurance now had a price beyond his own suffering. By refusing to yield, he was almost certainly condemning the one mortal who had shown him an ounce of kindness to a slow, agonizing death. He would be forced to watch her fade, her vibrant anger and empathy extinguished by starvation and despair, all because of his unbending will. The weight of that grim, inevitable future settled upon him, as tangible and present as the soft, warm fabric resting across his lap.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The rhythmic drone of silence had been her only companion for hours, a silence so profound that the sudden, sharp bang of metal on metal felt like a physical blow. It was the changing of the guard. One of the night-shift men, weary and careless, slammed his satchel down on a small metal desk near the base of the stairs. The sound echoed in the stone chamber, jolting Nora from her restless sleep.

She startled awake with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs. She mumbled something incoherent, a protest against the rude awakening, and scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. For a few disorienting moments, the world was a blurry prison of glass and gloom, and she couldn’t remember where she was or why her neck ached so fiercely.

Then, like a photograph developing in a darkroom, the events of the previous day swam into focus: Alex’s betrayal, the terrifying rage of Roderick Burgess, the cold finality of the hidden door clicking shut. The reality of it all settled back into her bones, heavy and unwelcome.

“Well, shit,” she said, her voice a firm, dry rasp in the morning air.

Her attention, now fully sharpened, turned towards her silent companion. He was exactly as she had last seen him, a statue of pale skin and raven hair. He sat in the same position, his back unnaturally straight, his hands resting on his knees. Her gray cardigan was still neatly draped across his lap. He appeared not to have moved a single muscle all night. The thought baffled Nora; she had already shifted a dozen times in her sleep, and now, fully awake, a dull ache was settling into her own bones, a deep-seated need to stretch and move that was almost painful. How could he remain so perfectly, impossibly still?

Breaking the silence that had stretched for so many hours felt like a transgression, but the alternative—sitting in quiet dread—was worse.

She cleared her throat softly and whispered, her voice barely disturbing the air between them, “Morning.”

Morpheus slightly tilted his head toward her, a silent acknowledgment that he had heard. Well, that’s as good as a ‘good morning’ as I’m going to get, Nora thought wryly.

Suddenly, the heavy door at the top of the stairs slammed open, the sound crashing through the quiet basement. Heavy, confident footsteps began to descend.

“Well, double shit,” Nora muttered under her breath.

Roderick Burgess appeared, looking smug and refreshed. He walked briskly across the stone floor, stopping just short of the glowing rune circle that contained them. He took a moment to look them over, his eyes stopping on the simple gray cardigan that covered Morpheus’s lap. A low, depreciating chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“I see you and Nora are getting along,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Does this mean you’ve considered my offer? Are you ready to accept and free your little friend?” He glared at Morpheus, daring him to refuse, practically willing him to condemn the girl.

At Morpheus’s continued, resolute silence, Roderick’s smirk widened into a cruel grin. “No? A pity. She’ll be dead within the week, you know. Thirst will take her long before starvation does. But the choice is yours.”

As much as it pained him, a cold agony twisting in a place he had long thought numb, Morpheus was resolute. He would not give this man what he wanted. He slowly, deliberately, turned his head away from his captor to look directly at Nora. In the depths of his ancient eyes, he tried to pass on the entirety of his grim decision—the cold, hard knowledge of his refusal, the apology for what it would cost her, and a sliver of respect for the woman who would pay the price.

Nora looked at him, truly looked into that endless gaze, and she saw it all. The regret. The resolve. The shared, terrible fate. She let out a slow, steadying breath and gave him a single, firm nod. She understood.

Then, her voice ringing with a strength that shocked Roderick into silence, she said, “He’s not going to give you anything.” She turned her head, her own eyes now locking onto the Magus with fiery defiance. A slow, genuine grin spread across her face as she saw the flash of irritation in his. All his plans, his leverage, his grand torture—it was all coming to nothing.

“Try all you want,” she stated, her grin widening, “but you’re not getting shit.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Roderick’s face, but he quickly smothered it with a condescending calm. He took a step closer to the glass, leaning slightly on his silver-topped cane, his focus entirely on Nora.

“You realize you’re all by yourself,” he said smoothly, his voice like oil. “No one is going to come looking for you.” At her defiant silence, he continued, twisting the knife. “The university has been informed that you’ve had a family emergency and were forced to pull out of your classes. A tragic story. As far as the world is concerned, you have simply vanished.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Nora shot back. “You can keep me in here forever, I don’t care. But you ain’t getting shit from him,” she declared, gesturing sharply towards Morpheus.

From his silent throne, Morpheus listened. This flicker of a mortal life, this woman, was not pleading or bargaining. She was defending him. It was a fierce, protective loyalty he had not encountered from humanity in millennia. He heard her seal her own fate with his, and a profound, ancient part of him, long dormant, registered not pity, but a sliver of stark respect for her strength. She understood the cost and was willing to pay it.

“He doesn’t owe you anything,” Nora’s voice grew stronger, ringing with a fury that made Alex, standing frozen by the stairs, flinch. “You are undeserving of receiving anything from him! You think you’re so high and mighty, that you deserve riches and immortality and fame for being this… this magic sorcerer user person! But what you don’t realize is that by the end of the day, you are nothing.” She leaned towards the glass, her face contorted with disgust, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “You will get nothing.”

Nora’s words struck a nerve that a decade of divine silence never could. The calm mask shattered, revealing the sputtering, impotent fury beneath. With a guttural roar, Roderick lunged, slamming his heavy cane into the glass. The impact sent a deep, ugly thud vibrating through the sphere.

“Speak to me!” he screamed, his spittle flying. He struck the glass again and again. “SPEAK TO ME!”

“Father, stop! Please!” Alex cried, running forward and grabbing his father’s shoulders in a desperate attempt to de-escalate.

Still blind with rage, Roderick spun around and slapped his son hard across the face, the sharp crack echoing in the chamber. “And you!” he bellowed, a red mark blooming on Alex’s cheek. “You complete and utter disappointment of a son! You’re nothing like Randall! If Randall were here—”

“If Randall were here,” Alex cut him off, his voice raw with years of pain and rage, “he would hate you as much as I do!”

That was the final trigger. Completely blinded, Roderick stormed towards Alex. Acting on pure instinct, Alex pushed him back—hard. Caught off balance, Roderick stumbled, his feet tangling beneath him. He fell backward.

His head hit the thick, unyielding glass of the sphere with a sickening, wet thump, like a melon dropped on pavement.

A hot, crimson starburst appeared suddenly on the glass, directly in front of Nora. She let out a sharp, strangled gasp. She scrambling backward, her eyes wide with horror.

Roderick crumpled to the stone floor. As he lay there, a pool of dark blood began to form under his head. His eyes, wide with shock and fading life, stared up at the sphere.

“You…” he rasped, his voice a gurgling whisper. “…are never getting out of there.” His gaze shifted slightly, his curse encompassing both the silent king and the defiant girl. “Never.”

A final, rattling breath escaped his lips. And then, a ringing, absolute void filled the basement, broken only by Alex’s horrified, ragged sobs. The Magus was dead, and his final, dying curse had been for them both.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The ringing silence in the basement was absolute, a heavy blanket laid over the scene of sudden, brutal death. After a moment that stretched for an eternity, Alex began to move, his steps slow and robotic as he walked towards his father's body. He stared down at the still form, at the pool of blood spreading like a dark halo, before his gaze lifted to the two figures in the glass sphere, tears finally tracing paths through the grime on his face. 

“Alex,” Nora’s voice was a raw, desperate plea that shattered the silence. “Let us out. Please, you can let us out now. He’s… he’s gone.” 

Alex’s tear-filled gaze switched from her to Morpheus. The King of Dreams had slowly, fluidly, risen to his feet, his otherworldly grace a stark contrast to the violence that had just occurred. He held one hand on his opposite hip, keeping Nora’s small cardigan securely in place, a quiet anchor of his restored dignity. His other hand, pale and elegant, reached out towards the glass, his palm facing Alex in a gesture that was both a plea and a command. 

Mesmerized, Alex slowly raised his own hand, reaching up towards the glass from outside the sphere. Their fingertips were moments away from touching through the transparent barrier when one of the guards finally found his voice. 

“Mr. Burgess, don’t!” the man called out, his voice sharp with alarm. 

The shout seemed to snap Alex out of his trance. His eyes, wide with a fresh wave of fear and indecision, flashed to Nora. He dropped his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, the word a pathetic, weightless thing in the heavy air. He turned and, without another look, quickly walked out of the basement, his footsteps echoing his retreat. 

Morpheus’s outstretched arm slowly lowered. The brief, flickering hope extinguished. He moved back a couple of steps from the glass wall and, with that same impossible grace, sank back down to his seated position on the floor of the sphere. 

Nora watched him, her own hopes crumbling to dust. And then she saw it. His eyes, those endless pools of starlight and night, were glistening with a film of unshed tears, held back only by a will stronger than mountains. The sight of that immense, contained grief, his pain for a freedom so close yet so impossibly far, broke something in her. Overcome with a shared sorrow—for him, for herself, for their damned situation—she let out a soft, trembling sigh before moving to sit on the floor near him, closer than before, but still giving him his space. 

She looked at Morpheus, her heart aching. After several moments, he turned his head and looked back at her. He saw her stare, and he recognized it was not one of pity for a broken creature, but of pure, unadulterated empathy for a fellow prisoner. 

“I’m sorry,” Nora whispered, the two words soft but carrying the weight of a shared eternity. This apology, heartfelt and profound, held eons more feeling than the meek, self-serving one Alex had given them. 

Morpheus looked at Nora, and in the depths of his gaze, in the quiet sorrow of his unshed tears, his eyes returned the sentiment with perfect, silent clarity. I am sorry, too.  

They remained so lost in their shared sorrow that they were completely unaware of the moment the room welcomed another visitor. 

She did not use the stairs. She was simply there, a gentle presence in the oppressive space, like the first cool breeze after a storm. Death stood for a moment, taking in the scene with eyes that had witnessed the end of galaxies. She wore black jeans, a simple tank top, and the silver ankh that rested against her collarbone seemed to drink in the gloom. Her expression was one of mild, professional sympathy. 

Her appointment was with the man on the floor. 

She walked towards Roderick Burgess’s body, her steps making no sound. She knelt beside him, her gaze soft, ready to offer a kind hand to a soul that had likely known little of kindness. It was her function. 

As she knelt, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of her awareness. It came from the ornate chalk circle and the suspended glass prison, just a few feet from where the body lay. It was a feeling of immense power, a psychic wall built of will and blood and ancient, binding laws. It felt like a shout, a magical “KEEP OUT” so potent and so absolute that it was a tangible pressure against her senses. She could feel the energy radiating from the runes, recognizing the intricate, layered complexity of the spell. It was a cage, a powerful one. 

Curious, she tilted her head. But that was all she could discern. Whatever was within the circle was completely hidden from her, a perfect blind spot in the fabric of existence. She could no more see what was inside than a person could see the color of absolute darkness. The spell was designed to hide its contents from everyone, and its power was such that even she, an Endless, could not pierce its veil. 

Filing the anomaly away—a strange and potent bit of magic to be sure, but not her concern at the moment—she turned her gentle, full attention back to her duty. Her client was waiting. She leaned closer to the cooling body of Roderick Burgess, ready to find his soul and guide him into the sunless lands. 

The day after Roderick’s death was one of quiet, methodical cleanup. Men in plain clothes arrived, their faces impassive. They brought a stretcher and a body bag, and soon the Magus was gone from his own basement. Others came with buckets and brushes, and the grisly starburst of blood was scrubbed from the glass of the sphere, the dark pool erased from the stone floor until no trace remained. Through it all, the two guards remained, their presence a constant, unchanging feature of the room. 

Nora said nothing. The heartfelt apology she had offered Morpheus had been her last words, a final punctuation mark on the chaos. Now, a heavy silence had fallen between them again. Morpheus, after their brief, profound moment of shared grief, had once more retreated into himself. His eyes were closed, his head was lowered, and he was as still as the stone walls, lost in a fortress of thought she could not begin to comprehend. 

More time passed. Another guard shift changed, the new men taking their positions with a bored professionalism that was somehow more chilling than open hostility. There was no sign of Alex. The flicker of hope that he might return, that his guilt might override his fear, had long since died. 

It was sometime deep Into the second full day of their shared imprisonment that Nora began to notice something. Or rather, the distinct and impossible absence of something. 

The realization dawned on her slowly. At first, it was just a background hum of strangeness, an anomaly her mind couldn’t quite place. But as the hours continued to blur into a monotonous cycle of waking and fitful sleep, the truth became undeniable. She wasn’t hungry. The gnawing emptiness that should have been twisting her stomach simply wasn’t there. She wasn’t thirsty. Her mouth was not dry, her throat did not scrape with the raw, desperate need for water. And, most fucking thankfully, she had not felt the slightest, most insistent urge to go to the bathroom. The only bodily function her system seemed to remember was the heavy, oppressive pull of sleep. 

She did a quick, horrified calculation. She was well into her third day locked in the sphere. By now, she should at least be feeling weak, her limbs shaky from dehydration. She should be miserable. Instead, she felt… normal. Physically, at least. 

The thought was utterly, completely baffling. It was a coin spinning in the air, landing on both sides at once. 

It was a good thing, a miraculous thing, because it meant she wasn’t going to die on Roderick’s cruel timeline. The immediate, visceral terror of a slow, agonizing death by thirst had been lifted, and she was dizzy with a strange, hollow relief. 

But it was also a terrible thing. If she wasn’t dying, then what was she doing? The cage was no longer a death sentence with a deadline. It was now a question mark. An indefinite torture of solitude and silence, with no end in sight. The horror shifted from a physical certainty to a psychological abyss. How long would she be locked up? A week? A month? A year? Forever? 

The discovery that she was not subject to normal human needs sent Nora into a spiral. Over the next few days, her mind became a battleground of conflicting thoughts. The good: a giddy, hysterical relief that she wasn’t going to die a slow, painful death. The bad: a cold, creeping dread that she was now facing an eternity of this glass cage.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The endless, silent hours forced an inventory of her life, an early midlife crisis played out on a stone floor. She thought of her family, the estrangement that had grown from their disapproval of her quiet, solitary life. She thought of high school friends she had let drift away, content in her own company. She had always been a recluse, an introvert true and true, her life a simple, closed loop of classes and her apartment. She thought she had found a kindred spirit in Alex, someone else who understood the comfort of seclusion. 

Well, how fucking wrong was she. The thought was a bitter poison, replaying itself with every silent change of the guard. 

By the seventh day—one full week since the door had been sealed—she was a different person. The fear had been burned away, leaving something harder and sharper in its place. 

That’s when he came back. 

They heard the familiar sound of the basement door swinging open, followed by footsteps, but these were different from Roderick’s. They were timid, hesitant. Morpheus remained as he was, a statue of silent endurance, but Nora lifted her head, her eyes fixed on the entrance. 

Alex walked through, looking haunted. He was pale and thin, and he moved with a nervous, worried gait, his eyes wide as if he were afraid of what he might find—afraid of seeing her body crumpled in the globe. 

Nora savored the look of pure, unadulterated shock that crossed his face when he saw her, not only alive but alert, watching him with an unnerving calm. A slow, theatrical smile touched her lips. 

“Surpriiiise,” she said in a low, mocking drawl, savoring the word like a fine wine. “Thought I’d be dead by now, huh?” 

He slowly walked into the middle of the room, his gaze locked on her as if she were a ghost. “It’s… impossible,” he stammered. “There’s no way.” 

Nora’s smile widened, but it held no warmth. She channeled every ounce of her sarcastic, simmering rage into her next words. “Well, that would have been much easier on your conscience, wouldn’t it, Alex?” she said, her tone deceptively sweet. “So much tidier. But no such luck.” 

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her expression turning to one of pure, theatrical pity. “Now you have to watch me in here. Day after day, week after week, maybe even year after year. Just waiting. Waiting until you finally butch up and decide to let us free.” She paused, tilting her head as if considering a difficult puzzle. “But that might never happen, will it, Alex?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She broke her gaze from his, turning her head slightly as if speaking to Morpheus instead, dismissing Alex as if he were no longer worth addressing directly. Her voice dropped to a low, contemptuous hiss. “Because he’s spineless, pale, and completely pathetic.” 

Nora’s final, dismissive words hung in the air like a death sentence for Alex’s courage. He flinched as if struck, his face a mask of shame and terror. Without another word, he turned and fled up the stairs, the sound of the heavy door slamming shut echoing his cowardice. He was content to just leave them there. Even with his father dead, Alex was still haunted, paralyzed by a complex fear. Fear of his father’s lingering wrath, and a deeper, more profound fear of what Morpheus might do in retribution if freed. He didn’t seem to realize that the longer he left them locked away, the worse that inevitable retribution would be. 

“Whelp,” Nora said into the renewed silence, making herself comfortable on the cool glass floor. She looked over at the still, seated king. “Seems like you’re stuck with me, Sandy.” 

The Irreverent nickname hung in the air, a small, absurd spark in the oppressive gloom. 

“Don’t know how, and I don’t know why,” she continued, more to herself than to him, “but I’m not getting any older.” She lowered her head and a low chuckle, dry and full of gallows humor, escaped her lips. 

When she raised her head, she noticed that Morpheus had opened his eyes and turned his head towards her again. The stillness was broken. She could see the questions churning in those ancient, starlit eyes. His own vast knowledge would have determined that her survival was an impossibility. She should be, at the very least, a weakened, delirious husk by now, if not already dead. Her continued vitality was a violation of the natural laws he understood so well. 

Nora simply shook her head slowly, a silent answer to his unasked question: I don’t know either. 

She sighed, her gaze becoming distant as she thought aloud. “I should have went on more adventures,” she lamented softly. “At least then I’d have some cool stories to tell.” 

She then turned back towards Morpheus, her expression softening into a sad, knowing smile. “Unfortunately, I feel the next few years, or many years, I’m going to be more quiet than not.” 

She paused, the weight of that long, silent future settling between them. 

“At least we won’t be alone, though.” 

Days ticked by in a monotonous rhythm, marked only by the stoic, twice-daily changing of the guards. For Nora, this was the only clock in their silent, glass-walled world. She alternated between restless, fitful sleep on the hard floor, her own clothes a poor excuse for a mattress, and long stretches of wakefulness, staring into the gloom. 

Her gaze drifted upwards, to the grimy wooden ceiling of the basement. She began to count the nails hammered into the planks, a pointless exercise to occupy a mind stretched thin with boredom and a peculiar, suspended dread. She counted three hundred and twelve before the numbers jumbled and she lost her place. With a soft, short sigh, she gave up. 

Without conscious thought, a tune surfaced from the depths of her memory, a quiet, humming melody that barely disturbed the still air. “Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream…” 

The humming was so faint, a mere vibration in the space between them, that the guards across the room remained oblivious. But Morpheus, seated in his enduring stillness, was well within range. 

She hummed through the chorus three times before the lyrics registered in her conscious mind. Her humming cut off abruptly. A flush of embarrassment, familiar yet different from her first mortified apology, rose in her cheeks. She turned her head to look at Morpheus, a soft, wry smile touching her lips. 

“Sorry,” she whispered, the word carrying a new weight of shared history. She wasn’t just apologizing for the noise. I wonder if he’s heard that one before, she thought, the question a silent offering to her silent companion. It was an absurd, almost comical irony to be serenading the King of Dreams with a plea for a dream, a gift he could no longer give. 

 ~

Her soft smile lingered as she spoke, her voice still low but carrying with perfect clarity in the strange acoustics of the glass sphere. “You know, I don’t really remember my dreams. Not for long, anyway. They’re very vivid when I wake up, and I can remember most of what I dreamed, but then…poof. Throughout the day, all thoughts of it just disappear. I’ve had a few really odd ones, though.” 

A small laugh escaped her, a sound of self-deprecation. The absurdity of recounting her dreams to the master of them was not lost on her. Then again, she mused, he’s probably seen more absurdities than I could ever imagine. A new confidence settled in her. 

She looked at him, a genuine spark of humor in her eyes. “This one dream I had… I was trying to post a letter, but the pillar box was on the back of a tortoise, and it kept wandering off down the high street. I was chasing it past all these tall, ornate buildings, and all the men in hats and women in their smart coats were just pointing and laughing. When I finally caught up to it, the slot for the letters was a mouth, and it told me the postage was a song. I didn’t have a song, so I started humming one, and all the notes flew out of my mouth as tiny, colorful birds. The birds were beautiful, but they were all flying straight for the open windows of a passing double-decker bus. I felt I had to rescue them, so I leaped for the side of the bus, but when my hands touched it, the whole bus turned into a giant, wobbly gelatin mold, with all the little birds suspended inside. The tortoise, who was now wearing a tiny conductor's hat, tipped his hat to me and then just melted into a puddle on the pavement.” 

The retelling of the dream, a cascade of connected nonsense spoken aloud in the grim silence of the basement, struck her as utterly hilarious. The tension and fear that had been her constant companions for days finally broke, and she was overcome with a fit of laughter. It was a deep, belly laugh that left her breathless, tears streaming from her eyes. 

As her laughter finally subsided, she wiped an errant tear from her cheek and her gaze locked with Morpheus’s once more. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. For the first time since she had been thrown into this cage, the endless, starlit pools of his eyes held a different emotion. It wasn’t pity or sorrow or rage. It was a glimmer of something akin to amusement, a faint warmth that softened the edges of his ancient gaze. 

A profound realization dawned on Nora. Perhaps, in sharing the ridiculous tapestry of her subconscious, she had given him a small piece of what had been ripped away from him. He, the architect of dreams, had been severed from his own realm. For all the time he’d been locked up, unable to touch the sleeping minds of the world, her silly, nonsensical story was a small respite, a fleeting connection to the kingdom he had lost. 

And as she looked at him, a silent understanding passing between them, Morpheus, King of Dreams, One of the Endless, felt a flicker of something he had not felt In a long, long time. Thank you , he thought, the sentiment a quiet, profound wave of gratitude in the vast emptiness of his confinement. Thank you for sharing your dream with me.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

A quiet moment passed, the air settling after her laughter. Nora’s expression turned thoughtful once more. “You know,” she began, her voice softer this time, “that one reminds me of another dream. A really vivid one I had when I was just a kid.” 

She looked at him, as if sharing a secret from long ago. “I dreamt I was dancing in a grand ballroom, but my partner was a lamppost that kept whispering terrible poetry to me. The floor was a chessboard, and with every step we took, the black squares would fall away into a starry abyss. We had to keep moving onto the white squares to stay safe. I got distracted for a moment by the lamppost’s awful rhymes and I took a wrong step, onto a black square. It vanished instantly and I was falling. 

It was utterly dark for a second, then suddenly I plunged out of the blackness into a bright, impossibly blue sky, filled with big, fluffy white clouds. It was breathtaking. As I tumbled through the air, I could see, just faintly in the far, hazy distance, a colossal bridge. It was incredible, arching over a wide river of the clearest blue water, and the whole thing was being held up by two giant, sculpted stone hands. I felt like I was falling towards it for an age, but then I plunged downwards again, right through a shimmering pool of water that appeared in the middle of the sky. I landed with a soft thud back on the ballroom floor, which, for some reason, was now covered in a thick layer of white feathers.” 

Nora shook her head, a small, wondrous smile on her face at the memory of the sheer strangeness of it all. “I must have been a very odd child.” 

She looked back at Morpheus, but his expression silenced the witty remark on her tongue. The flicker of recognition in his eyes was sharper this time, a flash of distant lightning in the depths of his gaze. It was a look of profound, ancient memory, but it was different now—less like a fresh wound and more like a faded photograph. 

He realized, with a clarity that pierced through the gloom of his long imprisonment, that he remembered this. Not her specifically, but the fleeting touch of a child’s dreaming mind, briefly brushing against the borders of his realm. Before he was captured, before this glass cage, she had been one of the countless sleepers whose dreams he watched over. She had caught a true glimpse of his kingdom in her slumber. 

~

The brief connection forged by the shared memory of a dream slowly faded back into the familiar, heavy silence. More days bled into one another, marked only by the stoic changing of the guards. More fitful nights were spent on the hard, unyielding glass, with Morpheus once again a motionless statue of silent endurance. 

Time stretched and blurred, but Nora kept a rough count. It had now been over a month since the hidden door clicked shut, sealing her fate. And with the passing of that milestone, another peculiarity caught her attention, another piece of the impossible puzzle of her new existence. 

Her period hadn't come. 

Like her hunger, her thirst, and all the other mundane, insistent demands of a mortal body, this too had simply vanished. It seemed that every part of her physical self had been frozen in time, suspended in the same strange stasis as her companion. It’s another thing I don’t have to worry about, she thought, the realization a small, strange relief in the vast, unending sea of her imprisonment. 

The days had developed a rhythm of their own, a monotonous cycle of wakefulness and sleep, driven not by the sun but by the sheer, crushing weight of boredom. In the hazy period that passed for midday, with the guards standing like statues outside the glass, Nora was dozing. 

She shifted in her sleep, seeking a new position on the unforgiving floor. Her hand slipped on the fabric of her own dress, and with a sudden, jarring lack of support, her elbow slammed into the glass beneath her. A hard, sharp thud echoed inside the sphere, the sound disproportionately loud in the silence. 

Nora gasped, her eyes flying open in shock as a bolt of fiery, electric pain shot up her arm. “Oowww,” she groaned, a low, drawn-out sound of pure misery. She instinctively grabbed her injured elbow with her other hand, rolling over onto her stomach to brace against the lingering throb. She tucked her arms underneath her stomach, her forehead resting on the cool glass floor as she waited for the tingling agony to fade. “That hurt.” 

She hadn’t realized that in turning over to wallow in her self-pity, she had inadvertently shuffled much closer to Morpheus. Her body was now just inches from his bent knee. As the last of the sharp, shocking pain—because there is absolutely nothing funny about hitting your funny bone—finally began to recede, she felt a light, steady pressure against the middle of her back. 

She tensed for a fraction of a second, every muscle going rigid, before slowly turning her head to look toward him. It was his hand. He had reached out, breaking his decades-long stillness, to offer some small semblance of comfort. His face was a mask of careful neutrality, but one dark eyebrow was tweaked slightly upwards. In his ancient, starlit eyes, she could see a flicker of humor at her plight, but beneath it was the clear, silent question: Are you okay?  

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. ”Yes,” she whispered, her voice raspy from sleep. “I’m okay. It was more of a shock than anything.” She met his gaze, a genuine smile touching her lips. “But thank you.” 

He slowly pulled back his hand. His eyebrow lowered, but the faint glimmer of humor in his eyes remained, now mingled with a clear, quiet relief that she was okay. Reassured by the silent exchange, Nora carefully turned, laying on her side with her front now facing him, and with a final, soft sigh, she closed her eyes to continue her nap. 

Even after he had initiated that brief touch, Nora remained acutely aware of his space. She was a guest in his solitary confinement, and she had no intention of crossing a boundary he wasn’t comfortable with. Some nights, in her fitful sleep, she’d end up curled closer to the edge of the glass sphere. Other times, she would wake up much nearer to him, not touching, but well within arm’s reach. 

And no matter where she slept, her dreams remained her own. The impenetrable wall of the cage’s magic still blocked him from reaching her subconscious. He could feel it, that vibrant, chaotic world just beyond his grasp. All he could do was skirt along the very forefront of her mind, a space that was mostly empty and quiet as she slept. It was something, but it wasn’t enough. 

But it had given him a theory. An idea he had been turning over for weeks, ever since she had described her dreams to him. He was hesitant to test it, not wanting to truly frighten her. Although, a small, dark part of him, a part starved for any kind of amusement, admitted it would be quite funny to see her reaction. 

One day, after she had awoken from another semi-restless sleep, she stretched her arms high above her head, rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes. As she sat up to get comfortable, her back straight and her legs crossed, he decided to try it. He theorized that while her dreaming mind was sealed off, her conscious, outermost mind might be accessible. Not to read, but perhaps… to project. 

With a thread of focus he had not used in years, he aimed a single, simple thought directly at her. 

Hello . 

The foreign greeting bloomed in her head, clear as a bell but belonging to no voice she had ever heard with her ears. Nora damn near jumped out of her skin. Her head whipped around, her eyes wide, searching the dim basement for the source of the disembodied sound. Once her heart resumed a semi-normal rhythm in her chest, she focused, her mind racing. The guards were silent statues. She was alone. Alone with a being of otherworldly power. 

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto Morpheus. The question was so brazenly obvious on her face that it was almost a shout. Her eyebrows were raised nearly to her hairline as her thoughts tumbled over one another. Was that you? Ain’t no way that was him. I’m imagining things. I have to be.  

Her internal denial was cut short by a sound that resonated not in the air, but directly within her skull. A deep, rumbling chuckle. 

Morpheus was laughing at her. And she could hear it in her head. 

What the fuck?

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The thought was so clear in her head, a stark contrast to the deep, rumbling amusement that had just echoed through it. She couldn’t believe it. One, he was communicating with her. Two, he was laughing at her. How dare he! And three… holy shit, does he have a nice voice. 

I mean, it was somewhat to be expected, she reasoned, her thoughts racing. As the King of Dreams, of course he would have a voice that could lull you to sleep. But God damn, did it also have to be so seductive? 

The chuckling in her head tailored off as he seemed to focus, the amusement replaced by a new, direct thought. 

It appears I was wrong about not also reading your thoughts as well as projecting them.  

The projected sentence was laced with so much dry humor that the meaning hit Nora like a physical blow. He had heard her. He had heard her internal debate. He had heard her comment about how good his voice sounded. 

Nora was now, and would forever be, utterly mortified. She wanted the glass floor to swallow her whole. Her own internal thoughts had betrayed her. 

As if sensing her desire to cease existing, another thought, softer this time, brushed against her mind. 

You do not need to worry. It is only the thoughts you are thinking hard about.  

That doesn’t help at all , Nora thought with a fresh wave of embarrassment. She wasn’t consciously trying to think hard about how his voice sounded; the thought had just erupted on its own. It seemed her mind had a mind of its own, and it was currently determined to humiliate her. 

She pushed the mortification aside and focused her attention on Morpheus, trying to gather her thoughts into a single, direct line. She pictured the question in her mind, concentrating on it, and aimed it at him. How long have you been able to do this? She hoped it reached him with the same startling clarity his thoughts had reached her. 

His voice, that very same deep and resonant voice, answered in her mind. It is something I have theorized for a while, but I have only just now attempted it. The guards are forced to take stimulants to stay awake, yet you are able to sleep in my presence without worry. I am unable to access your subconscious while you sleep, but your outer mind… it seems that remains accessible. Morpheus explained his theory, the concepts of minds and magic flowing into her head with perfect lucidity. 

Nora nodded along as if, yes, absolutely, all of this made perfect sense. A mortal trapped in a magical cage communicating telepathically with an ancient, otherworldly being. A perfectly normal Tuesday. 

She paused for a moment, then looked him directly in the eye, gathering her sincerity and projecting it with all her might. Well, considering everything, it's an honor to meet you, regardless of the circumstances. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. I’m Nora.  

Morpheus’s face remained a carefully sculpted mask, revealing nothing. But his eyes were a different story. They had always been the betrayers of his stoic façade, and now that Nora knew what to look for, they were as easy to read as a book. 

His voice filled her mind again, formal and vast. Hello, Nora. I am Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares.  

He paused, a flicker of hesitation that was not a sound but a palpable silence in her head. When his thoughts resumed, the grand titles were gone, replaced by something far more personal. I am sorry that you are trapped here.  

The connection between them was, in theory, just a projection of thoughts, a string of silent words sent from his mind to hers. But what Nora felt was so much more. She didn’t just hear the apology; she felt it. It was a wave of emotion that washed over her, ancient and profound. It wasn’t pity. It was a deep, soul-heavy sorrow, the regret of a king who had inadvertently brought ruin upon an innocent. 

A wave of her own sincerity pushed back against his sorrow. Thank you, but this is not your fault. She thought the words with a fierce clarity. All of this , she projected, gesturing with a small, frustrated wave of her hand to the glass walls and the gloomy basement, is because of Roderick Burgess. He’s the one who chose to capture you. He’s the one who locked you here and he’s the one that refused to set you free. Him adding me into the equation as another incentive to get you to give him what he wants is, again, on him. Everything about this is Roderick Burgess’s fault. And then eventually Alex’s. But absolutely none of it is because of you.  

She paused, letting her conviction sink in before continuing. I don’t regret my decision. Burgess wasn’t going to get squat from you, and I definitely wasn’t going to help. Even after everything, and somewhat knowing what is to come, I don’t regret it. I don’t know how long we’ll be down here, but at least now we can talk. So that’s a good thing.  

Nora ended on a hopeful note, a small, stubborn spark in the oppressive darkness. But her last sentence, her casual acceptance of an unknown but lengthy future, brought a different thought to the forefront of Morpheus’s mind. She spoke of the future as if it were a guarantee, an endless stretch of time. She was not wrong, but she shouldn’t be. Her mortal body had been without food or water for over a month. The fact that she was not a withered husk was an impossibility, a flagrant violation of the natural laws he knew so well. It was an anomaly he had been observing, but had not yet addressed. Now, with the bridge of communication open between them, he decided to bring it up. 

Nora, his thought came, measured and deliberate. He paused again, a habit of his, she was learning, that gave his words a certain weight. I have been thinking about the peculiars of your survival.  

Another pause, this one filled with a thoughtful, analytical quality. The circle on the floor… the runes painted within it were designed to sever my connection to my realm, The Dreaming. It is an immensely powerful piece of magic, a wall built of will and blood. My theory is that by being brought inside its confines, you have become subject to its laws as well. It has not frozen you in time, as you still think and feel, but it appears to have… paused your physical body's needs. It is why you do not hunger or thirst.  

He let her absorb that before continuing with the final, crucial piece of his hypothesis. The spell was designed to hide its contents from everyone, to be a perfect blind spot in the fabric of existence. It locks me, an Endless, away from my kingdom. I believe it also prevents my siblings from perceiving what is within. My sister, Death, would have come for you days after you were trapped in here. The fact that she has not… it suggests that even she cannot pierce this veil. The circle that cages me is also, in its own way, keeping you alive.  

Nora let his explanation sink in, the sheer, impossible logic of it settling around her like a strange, heavy blanket. 

Huh. Okay , she thought, the words feeling small and inadequate in the face of such cosmic reasoning . Well, that’s true… I hope you haven’t gotten tired of me yet, because it seems, based on that thought process, that I’ll be here with you until you escape.  

Morpheus looked at her after the thought landed, his gaze steady. It quietly amazed him. After everything that had happened—the betrayal, the violence, being sealed in a glass prison to await an unknown fate—she still found a sliver of a bright side. Yes, she was trapped here for the foreseeable future, her life now inextricably tied to his own captivity and eventual freedom. Yet, her immediate reaction was one of optimistic companionship. She seemed genuinely happy that now they could communicate, that he, Lord Morpheus, would not have to endure the silence alone anymore. 

He could feel the sincerity of her relief, and it was directed more at him than at herself. She seemed happier that he would have another person to share the torment with, no matter how sad that sounded. It was an empathy so profound and selfless it almost defied belief. 

The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t empty or oppressive anymore; it was filled with the lingering amazement of their new connection. Nora couldn’t stop thinking about it, realizing with a jolt that she had likely heard more from him in the last hour than any other living person had in over a decade.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The next few days became a quiet torrent of shared stories. Nora recounted more of her strange, nonsensical dreams, and Morpheus, in turn, began to unfurl the tapestry of his own realm. 

The bridge you saw , he thought to her one afternoon, his mental voice a calm, steady presence. The one held by stone hands. It is the entrance to my palace.  

Nora’s fascination was a palpable thing. You have a palace?  

It is the heart of The Dreaming . He went on to describe it, painting pictures in her mind of impossible turrets that pierced swirling, nebulous skies, of a library containing every book ever dreamed of but never written, and of the great Gates of Horn and Ivory, which separated truth from illusion. I carved the gates myself, in the beginning.  

You carved them? By hand? She thought, astounded. 

He even spoke of his subjects, his creations. He described Lucienne, his faithful, ever-dutiful librarian; Mervyn, the pumpkin-headed handyman who complained eternally but kept the very fabric of dreams in repair; the tragic brothers, Cain and Abel, forever acting out their own story in the House of Secrets and the House of Mystery. He shared glimpses of the dreams and nightmares he had sculpted, of tales that had shaped mortal cultures and fears that had guarded them from folly. Nora was enthralled, listening with an unyielding focus, delighted to be the sole audience to the wonders he had made. 

Feeling the trust he had placed in her, Nora began to share parts of herself she had never spoken of to anyone. She told him of her family and the rift that had formed when she graduated high school, their disapproval of her quiet, academic ambitions a wall between them. 

They wanted me to be… louder, I suppose. More ambitious in a way they understood. A secretary, perhaps. Or a socializing wife.  

She explained her solitary nature, how friendships from school had simply faded away, not out of malice, but from her own contentedness with being alone. Her decision to study history at university was born from that, a fascination with the past and a hope for a career where she could research and study on her own, away from the draining demands of constant interaction with other people. 

Those days of shared stories turned into weeks, and the weeks bled into months. The grim reality of their cage never changed, but the atmosphere within it had transformed entirely. As more time passed, Morpheus felt a strange, unfamiliar sentiment solidify within him. He had found a friend. In the darkest, most helpless time of his long existence, he had found an someone to confide in. 

The irony is not lost on me , he thought one day, observing her as she dozed . To be so imprisoned, yet to speak more of myself than I have in millennia of freedom.  

For her part, Nora had never shared so much of herself with a single person. And despite the terror, the uncertainty, and the cold glass floor, she found herself thinking, as she watched the silent, eternal king beside her, The days don’t seem so hard now.  

The one thing that consistently broke the quiet rhythm of their days was Alex. His visits became a grim, predictable ritual. He would descend the stone steps, his face aging and growing more weary with each passing year, and stop just short of the chalk circle. Every damn time, it was the same offer, a plea for his own safety. 

“If I let you out,” he’d begin, his voice trembling slightly, “you have to promise. You have to promise you won’t harm me. Or anyone in this house.” 

He's got a damn script he reads by , Nora would think to Morpheus, a private, sour commentary. 

And every single time, Morpheus remained silent, a seated king whose only response was the cold, ancient fury brewing in his eyes. With Morpheus refusing to acknowledge the pathetic display, Nora took it upon herself to answer for him, her spoken words a strange and evolving tapestry of curses. 

Visit #1 (The First Year) 

Her anger was still hot and sharp. As Alex finished his plea, her voice lashed out like a whip. 

“Do you really think he makes deals? You trapped a god, you idiot, and you ask him not to be angry? I hope that every time you close your eyes to sleep, you see his face, and you feel even a fraction of the dread you deserve.” 

Visit #2 (Several Years In) 

The anger had cooled into a more creative, simmering contempt. Alex looked tired. Nora wanted him to be uncomfortable. 

“Back again?” she called out, her voice flat. “I hope that every time you go to take a drink of water, it tastes faintly of sour milk. Just faintly. Enough to make you question your own senses. And I hope that every time you find a comfortable position in bed, you get an unbearable itch in the middle of your back where you can’t possibly reach it.” 

Visit #3 (The Fifth Year) 

Nora had started getting theatrical with it. She saw Alex flinch as she cleared her throat, readying herself. 

“Welcome back, Alex,” she said, her voice laced with a pleasantness that was deeply unnerving. “I was just thinking about you. I hope that every pair of socks you ever own is inexplicably damp in the toe area. I hope every book you ever read has the second-to-last page ripped out. And I hope you develop a sudden, intense allergy to your own self-pity, so that every time you start feeling sorry for yourself, you break out in excruciatingly itchy hives shaped like tiny, judgmental teacups.” 

Visit #4 (The Tenth Year) 

Nora’s curses had become more esoteric, blending the mundane with the existential. 

“Alex,” she said, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “I hope that for the rest of your life, you have an eyelash in your eye that you can never get out. Not painfully, just… always there. A constant, nagging reminder. And I hope that in your moments of greatest quiet, you are haunted by the ringing of a telephone that is never answered, for a call you desperately wish you had made.” 

Alex would flinch at the venom in her voice, his face paling at her bizarrely specific curses. He would stammer, see the unyielding, silent rage in Morpheus’s eyes, and flee back up the stairs, leaving them once again to their shared, silent world. 

Two decades. Morpheus had been locked away for twenty years now, and Nora for ten of them. In that time, they had watched through the glass as Alex aged, but not as a normal person would have. The years had been kinder to him, his hair only now beginning to gray, the lines on his face softer than they should be. It seemed that being in the constant vicinity of an Endless, even a caged one, had slightly slowed his aging process. 

Yay, even more time with him , Nora thought sarcastically to Morpheus. 

They were in one of their more usual positions now. Morpheus sat, as still as stone, the familiar gray sweater still resting on his lap. Nora, however, had her head on one of his thighs, a pillow she had grown accustomed to over the long years. She stared up at the grimy ceiling above the glass sphere, rambling random thoughts to him to pass the endless time. 

Okay, another question , she projected. If a giraffe were to wear trousers, would they go over just its back two legs, or all four? And if it wore a shirt, would the collar be at the base of its long neck, or all the way at the top by its head? She paused, imagining it. That would look odd, don’t you think? She thought, raising an eyebrow up at him. 

Even after all this time, her thoughts could still confuse him, but it was a refreshing confusion. He marveled at the sheer range of her mind, from their deep chats about fate and regret to these sporadic, whimsical questions that just popped out of her head. He shared some of his own seemingly weird creations in return—the Gling-Glang, a creature made of living, sweet-smelling moss that hummed lullabies, and the Fiddlesticks, spindly, insect-like beings that wept tears of pure honey when they were happy. He spoke of them with a wistful tone, a quiet hope that they still resided in The Dreaming. 

Inspired, Nora shared an idea for a new creature. Oh! What about a creature that looks like a fluffy, six-legged capybara, but its fur is the color of a swirling rainbow soap bubble? And it doesn’t walk, it just sort of… bounces. And when it gets excited, instead of barking, it sneezes out shimmering bubbles that smell like fresh bread and play a tiny, tinkling melody before they pop.  

She giggled to herself at the thought, a bright, happy sound, and covered her mouth with her hand. In that moment, watching the genuine joy on her face, Morpheus was so overwhelmed with a profound thankfulness that she was there, so honored that she chose to share the beautiful, strange contents of her mind with him, that he moved. 

For the first time, he acted without conscious thought or a specific purpose. He simply lifted his hand and began to run his fingers through her hair, a slow, gentle, repetitive motion. He didn't seem to realize he was even doing it, his ancient eyes fixed on her face, lost in a decade of shared thoughts. 

Nora’s giggle quieted. She felt the unexpected, tender touch and looked up at him. She saw the distant look in his eyes, the unconscious movement of his hand. A soft smile graced her lips, and she said nothing, thought nothing. She simply enjoyed the moment, letting the quiet, impossible tenderness unfold.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Several more years passed, the world outside aging in ways they could only guess at. Their own world remained a ten-foot sphere of glass and quiet companionship. 

Can you tell me about your family? Nora’s thought was soft, almost hesitant, as she looked up at him from her usual place, her head resting comfortably on his lap. His fingers, which had found their familiar rhythm over the years, never paused their gentle stroking through her hair. 

He took a moment, not of reluctance, but to gather the eons of complicated history into something that could be understood by a mortal mind, no matter how clever. 

We are seven , his thought began, the words imbued with a sense of ancient finality. But before us, there were our parents: Night and Time. They are endless in a way that we are not. Primal forces from which we were born.  

He started with the eldest. First is Destiny. He is the oldest and most bound of us all. He is blind, and chained to the Book of Destiny, which contains all that was, is, and ever will be written within its pages. He does not cause things to happen; he is simply the record of them. He walks his garden, reading his book, and that is all.  

Then there is Death. A different quality entered his thoughts, something warmer, closer. She is not what mortals fear. She is gentle. She meets all living things twice—once at the beginning, to welcome them to life, and once at the end. She was here, in this room, for Roderick Burgess. But the circle’s magic hid us from her sight.  

After Death, there is myself. He offered no further explanation of his own role, as she had come to know it intimately. 

Then come the younger ones. There is Destruction, though he is no longer among us. He is the prodigal, the one who abandoned his realm and his duties centuries ago. He saw what humanity would do with reason and fire and chose to no longer be a part of it. He believed in creation, not just its opposite.  

And then there are the twins. His thoughts seemed to cool, a hint of old friction entering the connection. Desire is my… difficult sibling. They are beautiful and cruel, and embody every form of want and craving a mortal can feel. Desire delights in games, especially those played at the expense of others. Their twin is Despair. She is the queen of her own gray, misty realm, surrounded by rats and mirrors. She finds solace only in the utter misery of others, a sorrow so complete it leaves no room for anything else.  

The youngest, he concluded , a note of sadness in his thoughts, is Delirium. She was not always so. Once, she was Delight. Something happened, long ago, that changed her. Now her thoughts are a flurry of scattered colors, her form shifts without notice, and her realm is a chaotic madness of fleeting ideas and forgotten questions. She is… difficult to speak with, but she is not cruel.  

He finished, and the silence returned, now populated by the vast, strange shapes of his six siblings. His fingers continued their slow, steady path through Nora’s hair. 

Wow , Nora thought, trying to imagine a family made of concepts and cosmic power. Do you see them often? She wondered to him. 

The steady rhythm of his fingers stroking her hair was the only answer for a long moment. He seemed to be considering the very nature of the question. 

Often is a mortal measurement of time, born of fleeting lives, his thought finally came. We do not gather for sport or sentiment. Our meetings are not… familial, in the way you would understand. We convene when our functions intersect, when a great event requires our assembly…  

He paused, a different quality entering his thoughts, something like a weary memory. Although, Death would insist on a family dinner every couple of hundred years or so, for us to stay updated on each other’s affairs. Inevitably, those gatherings would end with Desire attempting to, as Death likes to put it, ‘ruffle my feathers’.  

Another, heavier silence settled between them. 

But no, Nora. Even with those rare occasions, we largely kept to our own realms. And for the last two decades, I have seen none of them. They do not know where I am.  

Nora was quiet for a long time, absorbing the sheer scale of his family. 

It has been years since I saw my own family, too. Before all this, she thought, a note of melancholy entering her mind. Not since I moved out after graduation. We are… different, in our own ways.  

She processed his descriptions, her thoughts turning them over like stones in her hand. Your brother, Destiny… it sounds like a lonely existence, to only ever see what must be and never be surprised. And Death… people have her so wrong, don’t they? To think of her as a terror instead of a comfort.  

Her mind settled on the prodigal. But it is Destruction I keep thinking about. You said he left because he believed in creation, not just its opposite… but did he never think that from destruction comes creation?  

Her thoughts gathered momentum, forming a clear, passionate argument. Things need to be taken apart before they can be put together again, reformed. When a forest burns down, it is destroyed, yes. But from the ashes and the soil beneath, a new forest grows, stronger than before. Mountains do not simply appear; the ground must break and shift and destroy what was there to push them into the sky.  

She looked up at him, her gaze intense even though her words were only in his mind. He left because he saw what humanity would become. More people, more greed, weapons more destructive than any before. But isn’t that why he is needed most? We need that controlling aspect. We need things to end, to be cleared away, so that other things can begin. By abandoning his post, he may be allowing for a greater ruin than any he could have presided over.  

Morpheus froze, not just his body, but his entire being, caught by the weight of her argument. He replayed her thoughts in his mind: From destruction comes creation. Things must be taken apart before they can be put together again.  

It was a perspective so fundamentally contrary to his brother’s grand, dramatic departure, yet so brutally, elementally true. Destruction had seen only the end of things, the pain and the ruin. He had not, perhaps, considered his role as a necessary clearing, a controlled burn to allow for new growth. He had seen himself as an agent of endings, not as a catalyst for beginnings. 

Morpheus thought of the world he had left behind, of the rising tides of human ambition and the terrible new sciences of war they were creating. Had his brother’s absence allowed these things to fester, unchecked? By refusing to be the storm that clears the forest, had he simply allowed the rot to spread, the old trees to choke out the new life until the entire wood was diseased? It was a chilling thought. A necessary force, removed from the cosmic equation. The universe, like any system, requires balance. In his high-minded pity for humanity, his brother had unbalanced it. 

The silence stretched, long and profound, before his thought finally returned to her, carrying a new quality of startling introspection. 

Perhaps you are right, he projected, the thought slow and deliberate, heavy with the weight of a dawning realization. That is… a refreshing viewpoint on it. One I had not considered.  

A moment of comfortable silence passes, the weight of their conversation about cosmic forces settling around them. Then, a new thought, lighter and more curious, bubbles up from Nora. 

There’s another thing I’ve been wondering about, she projects, her mental voice tinged with a playful coyness . For quite some time, actually.  

Morpheus looks down at her, his expression impassive, but he raises a single, dark eyebrow in question. 

That’s all the prompting she needs. In a sudden movement that disrupts years of quiet stillness, Nora sits straight up, turning to face him fully. He seems a bit shocked at her abruptness, his hand that had been idly carding through her hair freezing in position just above where her head used to be. 

I have been wondering for years now, she thinks to him, pausing to let the gravity of her next words sink in, a stark contrast to their silly nature. What your hair feels like.  

She continues, her thoughts tumbling out now that the initial question is free. Honestly, it seems to defy gravity for one thing, but it also looks like incredibly fucking soft. Her focus turns inward for a second, her thoughts rambling to herself more than to him. Like, would my fingers even register it? Is your hair that soft?   

She concludes her internal debate and looks back at Morpheus, only to see him staring at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated incredulity. 

He slowly, carefully, projects his thought, as if handling a strange and delicate object. You… he pauses, processing. …want to touch my hair?  

He continues to stare, his ancient, starlit eyes wide with disbelief. Nora simply looks back at him as if he is the sun, a brilliant, beaming smile spreading across her face, her expression a clear and joyful challenge, daring him to say no. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty please, Nora practically begged him, her mental voice full of an earnest, pleading whine. Her hands clasped together in front of her as if in prayer. Please. Put my curious little soul to rest.  

Morpheus stared down at her, his ancient eyes watching her dramatic display. He let out a long, slow, internal sigh, the sound of millennia of patience being tested by this one, impossible mortal. He let the moment stretch, allowing her to stew in the very real possibility that he might say no, just to watch the hope and desperation war on her face. Finally, deciding she’d been tormented long enough, he gave a single, slow nod. 

The resounding YES! that screeched through their mental link was so sharp and loud it almost made him flinch physically. Nora was practically vibrating with happiness, a pure, unfiltered wave of ecstatic joy flooding the connection between them. 

From her upright position, she firmly patted her thighs. 

All right, lay down, let’s go, come on, we haven’t got all day, she thought imperiously, her excitement making her forgetful. She paused, the flaw in her logic hitting her a second later. A giggle echoed in his mind. Okay, so just ignore that last part.  

A long-suffering sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of ages, echoed in Nora’s mind. But Morpheus acquiesced to her demand. He shifted, his movements fluid and graceful even in the confined space, and laid back, resting his head on her thighs. Once settled, he closed his eyes as if preparing himself for an ordeal. 

Nora took a deep, steadying breath, a giddy excitement fluttering in her chest, and then released it. With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, she reached out and gently, tentatively, touched his hair. She slowly carded her fingers through the dark, chaotic strands just once before she gasped. 

Holy shit, it’s so fucking soft, she thought, the words a silent, reverent explosion in her mind, meant for herself but shared with him nonetheless. 

Of course, he heard every bit of it. In response, a low, resonant hum of pure contentment vibrated back through their mental link, a feeling more than a sound. 

With the gentle, rhythmic feeling of Nora’s fingers carding through his hair, Morpheus slipped from simple relaxation into a deep, meditative rest, a profound stillness settling over him. 

In the quiet of his mind, he felt her thought, soft as a whisper. Thank you.  

Nora knew this wasn’t just about his hair feeling soft. This was an enormous show of trust, an act far more intimate for him than it would be for anyone else. She had learned over their long years together that casualness and intimacy were not the same for Morpheus. For a being so ancient, so powerful, and so profoundly alone, to willingly place himself in a position of such gentle vulnerability was a gesture more significant than a thousand conversations. Running her fingers through his hair was, to him, a profound acceptance. 

She understood this completely. A deep, quiet warmth spread through her chest, and she was touched, more than she could say, that Morpheus felt comfortable enough, safe enough, to allow her this.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The world outside their glass prison spun on, its progress marked only by the monotonous routine of their captors. The twice-daily changing of the guards became a silent clock, and the slow evolution of their uniforms and haircuts—from the sharp cuts of the early years to the looser styles of a new era—was the only calendar they had. 

Look at that mustache , Nora thought one day, observing a new, younger guard. Must be at least the seventies now. Or eighties? Time gets a bit blurry.  

It Is an unfortunate follicular choice, regardless of the decade, Morpheus replied, his mental voice dry as dust. 

Alex rarely descended the stone steps anymore. The years had solidified his fear into a permanent, intractable policy. He was now utterly convinced that they would never agree to his terms, and his terror of what Morpheus would do if freed had paralyzed him completely. They heard second-hand, through the careless chatter of the guards, that he continued to live in seclusion in the house above, unnaturally long-lived due to his proximity to the cage. He was an old man now, confined to a wheelchair with a full-time nurse to see to his needs. 

Meanwhile, within the sphere, Morpheus and Nora had grown closer than two beings could possibly be. Their lives, one mortal and paused, the other immortal and shackled, had intertwined completely. They could usually be found in one of two positions: her head resting on his lap as he sat watch, or his head resting on hers as he found a brief, dreamless respite. It was the only comfort they could offer, a small island of physical contact in an ocean of isolation. 

At this point, Nora had shared every corner of her life with him, happy to have finally found someone who would not judge her solitary nature or her quiet ambitions. In turn, Morpheus had found in her an anchor, someone whose mortal perspective could help settle internal debates he’d harbored for eons. 

I was too rigid with her. With Nada , he thought one afternoon, the memory of a past love rising unbidden, sharp and painful. She defied me, a mortal queen who loved me but would not be my bride. She feared what it meant to be my queen, to leave her people and her world. My pride… My pride demanded I make an example of her. I condemned her to Hell for ten thousand years for the crime of hurting me.  

The confession hung In the space between them, heavy with millennia of regret. 

You were hurt, Nora thought back gently, sensing the ancient, burning shame that fueled the memory. And you acted out of that hurt. It doesn’t mean it was right, but it doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you capable of making a mistake.  

She let that thought settle before continuing, her own mind carefully untangling the threads of his pain. I think… I think the problem is that you see it as a king who was defied. But that isn’t the whole truth, is it? You're an Endless. You must feel things on a scale I can’t possibly imagine. Your love, your pride, your hurt… it must be like a star collapsing. Of course it’s destructive.  

She shifted, arranging her thoughts with a clarity that came from years of listening. But she wasn’t just a subject who disobeyed. She was a woman who loved you but was afraid. She was afraid of your world, of your power, of what loving you would mean for her and her people. You saw her fear as a personal rejection of you, not as a rejection of a life she couldn’t possibly lead.  

This was the heart of it, the thought she had been circling for a long time . You let your function as the King of Dreams override your role as the person who loved her. You judged her with the unbending law of your realm, not with the heart of a being in love. You punished her for being mortal, for having mortal fears.  

Morpheus was utterly still, the steady rhythm of his breathing the only sign he was even present. No one had ever spoken to him—thought to him—like this. Not with condemnation or rivalry, but with incisive, compassionate logic. 

You can’t undo the ten thousand years, Nora continued softly, her thought a gentle hand on a deep wound. The pain is real, for both of you. But ‘fixing it’ isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about what you do when you are free. It's about understanding why you did it, so you don’t carry that same pride forward. When you are free, you can find her. Not as a king coming to collect what is his, or as a god offering a pardon. But as someone who made a terrible, terrible mistake and wants to atone. The first step isn’t freeing her from Hell. The first step is freeing yourself from the pride that put her there.  

Her words were a key turning In a lock he had forgotten existed. For the first time, he felt the unbearable weight of his mistake not as a stain on his honor as a king, but as a profound, personal failing. A failure of love. A failure to see the person before him Instead of the subject at his feet. It was a truth so painful it made the glass cage feel insignificant, but it was also, strangely, a relief. It was a path forward. She had, in the space of a few thoughts, given him a map through the hell of his own making. 

What if there was a nightmare that wasn’t scary, just… deeply sad? Nora thought one afternoon, watching a dust mote dance in a stray sunbeam. Like the feeling of having lost your keys, but for your whole life?  

Morpheus considered this, his own mind turning the concept over. The Anxious Forgetfulness. It would reside in the halls of lost things. A useful, cautionary tale. I will create it when I am free.  

His serious acceptance of her melancholy idea made her smile. Okay, new one, you ready? A bit less profound this time.  

He gave a slow, Internal sigh of assent, which she had come to interpret as his full and undivided attention. 

It’s a mild-mannered anxiety dream, she began. The dreamer is haunted by a goose.  

There was a long pause. 

Just a regular goose, Nora clarified. But it’s very polite. And it follows you everywhere, just out of your direct line of sight. It never attacks you, but every so often, it lets out a single, quiet honk. And that honk is filled with a specific, personal disappointment in a minor life choice you’ve just made.  

He was quiet for so long she thought he might have dismissed it entirely. Then, his formal, serious thought returned to her. 

The Goose of Underwhelming Life Choices.  

Nora snorted with a silent laugh. 

Its power would not be in terror, Morpheus continued, completely deadpan , but in the slow, inexorable erosion of self-confidence. The honk would have to be perfectly calibrated. Not aggressive, but filled with a sort of weary, paternalistic sorrow. A potent creation.  

Nora lost it, her laughter echoing through their mental link. I love that you’re workshopping the emotional resonance of a judgmental goose, she thought, wiping away an imaginary tear . Never change.  

It was moments like these, this effortless blend of the profound and the absurd, that had become the foundation of their life together. After decades locked away, what had grown between them was a deep, unspoken fondness. Morpheus still showed little emotion on his face, save for his eyes, but that no longer mattered. Their connection was deeper than that. 

This was made all the more intense by the fact that Nora still lacked the ability to shield her more intimate thoughts. They would slip out, flashes of unguarded affection broadcast directly to him. 

His hands are so elegant , she might think while watching him shift his position. The way he moves… it’s like watching a statue come to life.  

Or, in a moment of quiet contentment listening to his thoughts on the nature of a forgotten star: I could listen to him think forever. It feels more like home than any place I’ve ever known.  

Morpheus quickly learned to give no outward sign that he had heard these private declarations. He knew it would only mortify her and break the comfortable peace between them. But every time one slipped through, a rare, warm thing would unfurl deep within his chest. A smile that never reached his lips would bloom inwardly, and he couldn’t help the growth of his own attraction to her. Her compassion, her humor, and her unguarded heart were steadily chipping away at an eternity of solitude, fostering an affection in him that was as terrifying as it was welcome.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Several more decades passed. The monotonous routine of their lives continued, but the world outside leaped forward. It was now the 21st century. Nora and Morpheus only knew this because of the guards, no longer stoic sentinels but bored young men who loudly bragged about the newest phone that was getting released, a thin slab of glass and light that sounded like a fantasy. 

A new century, Nora thought to Morpheus, the idea vast and strange . We’ve been here so long we’ve crossed into a new century.  

That quiet moment was broken by the familiar, grating sound of the cellar door opening and the mechanical whir of the lift lowering. 

Well, seems like Alex is visiting again , Nora thought, a sense of weary resignation settling over her. 

She wasn’t ready, though, for how he looked. The man who was wheeled into the dim light was ancient, withered and bent. Over a hundred years old now, he was a decrepit thing of paper-thin skin and watery eyes, stuck to a wheelchair. A nurse in crisp scrubs pushed him, stopping just outside the rune circle. 

“All this time has passed,” Alex said, his voice a reedy, wet rasp, “and you still won’t change your mind.” 

Nora’s patience, worn thin over ninety years, finally snapped. She spoke, her voice clear and cold. “Change our minds? You want him to bargain for his freedom with the sniveling, craven worm who stole his life? You have lived a century, Alex, a gift of prolonged life granted by proximity to the very being you torture, and you have spent it cowering in this house. I hope that when your pathetic end finally comes, you are granted a special place in Hell, one where for eternity, you are forced to listen to every single opportunity you ever missed, every moment of joy you were too afraid to grasp, played back to you on a continuous, maddening loop.” 

Alex flinched, turning his watery gaze from her to Morpheus, waiting for the silent king to say anything. As always, he did not. 

Defeated, Alex lowered his head, shaking it slowly. He seemed to collect himself, raising his head one last time. “I’m sorry it had to come to this,” he rasped. “I never meant for any of this to happen. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” 

Nora let out a short, sharp scoff, not believing a single word. 

“Take me away,” Alex directed the nurse. “I won’t be coming down here again.” 

The nurse, utterly unaware of the century of magical protocol, turned the wheelchair to leave. To get a better turning angle, she unknowingly wheeled one of the chair’s wheels directly over the brittle chalk line on the floor. A faint puff of dust, unnoticed by anyone, marked the break in the circle. 

Nora didn’t see it, but she felt it instantly—a distinct, sudden shift in the energy radiating from Morpheus. A current, long dormant, was now flowing. She kept her gaze fixed forward, not wanting to draw any attention to him, and waited with baited breath as the lift carried Alex and the nurse away, until the heavy door sealed them once more in the gloom with the two guards. 

She finally turned her head to look at Morpheus, to ask what had happened. Before she could form the thought, his voice slammed into her mind, sharp and urgent. 

The circle is broken.  

She inwardly gasped, completely shocked at the sudden turn of events. What does that mean? What happens now?  

A plan was already taking shape behind his ancient eyes. It means I have access to a sliver of my power. Enough. His thoughts were focused, a razor point of will. I will reach the mind of one of the guards. I will make him sleep, and in his sleep, I will give him a dream of freedom. A dream of shattering glass.  

The air In the sphere felt electric with possibility. 

Just a little longer, he thought to her. 

After so many years of unending night, Nora was filled with the blinding, brilliant relief of a possible dawn. 

They only had to wait a few more hours. As the guard shift neared its end, a familiar weariness settled over the two men. Their movements became sluggish, their attention wandering. One of them, slumped in his chair, was on the verge of snoozing, the stimulants that kept him alert finally wearing off. That was the moment. Morpheus focused, his consciousness a silver thread weaving its way into the guard’s subconscious. 

The dream he gave the man was one of profound, suffocating boredom. The guard dreamt he was in a gray, featureless room with no doors or windows, a representation of his own life spent watching a glass prison. He felt an overwhelming despair, a certainty that this was all there would ever be. Then, a single, beautiful object appeared in his hand: a key made of shining crystal. But there were no locks. An intense, undeniable compulsion washed over him—the key was not for a door. He had to throw it. Before him, a great, imprisoning wall of dark glass appeared, and with a scream of pure, desperate longing for release, the guard in the dream hurled the key. The resulting explosion of shattering glass was the most beautiful, liberating sight he had ever witnessed. Freedom. 

Nora, sitting in silence, watched Morpheus stare intently at the drowsy guard. Suddenly, the man leaped from his chair with a shout, his eyes wide and unfocused. He fumbled for his sidearm, raised it, and began firing at the glass sphere. 

The noise was deafening. Nora was already positioned slightly behind Morpheus, but at the first shot, he shifted, deliberately placing his body more fully in front of her to shield her from any ricochets or shattering glass. The other guard, now extremely alert, was shouting, trying to wrestle the gun from his partner, but it was too late. With a final, explosive crash, the thick glass of the sphere spider webbed and imploded. 

At the explosion, Nora instinctively curled into a ball, putting her head between her knees and covering it with her arms. Shards of glass rained down around them. In a show of impossible elegance, Morpheus reached up, grabbed one of the now-exposed metal beams of the frame, and used it as a guide to leap out with a grace that defied his long imprisonment. 

He landed silently on the stone floor. He looked back towards the wreckage at Nora, who was still huddled in a protective ball, and extended his hand out to her, beckoning her to grab it. When she looked up and saw his offered hand, she took it without hesitation. He helped her stand and move quickly out of the ruined sphere. 

Standing beside him, free for the first time in ninety-six years, Nora watched as Morpheus turned to the two guards, who were frozen in shock. He raised a hand, and with a soft breath, blew a stream of fine, glittering sand into their faces. They slumped to the ground instantly, lost in a deep, dreamless sleep. 

Morpheus then turned to Nora, his voice filling her head, calm and sure. Close your eyes.  

She did as he asked. A sudden wind whipped through the stagnant basement air, and she could feel an intense, brilliant light even through her closed eyelids. Morpheus put an arm around her, holding her steady, and guided them both forward into the heart of a glowing, spinning blue portal that had opened in the center of the room.  

Morpheus left Nora in a strange, gray, in-between place, a limbo that was neither the waking world nor his own realm. He had one last piece of business to attend to before he could truly go home: Alex Burgess. 

He slipped into the sleeping mind of the old man. In his dream, Alex was a boy again, running through the grand, familiar halls of his childhood home. A black cat with eyes like distant stars appeared before him, and the boy felt an overwhelming urge to follow it. The cat led him up winding staircases until they reached a high, forgotten room in the mansion’s turret. The room was dark, with a single high-backed chair in the center. The cat leaped gracefully onto the chair, and as the boy approached, it dissolved into shadow. From the darkness on the chair, two points of light ignited, glowing like captured stars. 

Morpheus’s form slowly became visible, seated on the chair, his pale face a stark contrast to the gloom. The dream-boy Alex stammered, his voice suddenly the reedy, wet rasp of the old man he truly was. “You’re free.” 

Morpheus’s voice was quiet, but it began to build with a cold, ancient rage. “Free? You cannot cage dreams without consequence for the dreamer. While I was gone, my realm withered, but it is your world that paid the steeper price. An epidemic of sleeping sickness swept your globe—people who could not wake, trapped in endless nightmares, and others who could not find the mercy of sleep at all, driven mad by their exhaustion. Millions suffered because your father was arrogant, and you were weak.” 

His eyes burned with starlight, his fury intensifying as his thoughts turned to Nora. “But that is a crime against humanity. Your crime against her is so much more personal. You stood by and watched your father throw a woman into that cage, her only crime being her compassion for a stranger’s suffering. And for nearly a century, you did nothing. You let her languish, trapped with a being you feared, never knowing if she would live or die. You let her hope curdle into resignation, valuing your own pathetic skin over her life. You dare speak to me of freedom after what you did to her?” 

He stood, his presence seeming to suck all the air from the dream. “You wished for eternal life, Alex Burgess. But your true desire was not for life. It was for dreams. For escape.” 

He reached out a hand, a pinch of sand held between his fingers. “So I shall give you what you have always truly wanted. A blessing. Eternal sleeping.” He blew the sand into the boy’s face. In the waking world, the nurse attending to the centenarian would find that her charge had passed away peacefully in his sleep. His dream had become his eternity. 

With that last debt settled, Morpheus dissolved from the dream, finally returning to his kingdom.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Awareness came back to Nora slowly, like waking from the deepest sleep imaginable. When her vision cleared, she found herself on a vast beach of jet-black sand under a twilight sky. She sat up slowly, rubbing the errant sand from her face and quickly running her fingers through her own hair, a nervous habit. She looked ahead and gasped. Stretching up so high it seemed to be part of the sky itself was a colossal gate, carved with impossibly intricate designs. To her left, the gate extended as far as she could see, flanked by monumental mountain ranges. 

Then she looked to her right. 

Morpheus lay collapsed on the sand just a few paces away. 

“Morpheus!” she yelled, her voice hoarse. She scrambled to her feet, stumbled, and then knelt beside him. She gently touched his shoulder. He was now clothed in a heavy, black wool coat. “Morpheus,” she muttered, her voice urgent but quiet as she shook him. “Morpheus, please wake up.” 

His eyes, those familiar starry eyes, slowly opened. He looked at her, and for the first time in the century he had known her, a true, soft, and deeply fond smile touched his lips. 

Just then, another figure knelt beside him on the other side. A tall, slender woman with pointed ears and kind eyes. “Sir? Sir! Oh my God! My Lord, it’s me. It’s Lucienne.” 

Morpheus’s attention shifted to her, the soft smile remaining on his face. 

“You’re home,” Lucienne said, her voice thick with emotion. 

Still weak from his long ordeal, Morpheus’s voice was a soft whisper. “I am.” 

Lucienne’s gaze then drifted to Nora, her kind eyes now guarded as she regarded the unfamiliar mortal. “And this… who is this, My Lord?” she asked, her voice careful. 

Morpheus looked from Lucienne to Nora, his smile still present, a hint of fondness creeping into his eyes. “This is Nora,” he murmured, his voice gaining a touch more strength as he spoke her name. “She was with me. Trapped as well, for nearly a century.” 

Lucienne’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, her gaze sweeping over Nora with a new understanding. A subtle, knowing smile touched Lucienne's lips as she picked up on the unexpected tenderness in Morpheus's tone. She gave Nora a brief, polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Nora. Thank you for everything you’ve done.” 

“Hello, Lucienne,” Nora replied, a touch of fondness in her voice. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Lucienne’s eyes widened further, a flicker of surprise crossing her usually composed features. 

Then, together, Nora and Lucienne gently helped the King of Dreams to his feet. 

Leaning on both Lucienne and Nora for support, Morpheus took a shaky step forward. His weakness was profound, a century of starvation and isolation had taken its toll. The trio began the slow walk across the black sand toward the impossibly large gates. 

As they drew closer, Nora saw the colossal gate stretching high above them, its surface covered in the impossibly intricate carvings Morpheus had described, pulsing with stories and energy that now felt inert, emanating a foreboding silence instead of a welcome. Morpheus straightened, pulling away from their support to stand on his own. He reached out a trembling hand and pushed one of the great doors open. 

Before he could see what lay beyond, Lucienne spoke, her voice heavy with a sorrow that spoke of long, lonely years. “My Lord, the realm… the palace… is not as you left It.” 

Nora, who hadn’t looked away from the opening, saw it first. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Oh, no … The thought was a wisp of horror. What must have once been a beautiful, otherworldly paradise had turned Into a barren wasteland. The ground was gray and dead, the trees were brittle, skeletal things. The river that had once flowed with dreams was completely dried up, its grand bridge broken apart and collapsed into the empty riverbed. And the palace, his magnificent palace, was barely hanging on, a ruined silhouette against the twilight sky. As she watched, a pillar from one of the highest towers crumbled, falling away into dust with a distant, silent crash. 

Morpheus, his attention drawn from Lucienne by Nora’s gasp, finally turned his gaze upon his realm. He saw the utter desolation . My creation… my beautiful Dreaming… what has happened?  

“Who did this?” he asked, taking a shaky step forward, his voice a hoarse whisper. “What happened?” 

“My Lord, you are The Dreaming. The Dreaming is you,” Lucienne said sadly. “With you gone as long as you were, the realm began to decay and crumble.” 

“And the residents?” he asked, his voice almost begging to hear some good news. “The palace staff?” 

Lucienne hesitated. “I’m afraid most are… gone.” 

“ Gone ?” Morpheus asked incredulously, the word a breath of disbelief. 

“Some went looking for you,” Lucienne added, a sliver of cheer in her voice. 

“And the others?” he pressed, taking a few unsteady steps toward her. 

Lucienne’s gaze fell. “The others thought that perhaps you have grown weary of your duties and—” 

“And what?” he cut in, his voice cracking, as if praying he had misheard. “Abandoned them? Have they so little faith in me? Do my own subjects not know me?” The hurt was bleeding through now, raw and undisguised. Nora felt her own heart twist, as if it too were being ripped apart by his profound pain. 

“If I may,” Lucienne began quietly, “it wouldn’t be the first time one of The Endless abandoned their—” 

“Enough,” Morpheus commanded, cutting her off sharply. “I’ll not have dreams and nightmares preying on the waking world.” He turned toward his palace, or what was left of it, and the despair on his face slowly hardened into a grim resolve. “I have built this realm once. I will do so again.” 

Before he could take a step forward, he turned toward Nora, only to see tears streaming silently down her face. She was feeling it all—his shock, his hurt, his despair—and the utter, crushing horror of the situation. She stepped forward and took one of his cold, trembling hands in both of hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick, her eyes showing nothing but pure sorrow and empathy for him. Unsure if their link still worked here, she focused, sending a thought across the small space between them . Oh, God, Morpheus, I am so, so sorry.  

He did receive It. And though no words came back, a complex feeling flowed from him to her in response: the crushing weight of his resignation for the state of his realm, a profound thankfulness for her presence beside him, and beneath it all, a single, stubborn spark of hope for repairing the ruin before them. She then sent her thoughts to him, a silent vow, a promise she knew he would feel as deeply as his own despair: I'll help you, Sandy. Whatever I can do... to ease your pain, to get your power back, to rebuild this kingdom... I'll do it. A wave of trepidation flowed from him, a silent reluctance to put her at further risk, to involve her in the arduous and dangerous task ahead. But Nora raised a singular eyebrow, and met it with a fierce, unwavering determination, a daring challenge that seemed to say: You know me, Morpheus. You know there’s no way you can defy me when I want to help you.  

Morpheus gave the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. Then, the trio began their silent trek towards the palace. The great gates of Horn and Ivory groaned shut behind them, the sound echoing with a grim finality across the blighted landscape. What should have been a walk through a vibrant, living realm of infinite possibility was now a solemn procession through a graveyard of dreams. Nora’s heart ached with a sorrow so profound it felt like a physical weight, her own grief mirroring the devastation that surrounded them. 

They passed the shattered remnants of the grand bridge, its elegant form now a jagged ruin collapsed into a riverbed long since turned to dust. As they finally reached the palace, what was left of it rose like a broken crown against the horizon, a testament to a kingdom undone. 

Stepping through the ruined entrance into the throne room, the scale of the loss became suffocating. Nora remembered the dream of a grand ballroom from her childhood—a fleeting, surreal memory that she now understood was a glimpse of this very place. But the reality before her was a desecration of that memory. 

Morpheus walked alone to the center of the vast, ruined chamber. He stopped, his dark coat a stark contrast to the pale, dust-covered rubble at his feet. Slowly, he turned, his gaze tracing the lines of what was and what was lost. Where magnificent marble arches once soared, framing windows that shone with the swirling light of distant galaxies, there were now only jagged stumps of stone. The sky above was not a celestial wonder but a flat, oppressive gray, visible through the gaping maw where a roof once stood. The winding steps that led to his throne, a seat of power and creation, were now a treacherous slope of crumbling rock. 

As he stood there, a silent statue in the heart of his own desolation, a palpable wave of dread washed over Nora. It was an emotion so immense, so ancient and profound, that it stole the air from her lungs. She was unsure if he was even aware he was projecting it. After nearly a century of an enforced, silent connection, perhaps the link between them was now an indelible part of their beings, an open channel he no longer consciously controlled. Through it, she felt the full weight of his despair—not the sharp sting of fresh pain, but the deep, soul-crushing agony of a creator seeing his life’s work, his very essence, turned to ash and ruin. It was a grief that stretched across eons, a sorrow that eclipsed any mortal emotion she had ever known.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

With the weight of a century of silence hanging in the air, Lucienne finally shared what she could. “I kept a journal for a while,” she began, her voice quiet but clear in the vast, broken hall. “A chronicle of everything that happened in your absence. But slowly, the words began to fade. Sometime after you left, all the books in the library became bound volumes of blank paper. The next day, the whole library was gone.” She ended on a sullen, defeated note. “I never found it again.” 

Morpheus surveyed the ruin around him, a bitter self-deprecation bleeding into his tone. “And yet you remained while others fled, the royal librarian of an abandoned kingdom.” 

“I never felt abandoned,” Lucienne cut in, her loyalty a sharp, unwavering point of light in the gloom. “I knew you would return.” 

Her faith seemed to steel him. Taking another look around the throne room, Morpheus’s despair hardened into resolve. He strode to the center of the chamber and focused, a deep furrow forming in his brow. He raised his arms to his sides, and the ground began to tremble. Pieces of stone and shattered marble slowly lifted into the air, dust motes dancing in the faint light. Nora spun around, her eyes wide with wonder as chunks of the former palace floated weightlessly beside her. 

She looked back at Morpheus and saw the immense strain of the effort. He appeared almost frozen, his arms trembling violently, his hands curled into claws as if trying to physically grip the threads of creation and knit them back together. The strain was etched onto his face before, with a sudden, sharp gasp, he collapsed to his knees. Everything that had been floating around them dropped, crashing back to the floor with a deafening series of thuds that sent clouds of dust billowing through the room. 

“Morpheus!” Nora cried out, running to his side. She dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands instinctively going to his shoulders. “Oh, Morpheus,” she whispered, her voice thick with an empathy that flowed, warm and steady, through their bond. “Are you okay?” 

He raised his head, his ancient, starlit eyes locking with hers. In their depths, she saw a fresh wave of pain crash over him—a dawning, agonizing realization. He was not just back in his ruined realm; he was weak, too weak to mend what had been broken. The impotence of it seemed to hurt him more than the destruction itself. 

“You need rest, my Lord,” Lucienne said, her voice gentle but firm as she approached them. “And food and perhaps a bit more rest, and then you’ll be back at full strength.” 

“No,” Morpheus rasped, cutting her off. “Not without my tools.” 

Lucienne looked confused. “Your tools?” 

He explained, though Nora already knew. “My sand, my helm, my ruby. They were taken from me. By my captors. And then taken from them. I know not where.” He looked away, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, heavy with a despair that shook Nora to her core. “Nor what I am without them.” 

A firm slap against his shoulder startled him, and he looked almost offended for a second. Nora’s expression was a mixture of frustration and fierce belief. “Oh, that is absolute bullshit and you know that,” she said, her voice sharp. “How dare you say you don’t know what you are without them. You make the tools, the tools don’t make you.” 

She leaned closer, her eyes boring into his, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Those things—the sand, the helm, the ruby—they are just that: things. They might be powerful, they might be yours, but they do not define you. Do you think a master painter is no longer a painter without his favorite brush? Who you are isn’t in a pouch of sand or a piece of jewelry. It’s in you. It is you. You are Dream of the Endless. You are the architect of realities, the weaver of fantasies, the sculptor of nightmares. That power, that essence, doesn’t reside in objects that can be stolen. It resides in your will, your imagination, your very existence. They are aids, amplifiers, focuses for a power that is already infinite within you. To say you are nothing without them is an insult to everything you are, and I will not let you believe it.” She let out a breathless huff, her chest heaving slightly, but her eyes remained locked on his, determined for her message to sink in. 

Morpheus looked at Nora, and for a moment, the weight of his ruined kingdom seemed to lift. His gaze was so filled with a profound fondness, an unguarded adoration, that she was almost stunned into silence. She hadn’t realized how desperately he’d needed to hear her words, how much he’d needed someone to see the power in him, not just in his possessions. 

A soft, genuine smile touched his lips. “Yes,” he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. With a cheeky little smile, she playfully warned him, "Don't make me slap you again." 

“Well, regardless of that,” he continued, turning his attention back to the task at hand, “I will need the tools back to rebuild this place. And there is only one sure way for me to find them.” He straightened, his resolve hardening. “I must summon the Three-In-One.” 

Lucienne’s head snapped up, her expression alarmed. “Surely it hasn’t come to that.” 

Nora looked from Lucienne to Morpheus, confused. “Three-In-One? Who are they?” 

“The Three-In-One are the Fates,” Morpheus answered her, his tone grave. “The Fates see past, present and future, and they know all.” 

“Yes,” Lucienne interjected urgently, “but they speak in riddles. They never tell you what you want to know, only things you should never know.”  

Nora murmured, "Oh, that doesn't sound good." 

Lucienne continued, her voice filled with trepidation as she offered a different path. “Perhaps just this once you could ask one of your siblings for help. Destiny would certainly know where your tools are, or Desire—” 

“My siblings have their own realms to attend to,” Morpheus cut her off, his voice firm, a familiar wall falling back into place. “I have mine. We do not interfere in each other’s affairs.” 

Lucienne pressed on, her loyalty giving her courage. “You may not, but they’ve certainly been known to. Perhaps you could tell them what happened to you.” 

Morpheus’s gaze fell to the rubble at his feet. “They were blind to my suffering for a century. I will not burden them with it now that I am free. This is my failing, and I must be the one to right it. On my own.” Nora loudly cleared her throat and pointedly looked at Morpheus, as if to say, What did we previously discuss, Mister?  

Lucienne sighed, seeing his intractable pride. “The Fates aren’t cheap, you know. They cost a bloody fortune.” 

A heavy silence settled as Morpheus considered her words, the truth of them undeniable. “And at present, I cannot muster power enough to summon them, let alone pay that cost.” 

Nora, who had been listening intently, spoke up. “Wait. What if you don’t have to? What if you could… recharge? You said the realm is you. If you could find something you made, something that still has a piece of your energy in it, couldn’t you reabsorb that power? Use that to summon the Fates?” 

Morpheus looked at her, then turned to his librarian, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “Yes. Is there anything of mine that remains in The Dreaming? Something that I created?” 

Lucienne gestured helplessly at the desolation around them. “You created all of this.” 

“No,” Morpheus clarified, his focus sharpening. “Something that remains intact. That might retain some fragment of my power within it. Something I can absorb.” 

Lucienne nodded slowly, a deep reluctance in her posture. She knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “There is one thing,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

As they walked the blighted path that wound between two strange, mismatched houses, a frantic argument reached them. Nora could just make out two figures, one trying to coax what looked like a small, winged dragon from a skeletal tree. 

“Gregory, come down from there right now. You’re gonna slip and hurt yourself!” one voice pleaded. 

The other, more patient, called out, “That’s it. There he is. Good boy, Gregory. Good gargoyle.” 

Suddenly, the one called Abel froze, his eyes widening as he saw the approaching trio. “Cain, come quick.” 

“Blasted, bulbous, bilge-bubbling bollocks,” Cain muttered, his back still to them. 

“Cain,” Abel insisted. 

Fed up, Cain spun around. “What do you want, powder-brain? Can you not see I’m busy?” 

“We have visitors,” Abel said, his voice a whisper. 

“What? Where?” Cain followed his brother’s gaze to the small bridge where Morpheus, Lucienne, and Nora now stood. 

Nora, however, had already spotted the large, winged gargoyle. Her heart, so recently heavy with the desolation of The Dreaming, gave a little lurch of pure affection. Without a moment's hesitation, she broke away from Morpheus and Lucienne, her steps quickening as she made a beeline for Gregory. She knelt beside the skeletal tree, her hand reaching out slowly, gently, to stroke the gargoyle's golden scales. Gregory, distracted from his play, leaned into her touch, his large head-butting into her palm with a soft rumble. He truly was adorable. 

“Cain. Abel,” Lord Morpheus greeted them, his voice resonating with ancient authority. 

“Lord Morpheus,” they said in unison, their voices a mixture of shock and reverence. “You’ve come back. At last.” 

Abel turned to his brother with a triumphant look, while Cain merely rolled his eyes at his antics. “I told you he’d return. I never doubted it.” Turning back to Morpheus, Abel beamed. “Come in, my Lord. And you, Lucienne.” He paused, his gaze falling on Nora, who was still petting Gregory with a look of pure affection on her face. “You too as well,” he added kindly. “You are very much welcome to the House of Mystery.” 

“Or to the House of Secrets,” Cain cut in gruffly. “I have tea.” 

“I have tea and biscuits,” Abel quickly one-upped him. 

Nora felt a sense of whiplash from their rapid-fire bickering. It seemed to be a well-worn rhythm between the brothers. 

“Gentlemen,” Lucienne said, her tone leaving no room for argument, “I’m afraid this is not a social call.” 

“What’s happened?” Cain asked immediately, his demeanor shifting. “Is something wrong?” 

“What is it?” Abel added, his brow furrowed with concern. 

Morpheus spoke, his voice solemn and heavy with a dread that Nora felt echo in her own chest. “For the sake of The Dreaming, I must take back a gift I gave you long ago.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Abel said without hesitation. “What’s ours is yours. Anything at all. Just ask it.” 

Morpheus didn’t respond, his gaze shifting past the brothers to the gargoyle, Gregory, who was still batting at a small ball like a puppy, contentedly accepting Nora's gentle pets. As Cain and Abel followed his line of sight, understanding dawned, and their expressions turned defensive.  

“Surely there’s another way,” Abel pleaded. 

“I wish there were,” Morpheus said, the regret in his voice palpable. “But The Dreaming must be restored.” 

Cain’s fear curdled into anger. “You say that as if we’re the ones that destroyed it. As if we disappeared for over a century.” 

“Cain,” Lucienne cut in sharply. 

Morpheus turned his head slowly towards Cain, his voice low and dangerous. “You forget yourself, Cain.” 

“No, my Lord, you forgot us,” Cain shot back, his own pain and resentment spilling forth. “Do you have any idea what we’ve already lost waiting for you to come back after all these years?” 

“What you have lost?” Morpheus asked, his voice laced with a dangerous incredulity. 

“The answer is no,” Cain stated simply. 

Morpheus tilted his head slightly. “I have not come here to ask you. I have come to ask Gregory.” At this, he walked past the brothers and approached the gargoyle. He knelt beside Nora, bringing himself face to face with the beautiful, golden creature. Tears began to collect in the corners of his ancient eyes. “I need your help,” he whispered. As the words left his lips, the full horror of the situation dawned on Nora. A wave of dread washed over her, and her eyes began to water.  

“Gregory, stop. No!” Cain begged, stepping forward. “Take me instead. Or Abel.” 

“Yeah, take me, Lord Morpheus, please,” Abel added earnestly. 

Still kneeling before Gregory, Morpheus turned his head slightly towards them. “I cannot. I can only reabsorb that which I have created.” He turned back to the gargoyle, his voice thick with sorrow. “And Gregory began as a Nightmare.” 

“Yes,” Cain argued, his voice breaking, “but he’s one of us now.” 

“It’s not fair,” Abel choked out. 

“No,” Morpheus said softly, his gaze fixed on the gargoyle. “It’s not.” Speaking to Gregory, he simply said again, “I need your help.” Gregory gave Nora’s hand one last nudge before moving directly in front of Morpheus. He sat there and watched Morpheus, his eyes wide and unwavering, showing a profound understanding. Morpheus’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek, and tears started to pool in his ancient eyes, staining them red, though he refused to let them fall. He held out his hand, trembling slightly. Everything in Morpheus seemed to scream against this act. “You have served this kingdom with great honor. You will be missed.” Gregory nudged his golden head gently into Morpheus’s outstretched hand. 

At Morpheus’s first touch, Gregory dissolved. He didn’t crumble or fade, but transformed into a swirling cloud of golden sand that eddied around them for a moment—an impossibly beautiful sight born of profound sadness. The sand then flowed inwards, coalescing in Morpheus’s outstretched hand. 

He stood, his expression a mask of contained grief. Nora reached out and rubbed his upper back before grabbing the shoulder closest to her and giving it a slight squeeze, a silent message: I understand. I am with you. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He then silently cleared his throat before his voice, now stronger, cut through the silence. 

“Come. We have work to do.” 

As the trio began to make their way back over the bridge, Cain’s grief and anger boiled over, shoving aside a century of ingrained deference. He stepped forward, his fists clenched. 

“How dare you,” he seethed, his voice cracking with emotion. “You return after all this time, not to restore, but to steal. You take one of the only joys we had left in this wasteland and you unmake him before our very eyes. You leave us with less than we had yesterday, with only a memory where our friend used to be.” His words grew more pointed, more personal, each one a small, sharp blade aimed at the silent king. “Is this what your return means? More loss? More sorrow?” 

Morpheus stood impassive, his face a mask of careful neutrality, but Nora could feel the impact of each word through their link. It wasn’t anger she felt from him, but a deep, flinching hurt, an agony that twisted in his core with every accusation Cain leveled. He felt everything, and he was feeling this accusation of cruelty as a profound failure. 

Hearing enough of the tirade, and before Morpheus could say anything, Nora spun around, her own anger a righteous, protective fire. She cut Cain off sharply. “How could you possibly say that?” 

“He doesn’t mean it, my lady,” Abel stammered, stepping forward with his hands outstretched pleadingly. “He’s just… we loved him so.” 

“Be silent,” Nora snapped, her gaze so fierce it stopped Abel in his tracks. Her voice, though cutting through the air, was laced with an intensity that also flooded Morpheus’s mind, a pure, unadulterated torrent of protective fury directed at his accusers. “Your love does not give you the right to wield your grief as a weapon. Especially not against someone who has suffered more than you can possibly imagine.” 

She turned her attention back to Cain, her voice ringing with a cold fury that made both brothers flinch. “How dare you stand there and judge him when you have no concept of what he has endured, or what it just cost him to do that. You think that was easy for him? You think he didn’t feel it? Every moment of his captivity, every inch of pain, it was all to keep his realm, your home, from completely dissolving! And now, to unmake a creature he loved, a creature he created, to take back part of himself just to begin the long, agonizing work of rebuilding, it tore him apart. He felt Gregory’s joy in serving, yes, but he also felt the sorrow of taking that life, that essence, back into himself!” Little tears welled in her eyes, one escaping to trace a path down her cheek, mirroring the deep pain she felt from him.  

She centered herself, taking a sharp breath. “And despite how much it was killing him inside, he had to accept that gift. Gregory understood what you clearly do not: that true loyalty isn’t about blaming the fallen for their weakness. It is about offering your own strength to help them rise again. His sacrifice was not your loss to mourn, but a lesson in devotion for you to learn.” 

She let the words hang in the air, her gaze sweeping over both Cain and the now-cowering Abel. She had cut them down, not with malice, but with a truth so sharp it left no room for argument. They would not question their monarch’s decisions again. 

Morpheus, who had remained still as a statue throughout her outburst, was stunned. He felt every scorching word she hurled at his subjects, every nuance of her righteous anger, every wave of fierce loyalty that radiated from her. He had known her compassion, her empathy, but this… this raw, unbridled defense was unexpected. A profound shock, followed by a quiet, overwhelming gratitude, unfurled within him. He had not anticipated such ferocity on his behalf, nor such a queenly display towards his own creations. A warmth bloomed in him, deeper than before, a resonant hum that settled into his very being, stronger than any power he had just regained, as his feelings for her grew just slightly more profound. 

Satisfied, Nora firmly pivoted on her heel. Without another word, she turned her back on the two brothers and continued walking, striding past Morpheus and Lucienne as if to say, wordlessly and definitively, Okay. Now we can go.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus, his new strength barely a ripple against the vast desolation, turned and led Nora and Lucienne towards the Western shore of The Dreaming. The ground crunched underfoot, a barren wasteland where lush dreamscapes once blossomed. In the distance, a long, skeletal dock jutted out into a swirling expanse of inky blackness. This was the Dreaming Waters, the endless ocean that mirrored the subconscious of all creation, and it too had suffered in his absence. It was a place of morbid stillness, its depths echoing with the whispers of forgotten fears and unresolved sorrows. 

As they walked the long, decaying dock towards the inky blackness, Lucienne's voice, usually a soothing balm, was now edged with trepidation. "My Lord," she began, her gaze fixed on the churning depths, "the Dreaming Waters... they are not as you left them. A century without your presence has left them wild, untamed. They are treacherous, My Lord. Unsafe." 

Morpheus merely nodded, his gaze distant, already piercing the veil of the murky waters. "I am aware, Lucienne," he projected, his thoughts firm. "But this path is necessary. The Fates demand a price, and I require power to pay it." 

They reached the end of the dock. The air here was heavy, cold, and permeated with a palpable sense of decay. Morpheus knelt, the small, glowing orb of Gregory’s essence still clutched in his hand. “Gregory’s sacrifice will not be in vain,” he whispered, his voice resonating with ancient resolve. He tipped his hand, and the golden sand flowed from his palm, drifting down into the inky blackness of the water. As it touched the surface, a soft, ethereal light began to spread, pushing back the oppressive gloom, revealing currents that writhed like restless spirits. 

Morpheus reached out, his pale fingers extending towards the luminous water. Just as his fingertips brushed the surface, a reflection, perfect and unnervingly alive, reached out from the depths. It grasped his hand with a startling strength, and with a sudden, powerful yank, pulled him into the churning, glowing abyss. 

Nora gasped, instinctually stepping forward, her hand flying to her mouth, but Lucienne laid a steadying hand on her arm. “He must do this alone,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet understanding. “It is his journey to reclaim his power, piece by piece.” 

Morpheus tumbled through the frigid currents, disoriented. The Dreaming Waters, once an extension of his will, were unruly and treacherous. They churned and bucked, as if actively resisting their returned master. They no longer recognize me, he thought, the realization a cold, hard knot in his gut. I will remind them. And I will take from them what I require.  

The currents pulled him downwards, through a vast, formless expanse. He focused, pushing back against the chaos, seeking the threads of dreams he needed. The Fates require offerings, he thought, his will hardening . And one meets the Fates at the crossroads.  

Suddenly, the tumbling ceased. He was in the dream of a Cambodian farmer, a simple, sun-drenched field. The sky ripped open, and a colossal, ethereal hand descended, its fingers closing around a four-way crossroads that stood in the middle of the field. With a soundless groan of displaced earth, the giant hand plucked the crossroads from the ground, pulling it upwards and out of sight. 

Morpheus plunged back into the churning currents. He continued to navigate the dream currents, seeking another offering. The scenery shifted with dizzying speed, and then, a coarse, rough material wrapped around his neck. He felt a sharp, familiar tug. A noose. 

The hanged man represents surrender, sacrifice for the greater good , he mused, his thoughts distant even as the pressure tightened. This gallows… it comes from a young Japanese cinephile, her head full of British horror films. He hung there for a moment, suspended in the dream, allowing the currents to strip away the illusion, until the gallows dissolved into mist. 

He was back in the turbulent waters, tumbling and spinning, the currents stronger than he remembered, threatening to pull him in directions he did not wish to go. He fought for control, his mind a steel trap, focusing on the needs of the Fates. What do they require? What symbols will suffice?  

The currents swirled, forming a narrow, somewhat underground tunnel. He was sucked through it, unable to control his movements, the darkness pressing in. He was losing his grip, the last vestiges of Gregory’s essence flickering. He had to act. He had to focus. 

With a sudden, jarring lurch, he was spat out of the tunnel. He landed on a floor of packed hay, in what appeared to be a rustic wooden shed. The air was warm, smelling of earth and dry grass. He looked down. Coiled around a leathery, oversized egg was a serpent, its scales shimmering with iridescent hues. 

A serpent , Morpheus thought, his eyes fixed on the creature. A symbol of transformation. Of life, death, and rebirth.  

The serpent lashed out, its head striking towards him with lightning speed. But Morpheus was ready. With a fluid, almost impossible grace, he moved. His long, black wool coat flared, and with a gesture reminiscent of a magician, he swept the serpent into its folds. The inside of his coat seemed to ripple and expand, a nebulous expanse where galaxies swirled and stars were born and died. The serpent vanished into the cosmic void within, captured. 

He looked down at the leathery egg. It pulsed faintly, a silent testament to cycles of creation and destruction. Slowly, he reached out, his pale fingers caressing the surface before his hand closed around it. He stood, the egg held securely in his grasp. 

I have gathered my offerings , he thought, his gaze hardening . Now, to summon the Fates.  

It all started with a dare, fueled by a half-empty bottle of dream-wine and Matthew’s incessant cawing. “I bet you can’t make him crack a smile, Rose,” the raven had squawked, perched precariously on a bookshelf in the House of Mysteries. “Not the Lord of Dreams. He’s gloomier than a thundercloud in a coal mine.” 

Rose, a mortal woman with an inexplicable knack for slipping into the Dreaming, had scoffed. Morpheus, the King of all nightmares and fantasies, was indeed a somber individual. His usual expression ranged from “mildly displeased” to “contemplating the existential dread of a universe without coffee.” But a challenge was a challenge. 

Their Initial attempts were rudimentary. Matthew would fetch him particularly vibrant nightmares, hoping the sheer artistry of fear would elicit a reaction. Rose, meanwhile, would recount hilariously awkward mortal encounters. “Nice try,” Morpheus would intone, his eyes, like distant galaxies, remaining as impassive as ever. 

They escalated. Rose, with Matthew’s questionable advice, once orchestrated a parade of sentient, tap-dancing pumpkins through the throne room. Morpheus had merely raised a single, elegant eyebrow. “Amusingly chaotic,” he'd remarked, before dismissing them with a flick of his hand. Another time, Matthew had somehow procured a dream-version of a stand-up comedy club, complete with a perpetually bombing comedian whose jokes were so bad they actually induced existential despair. Morpheus had sat through the entire set, utterly unfazed. “Your dedication to the absurd is commendable," he'd said, and they’d left, defeated. 

Their methods grew increasingly complex. They’d staged elaborate dream-plays, complete with dramatic interpretations of his own mythology, hoping a meta-narrative might tickle his cosmic funny bone. They’d even tried to introduce him to the concept of “dad jokes,” which Matthew insisted were the pinnacle of mortal humor. Each time, Morpheus would offer a variation of “adequate” or “a noble effort,” his lips remaining a perfectly straight line. Rose began to suspect the man was physically incapable of smiling. 

Then came the day it happened. Rose was simply sitting in the sun-dappled courtyard of his castle, meticulously braiding her hair. Matthew was perched on a nearby fountain, preening his feathers and occasionally letting out a disgruntled squawk at a particularly stubborn feather. They weren’t trying to do anything. There was no grand plan, no elaborate scheme. 

Suddenly, a tiny, iridescent butterfly, no larger than Rose’s thumbnail, fluttered past. It danced on the air currents, then, with an unexpected dip, landed squarely on Morpheus’s nose as he walked by, deep in thought. 

Rose froze, her fingers mid-braid. Matthew stopped preening, his beak agape. 

Morpheus blinked. His gaze, usually so far-off, focused on the tiny creature. And then, a slow, gentle curve began at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t a smirk, or a polite acknowledgment. It was a genuine, unadulterated grin, wide and unguarded. It was so unexpected, so utterly out of character, that Rose felt her jaw drop, hitting her chest with a soft thud. Matthew, in his shock, tumbled off the fountain with an undignified splash. 

Morpheus chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the air. The butterfly fluttered off his nose and away. He caught sight of Rose and Matthew, frozen in their respective states of utter disbelief. 

“Took you two long enough to realize,” he drawled, his eyes glinting with amusement, “that true joy often lies in the simplest of things.” And with a final, almost imperceptible shake of his head, he continued on his way, leaving a mortal woman and a drenched raven utterly speechless, their jaws still firmly on the floor of the Dreaming. 

~ 

The heavy silence that had settled on the desolate beach was shattered by Morpheus’s voice, now resonating with ancient authority. “I, Lord Morpheus, Dream of The Endless, summon The Fates, the Three-Who-Are-One, the One-Who-Is-Three. The Hecate.” 

As his words hung in the air, lightning flashed overhead, momentarily illuminating the stark landscape in blinding white. Thunder boomed, a deep, guttural roar that vibrated through the very ground. In the brief, searing flashes of light, Nora saw her appear: a solitary figure, far in the distance, adorned with a long, flowing scarf and cloak that whipped wildly around her. Yet, with each successive bolt of lightning, her face seemed to morph, shifting between the serene countenance of a Maiden, the wise, weathered lines of a Mother, and the sharp, knowing gaze of an old Crone—the archetypal forms of the Fates. 

Finally, the tumultuous thunder and lightning settled, leaving behind an unnerving stillness. Before Morpheus now stood the three women, distinct yet somehow inseparable: the old Crone, her face a roadmap of countless ages; the youthful Maiden, with eyes that seemed to hold the promise of all tomorrows; and the compassionate Mother, her presence radiating a quiet, ancient strength. 

The Maiden spoke first, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves, light yet resonant. “Morpheus, it’s been a while.” 

The Mother followed, her tone softer, imbued with a maternal concern that seemed incongruous in the desolate realm. “You look thin, love. Are you eating? Are you hungry?” 

Then the Crone, her voice a dry rasp, cut in, her gaze sharp and discerning. “He is, but not for food. Look at him. He wants something.” 

A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of defiance crossed Morpheus’s features. “You’ve found me out.” 

Another low rumble of thunder vibrated in the distant sky, a silent punctuation to his admission. Morpheus continued, his voice gaining a subtle edge of desperation, though he fought to conceal it. “I do want something. I need your help.” 

The Crone let out a short, dry chuckle, devoid of mirth. “Help? Oh, listen to him. Like you helped us against Circe?” 

“Circe is old business, sister-self,” the Mother chided gently, her gaze softening. 

The Maiden, her eyes glinting with a mischievous light, added, “And he did bring nice stuff.” 

Lightning crackled once more, and another roll of thunder echoed. The Mother extended a hand towards Morpheus, her gesture inviting. Morpheus, with a subtle movement, unfastened a portion of his heavy black wool coat, and the head of the captured serpent, its scales shimmering with iridescent hues, slowly slithered out. With a pale, elegant hand, he guided the creature onto the Mother’s outstretched arm. As the serpent began its slow, deliberate ascent towards her head, winding around her arm, the Mother spoke. “You may ask us three questions.” 

The Mother’s mouth opened impossibly wide, a dark, cavernous space, and the serpent, with a final, fluid motion, slithered inside. Nora, watching from a short distance with Lucienne, couldn't suppress a grimace as the creature disappeared. Morpheus himself merely blinked, a flicker of discomfort crossing his usually impassive face. As the serpent's tail vanished into the Mother's mouth, her form shifted, melting and reforming into the Maiden, who then declared, her voice echoing faintly around them, “And get one answer from each of us.” 

“Thank you, ladies,” Morpheus replied, his voice a low murmur, the desperation he fought to hide still present beneath the formal words. Then, almost imperceptibly, his resolve seemed to crack, and he asked, a hint of raw yearning in his tone, “My first question. I had a leather pouch filled with sand. Where is it?” 

As he finished speaking, the desolate beach dissolved around Morpheus, replaced by a sudden, jarring shift in scenery. He found himself standing in the heart of a bustling London street, rain sheeting down in thick, cold curtains. People hurried past, their faces obscured by the dark domes of their umbrellas. The Maiden’s voice, clear as a bell despite the urban cacophony, echoed around him. “It was sold in London. Last purchased by a magic user called Johanna Constantine.” 

A woman emerged from the rain-swept gloom, walking directly towards him. She wore a cream-colored trench coat, its fabric slick with water, and held a black umbrella aloft. As she drew nearer, she lightly tilted the umbrella upwards, revealing the sharp, intelligent features of Johanna Constantine, her face unperturbed by the deluge, thick droplets of rain falling from the edge of her umbrella. 

“Constantine?” Morpheus questioned, his voice laced with surprise and a touch of disbelief. “I knew a Constantine, but that was 300 years ago.” 

The scene flickered, and then, with a dizzying rush, Morpheus was back on the blighted beach, facing the Fates once more. “You said ‘last purchased.’ Does she still have the sand?” 

The Maiden, her voice placating and soft, yet resonating with an unyielding finality, replied, “Dream, you know better than that. You get one question, one answer.” Her voice seemed to echo slightly, emphasizing the unchanging rule. 

Morpheus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, maintaining a semblance of courtesy. “My apologies. My second question.” 

The Mother, her eyes kind but firm, urged him on. “Go on, dear.” 

“My helm. What happened to it?” Morpheus asked, his gaze direct and unwavering. 

Again, the world around Morpheus dissolved. He was now in a dim, shadowed chamber. His helm, dark and intricately crafted, lay on the floor within the precise confines of a chalk-drawn pentagram, candles flickering at each star point, casting dancing shadows. A woman knelt before it, her body swaying, chanting in a low, fervent whisper. With a sudden burst of brilliant flame, the helm vanished, and in its place, an amulet of shimmering protection gleamed. During this ethereal scene, the Mother’s voice resonated, echoing through the spectral space. “It was traded away to a demon, for the Amulet of Protection.” 

Morpheus, who had been a silent observer standing behind the chanting woman, looked sharply upwards, as if towards the unseen sky. “To which demon was it traded?” 

The scene snapped back to the windswept beach, and the three Fates. The Mother, her expression stern, reiterated, “One question, one answer, love.” 

Morpheus’s silence was heavy with a quiet frustration, but he bowed his head in acceptance. “Last question. My ruby, who holds it now?” 

The beach faded, replaced by another fleeting vision. A red ruby, now transformed into a necklace adorned with delicate gold filigree, dangled tantalizingly in front of a baby, whose tiny arms reached eagerly towards the glittering jewel. The Crone’s voice, ancient and echoing, accompanied the image. “Your gem was passed from a mother to a son.” 

“Where are they now?” Morpheus pressed, his voice taut with urgency. 

The scene cut abruptly back to the beach. The Fates, in a dizzying display of their interconnectedness, seemed to collide and merge, their individual forms rippling and shifting, their faces rapidly switching between the Crone, the Maiden, and the Mother. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed all around them, mirroring their collective pronouncement as they yelled, “You have asked your questions!” 

Suddenly, as if a cosmic switch had been flipped, all lightning and thunder ceased. An absolute, dead silence descended upon the beach, thick and heavy. Morpheus, believing the Fates had vanished, turned to walk back towards Nora and Lucienne. But then he froze. The Fates had reappeared, not across the desolate sand, but directly in front of Nora. 

Nora, who had heard every word of Morpheus’s desperate questions and the Fates’ cryptic answers, was too shocked and frightened to speak. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the three figures before her. But the Fates were not shy. Their voices, alternating and merging, now spoke directly to her, their words echoing not in the air, but solely within her mind. 

The Crone’s voice, a dry, ancient rasp, was the first. “ Well, sister-selves, it appears Morpheus has found his… Anchor.”  

Then the Maiden’s voice, soft and melancholic as a distant sigh, interwove with the Crone’s, filling Nora’s head with a chilling clarity. “ A bond woven by circumstance, not by conscious intent. A century of silent witness, where the mind’s fortress fell, and two souls, unknowingly, intertwined within the glass.”  

Finally, the Mother’s voice, deep and resonant, imbued with an ancient, undeniable power, joined the chorus, flowing through Nora’s very being. “ His solitude became a conduit, her presence a constant hum. What began as a mere sharing of thought, a desperate balm against endless time, deepened with the decades. The touch of shared humor, the weight of reciprocal sorrow, the very echoes of emotion that passed between them forged a link beyond undoing. This is not a bond easily broken, mortal, for it was born of shared hardship and the profound, unguarded heart. You are irrevocably woven, a tapestry of two, and such a weaving endures until the threads of existence themselves unravel.”  

The three voices, in perfect, chilling unison, then declared: “ The unforeseen has occurred. His very essence now bears the indelible mark of your interwoven spirit, a testament to a destiny unplanned, yet absolute.”  

A beat of pregnant silence followed, then the Crone’s voice, sharper now, cut through Nora’s reeling thoughts with a stark warning. “ But heed us, mortal. The King of Dreams bears a history as ancient as time itself, and not all his tales are spun of gentle starlight. His pride is vast, his judgments can be terrible, and his realm is not for the faint of heart. Be aware of who stands beside you. And prepare yourself, Nora. For the road ahead will not be without its trials. A mortal heart, after all, is not impervious to the harsh winds of his world, or the shadows that still cling to him.”  

With a final, blinding flash of lightning and a deafening peal of thunder, the Fates vanished for good, leaving only the oppressive silence in their wake. Morpheus, his face etched with a deep, uncharacteristic concern, closed the distance between them more swiftly than he usually would. He reached out, his large, pale hands gently cupping Nora’s face. His eyes, ancient and fathomless, searched hers intently. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice a low, resonant murmur, the words laced with an unfamiliar tenderness. “Did they do anything to you?” 

Nora stammered, her own hands rising to cover his on her face, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the lingering chill of the Fates’ pronouncements. “No, no, I’m fine,” she said, her voice a little too high, a nervous tremor still running through her. She forced a brittle smile, trying to reassure him, though her mind reeled from the Fates’ pronouncement. “Just… a lot to take in.” 

Morpheus’s thumb traced a worried line across her cheekbone. “Nora,” he pressed gently, his gaze unwavering. “Neither Lucienne nor I could discern their words. What did they say to you? What prophecies did they impart?” His voice was quiet, but there was an insistent, almost vulnerable plea in his tone. 

Nora looked past him to Lucienne, who stood a respectful distance away, her expression a mixture of relief at Morpheus’s return and curiosity about the Fates’ private communion with Nora. She saw the librarian’s attentive stance, clearly straining to catch any clue. Nora then turned back to Morpheus, pulling his hands from her face and holding them in her own, offering a small, reassuring squeeze. 

“Let’s… let’s leave that for later, Sandy,” she said softly, a tired but resolute smile touching her lips. “We have work to do. Remember? Rebuilding your kingdom? Finding your tools? That all seems a bit more pressing right now, don’t you think?” She gave his hands another squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. Not right now.”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus, with Nora and Lucienne beside him, began to walk down the long, skeletal dock that jutted out into the swirling expanse of inky blackness. They stopped about midway, silently gazing out at the Dreaming Waters, its depths echoing with whispers of forgotten fears and unresolved sorrows. 

It was Lucienne who finally broke the heavy silence, her brow furrowing slightly. "Where are you off to, sire?" 

Morpheus's mental voice, cutting through the stillness, resonated with quiet authority. "London." 

"London?" Lucienne interjected, her brow furrowing slightly. "My Lord, did you not just spend the last century there?" 

Nora shot Lucienne a sharp look. Excuse you, Lucienne , she thought, a silent warning. 

"My apologies, Nora," Lucienne quickly amended, her gaze sweeping between the two of them. "My Lord, my apologies. But, if I may ask, why London?" 

"My sand was sold there," Morpheus replied, his voice a low, steady current in their minds. "When I have it back, I will seek out my helm. In Hell." 

Nora’s head snapped to him, her eyes wide. What did he just say? The silent question, a sharp jolt of surprise and concern, reverberated through their mental link. 

Lucienne hesitated, then took a step closer, her hands clasped. "My Lord, if I may be so bold, grant me a favor. Take a raven with you." 

"No more ravens," Morpheus stated, his voice flat. 

"If not for you, then at least for me," Lucienne pleaded, her tone earnest. "The raven can go back and forth between realms, keeping me informed." 

"No more ravens," Morpheus repeated, his gaze distant, staring out at the inky blackness of the Dreaming Waters. A profound sorrow, like a cold, heavy stone, emanated from him. "Jessamy was the last." He refocused on Lucienne, his expression hardening with a familiar, ancient resolve. "If this Constantine is anything like her ancestor, she will serve him well enough." 

He then turned and walked towards the very end of the dock, reaching the precipice of the swirling blackness. He took a step forward, as if to depart. But then he paused, hearing footsteps approaching behind him and turned his head slightly, seeing Nora drawing closer, a determined set to her jaw. 

It will be too dangerous , he began to project, the thought forming even as Nora cut him off, her voice a sharp, unyielding blade. 

"Oh, no you don't, Sandy. Not a chance in hell. Pun totally not intended. Don't even start with 'too dangerous' or 'I must go alone,' because we've been over this, haven't we? I promised you, Morpheus. Whatever it takes. To rebuild this kingdom? To get your power back? To ease your pain? I said I'd do it. And I meant it. Every. Single. Word." 

She stopped before him, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing with a defiant fire. After a century trapped in a fishbowl with you, listening to your existential angst and my musings on capybaras in rainbow fur, she thought, a flash of her usual irreverent humor breaking through , do you honestly think I'm going to let you swan off into the 'dangerous' waking world by yourself?  

Look, I don't care about the danger. I don't care what you say. You're stuck with me, Morpheus. Get used to it. Her mental voice softened slightly, a hint of genuine affection underpinning her sass. Besides, you need someone to make sure you don't accidentally scare a busker to death with your brooding face, or accidentally cause a traffic jam by simply existing too intensely. Her mental voice continued, Trust me, you need me.  

Morpheus stared at her, a myriad of emotions flickering through his ancient eyes – surprise, a hint of exasperated amusement, and something deeper, a quiet, unwilling acceptance. After a long moment, a ghost of a sigh, a mere wisp of air, touched her mind. Very well, Nora, he conceded, his mental voice devoid of argument, a silent acknowledgment of her unwavering will. 

He raised a pale hand, performing a small, swirling gesture like casting a spell. The black, still waters of the Dreaming Waters began to stir, parting before them with a soft, whispering sound, revealing a clear path forward. He then extended his hand to her. Nora’s eyes, against her will, were drawn to his elegant fingers. Asshole. Completely, utterly rude. The last thing I need right now is to be thinking about how pretty his hands are , she thought, a spark of frustrated irritation momentarily eclipsing the grim reality of their surroundings. He guided her off the decaying dock, down the ethereal steps that formed in the water, and onto the newly revealed riverbed, a shimmering, dark path that led them into London. 

~ 

Morpheus and Nora appeared at the top of the steps to a large, somewhat imposing chapel, its weathered stone columns looming overhead like ancient sentinels. The night air was cool and damp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of rain that had recently fallen, leaving the ground slightly slick. Nora’s gaze swept across the scene, taking in the gothic arches and stained-glass windows, now dark, unseeing eyes in the dim London night, before her eyes landed on Johanna Constantine. Clad in her signature cream-colored trench coat, its fabric a stark contrast against the gloom, Johanna ascended the steps with an easy, confident stride, her brown hair, brushing just past her shoulders with a slight wave, swaying gently with each step. 

As Johanna drew a few steps away from the top, Morpheus’s voice, resonant and ancient, a deep hum in the stillness, called out, “Constantine!” 

Johanna paused, her head snapping up. Her sharp, intelligent eyes, the color of a stormy sea, found him, unwavering and direct. “We have business, you and I.” 

Johanna tilted her head sideways, a hint of a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Well, well, what have we here? She thought, an inner chuckle. “Who’s asking?” She then took a couple more steps toward Nora, her gaze raking over her with an appraising, saucy glance. Nora’s mind went completely blank. She’d been stared at, scowled at, ignored, but flirted with? This was uncharted territory, a foreign language she didn’t speak. Her heart gave a surprised lurch against her ribs. “Is it you, love?” Johanna purred, a seductive undertone in her voice that was impossible to miss, a challenge laced with flirtation. 

Morpheus took a single, decisive step forward, angling his tall, brooding form just enough that it effectively blocked Johanna’s view of Nora, an act of subtle yet undeniable protection. “You have something of mine,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet carrying an unmistakable weight of command, like a stone dropped into still water. 

Johanna’s smirk widened, clearly amused by his protective and defensive nature regarding Nora. Figures he’d be the jealous type , she mused, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Get in line, bruv,” she said with a hint of disdain, a casual insolence that seemed to roll off Morpheus like water off a duck’s back. Her eyes drifted back to Nora, doing a quick up-and-down sweep that lingered for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of Nora’s presence, before she sent a quick, knowing wink Nora’s way. With a purposeful step, she briskly walked around Morpheus, her trench coat swirling slightly, and disappeared into the chapel, presumably to begin her work. 

Morpheus, his head following Johanna as she walked around them and into the chapel, turned to look at Nora, who was now standing directly behind him. He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, a silent question in his ancient eyes. Nora felt a blush creep up her neck and flood her cheeks, a betraying heat that only intensified her shock. She desperately tried to hide it, her gaze darting anywhere but at him. Okay, calm down, Nora. It was just… a wink. A very intense, flirtatious wink. From a very hot, dangerous woman. Get it together! she frantically told herself. “Alright,” she mumbled, forcing a casual tone, her voice a little too bright. “Let’s go after her. Come on.” 

By the time Morpheus and Nora made it inside the chapel, the air was thick with the acrid tang of ozone and sulfur, a palpable sense of struggle clinging to the shadowed arches. Johanna Constantine was already in the throes of an exorcism, her voice a sharp, unwavering incantation that sliced through the growing chaos as she wrestled with a towering demon. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows that seemed to writhe in sympathy with the infernal presence. 

The demon stood fully present, much taller than Johanna, with thick red skin and a mane of dreadlock-like hair adorned with glinting golden rings. Short, sharp horns protruded from its head, and its hands ended in wicked claws. Its eyes, wide and glowing, found Morpheus. "Lord Morpheus!" it rasped, a sound of visceral recognition and dawning horror. 

"Stop!" Morpheus commanded, his voice a deep, resonant chord that cut through the demonic snarls and Johanna's fervent chanting, momentarily stilling the oppressive atmosphere. 

Johanna, mid-incantation, her body taut with exertion, paused. Her head snapped up, her sharp, intelligent eyes widening as she truly registered the ancient, cosmic presence of Dream before her. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Oh, shit," she muttered under her breath, the two words heavy with the weight of unexpected reality. This wasn't some ordinary, opportunistic charlatan trying to poach her business. 

"I almost didn't recognize you," the demon continued, its red skin rippling, regaining a sliver of its usual, sneering arrogance, "without your helm. Where is it?" 

"I assume it is in Hell, with whom it was traded," Morpheus replied, his gaze unwavering, fixed on the demon. 

The demon's form seemed to writhe more intensely, a desperate, wheedling plea entering its voice. "Stop her! Stop her from sending me back to Hell, and I will tell you where it is!" 

Johanna merely scoffed, a dismissive sound, her focus unwavering on her task. Her hand, which had been raised, gripped the crucifix tightly. Even with Morpheus's commanding "Stop!" and the demon's frantic, piercing cry, "Dream of the Endless commands you to stop!", she remained utterly resolute. Her lips peeled back in a sneer that promised no quarter. "Fuck off and run along back to Hell," she snapped, her voice laced with an icy finality. With a powerful surge of contained energy, visible as a faint shimmer around her, she completed the exorcism. The demon shrieked, a sound of raw agony and furious despair, as it was violently ripped downwards through a swirling, fiery maw that abruptly opened in the chapel's ancient stone floor. Then, a profound, echoing quiet descended, swallowing the last vestiges of its torment, leaving only the scent of ozone and stale incense in the air. 

Morpheus turned to Johanna, his eyes burning with an intense, cold light. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" 

Johanna smoothed down the damp fabric of her trench coat, a smug, satisfied grin spreading slowly across her face, utterly unperturbed. "I just tripled my fee." She then turned and walked out of the chapel, a definite, almost jaunty hop in her step, a low, triumphant whistle nearly escaping her lips, radiating an almost palpable pride in her work. 

Nora, breaking her silence for the first time since entering, let out a short, soft sigh. "Well, shit." She walked up to Morpheus, gently took his pale hand, her fingers a warm anchor, and tugged lightly. "Come on. Let's go outside." 

As they emerged from the chapel, the cool London air, damp with the lingering threat of rain, was a welcome contrast to the chapel's oppressive interior. Johanna was already waiting for them, leaning casually against a weather-beaten stone pillar, one ankle crossed over the other. "What do you want?" she asked, her tone flat, impatient. 

"A leather pouch filled with sand came into your possession," Morpheus stated, his voice direct, his gaze unwavering. "I require its return." 

Johanna raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Oh, that was yours? I couldn't even get the drawstrings open, mate." Her words tripped with a casual insolence that might have frayed the nerves of anyone less ancient. 

Morpheus's gaze hardened, his patience wearing thin. "You will help me get it back." 

Nora cut in, rolling her eyes at Morpheus's lack of tact. "He meant to ask that nicely, with a 'please' on the end," she said, her voice dry, her expression clearly conveying her exasperation with his social graces. 

Johanna's smirk softened almost imperceptibly as she looked at Nora, a flicker of genuine appreciation in her sharp eyes. A rare, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Alright," she conceded, her tone surprisingly compliant, her gaze lingering on Nora for a beat before returning to Morpheus. "I'll help him get his sand." She pushed off the pillar. "But I'll do it in the morning." 

"No," Morpheus countered immediately, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. 

Johanna, still facing them, her hands now tucked into her trench coat pockets, shrugged. "And I work alone. I don't need you or your friends looking after me." 

Morpheus's brow furrowed slightly in confusion by her plural term. He glanced to Nora, who was standing steadfastly beside him, then back to Johanna, seeking clarification. "Is that not your raven?" Johanna asked, her gaze drifting deliberately towards where a raven was perched a few feet away on a low, crumbling wall, its black feathers sleek, hopping nervously from foot to foot. 

Morpheus's attention was now entirely on the bird, Johanna completely forgotten. His normally impassive face showed a flicker of something unreadable – surprise, perhaps even a hint of wonder. He took a slow, deliberate step towards the raven, then knelt down, his dark coat fanning out slightly. "What is your name?" he asked, his voice neutral, carefully devoid of any overt emotion, yet holding an undeniable, ancient weight. 

The raven ruffled its feathers nervously, its small head cocking. "Matthew," it responded, a little shyly, a surprisingly human quality to its voice. 

Nora, her eyes wide with surprise and a sudden warmth, took a step in Matthew's direction, a soft, genuine smile touching her lips. The sight of the little bird, so out of place yet so clearly connected to Morpheus, brought a lightness to the grim situation. 

Morpheus slowly stood, his tall form casting a shadow over Matthew. "Go back to The Dreaming," he commanded, his voice firm, echoing with his newly regained authority. "I do not need a minder." 

"A-Actually Boss, you do need my help!" Matthew insisted, a flash of urgency in his small, dark eyes as he looked past Morpheus, then frantically flapped a wing in a vague gesture. "She's getting away!" 

Indeed, Johanna, having taken full advantage of their profound distraction, had already turned and walked off hurriedly, her trench coat disappearing around the corner of the chapel with remarkable speed. Matthew slumped slightly on the wall, looking down at the ground with an air of long-suffering exasperation. "See?" he muttered, a hint of genuine frustration in his voice, his feathers deflating slightly. "This is why you need a raven." 

Morpheus turned to Nora, a silent question in his eyes as to why she hadn't given him warning. Nora merely offered a sheepish grin, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, and held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Oops. I was also distracted by the pretty bird , she thought, the admission a quiet, amused wave through their mental link.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The cool London air remained, but now a steady, insistent drumming announced the arrival of a downpour. Morpheus, Nora, and Matthew moved instinctively, finding shelter under a shallow overhang of the chapel, just at the edge of the steps where the stone remained dry. The rain now poured, sheeting down in thick, cold curtains beyond their small, sheltered space. 

Nora looked down at Matthew, who was still perched on the low, crumbling wall, ruffling his damp feathers. “Hey, Matthew,” she said softly, her voice carrying easily in the sheltered quiet. “Would you prefer to stand on my arm or my shoulder? So you’re not on the ground.” 

Matthew cocked his head, considering, then hopped nervously. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice a little muffled. “That’d be quite nice and thoughtful, actually. Thank you.” 

A small smile touched Nora’s lips, a genuine warmth spreading through her at his earnest response. She gently extended her arm, bending it at the elbow to create a comfortable, level perch. With a flutter of black wings, Matthew launched himself, stumbling slightly as he landed, his talons scrabbling for purchase before finally gripping her sleeve lightly. Nora then slowly straightened up, adjusting to the unexpected, yet strangely comforting, weight. Matthew, a steady, warm presence, was now perched securely on her arm, occasionally ruffling his feathers to shed the last bits of dampness.  

Morpheus’s neutral voice broke the quiet. “Who sent you, Matthew?” 

“Lucienne did,” Matthew chirped, settling his weight. 

“Do you know who I am?” Morpheus asked, his gaze fixed on the raven. 

Matthew let out a big sigh, a surprisingly human sound for a bird. "Not entirely, no. I don't even know who I am anymore. A couple hours ago, I died in my sleep and now I'm a bird. Like, I used to have thumbs, now I have these things." He flapped his wings for emphasis, and accidentally smacked Nora lightly in the face with a damp wing. "Oh, God, sorry!" he squawked, flinching back, his beak nudging her cheek apologetically. "Still getting used to... all of this. These things are really unwieldy." 

Nora chuckled softly, a gentle sound that seemed to absorb his agitation. "Oh, it's okay, Matthew," she murmured, her voice warm and reassuring. She lifted her free hand, slowly, carefully, and lightly stroked the smooth, damp feathers on his head. Matthew tensed for a moment, then leaned almost imperceptibly into the touch, a strange, comforting peace settling over him as her fingers gently ruffled his new plumage.  

“Yes,” Morpheus replied, his voice as unyielding as stone. “And you must use them to fly back to The Dreaming. This world isn’t safe.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” Matthew squawked, agitated. “I lived my whole life here! That’s why Lucienne sent me—to help you guys.” 

“My last raven came here to help me,” Morpheus stated, his eyes distant. 

“Yeah? And where is he now?” Matthew challenged, his voice sharp with defiance. 

Morpheus looked down, a pause stretching between them, thick with unspoken history. “Her name was Jessamy,” he said, the name spoken with a quiet fondness that softened the hard edge of his voice. He looked back up at Matthew, his expression turning somber. “She died trying to help me.” 

Matthew let out a soft, mournful caw. “I’m sorry. Look, at least let me help you find this woman. If she’s asleep, then we probably got five or six hours before she’s on the move again.” 

Morpheus looked at Matthew, a flicker of something akin to surprise, as if the raven had finally uttered something useful. “If she’s asleep, I know exactly where to find her.” 

The scene snapped. Johanna Constantine sat bolt upright in her apartment bed, her chest heaving, slick with sweat. Her eyes, wide with the lingering terror of a fresh nightmare, darted around the room. “For fuck’s sake,” she gasped, her voice raw. “How did you find me?” 

Morpheus stood in her living room, impossibly tall and clad in his dark coat, looking utterly out of place amidst the mundane clutter of her life. Nora stood beside him, a silent, comforting presence. Matthew was nowhere in sight, likely flying outside. 

“You were dreaming,” Morpheus said, a slight tilt of his head, his voice neutral. “But it wasn’t only a dream, was it? It was a memory. No wonder you do not sleep.” 

Johanna stayed silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on him. Then, she lowered her head, her gaze falling to the floor. “Maybe I don’t deserve to.” 

“Perhaps not,” Morpheus conceded. “But I could make it go away.” 

Johanna’s head snapped up, a glint in her eyes. “Only if I help you find your sand, though.” 

Morpheus’s lips thinned, a hint of his ancient disdain showing. “Locating anything in this place may require more magic than even you can muster.” 

Nora lightly tapped his arm, her expression chiding. “Hey,” she whispered, “don’t be rude.” 

Johanna chuckled slightly at Nora’s intervention, a rough, dry sound. “I’ll look in my office.” As she walked away, heading towards a closed door, she called over her shoulder, “Try not to clean up while I’m gone.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Morpheus cut in, his voice firm, following her. “You have a gift for disappearing.” 

Johanna laughed again, a sharper sound this time. “Alright, but if the mess in here offends you, wait till you see my office.” She chuckled slightly, disappearing through the doorway. 

Nora followed Morpheus, stepping into Johanna’s office, and immediately felt a profound sense of organized chaos. It was less an office and more a meticulously curated, yet overflowing, repository of the bizarre and arcane. Boxes, some ancient and leather-bound, others modern cardboard, were stacked precariously high, threatening to topple with every heavy step. They spilled forth a chaotic assortment of knick-knacks, arcane artifacts, and strange, unidentifiable tokens that shimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through a grimy window. Piles of yellowed parchment vied for space with dusty grimoires, their covers cracked and brittle, while bizarre, unsettling objects lay half-buried beneath layers of forgotten clutter – a dried, shrunken head next to a pristine porcelain doll, a tangle of rusty chains draped over a shimmering crystal ball. It was a space where, if you knew exactly what you were looking for, you might, with great effort, find it, but if you didn’t, you were utterly, hopelessly lost. 

Nora took a quick glance over the overwhelming collection, then gravitated towards a dusty shelf crammed with what looked like antique scientific instruments. She absently picked up a small, brass astrolabe, turning its delicate gears and plates with her fingers, a quiet tinkering amidst the clamor of the office. 

Johanna grunted, straining as she moved a weird metal crossbow thing from one teetering pile to another. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of light. “You seem pretty attached to your sand,” she commented, glancing at Morpheus, her voice a little breathy with effort. 

“It’s not just an object,” Morpheus replied, his voice level, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic room with an expression of mild distaste. “It’s a part of me.” 

“If that’s true, how’d you happen to lose it?” she retorted, adjusting her grip on the crossbow. 

“It was stolen,” Morpheus stated, his voice tight with ancient displeasure. “By another magic user called Burgess.” 

Johanna’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh, the old Demon King himself, eh? Everyone used to say he was a fake. Said he had the Devil locked up in his basement. How the fuck did you—” She cut herself off mid-sentence, her mouth hanging slightly open as a slow, dawning realization spread across her face, draining the color from it like a tide. Her gaze, fixed on Morpheus, became intensely focused. “Shit. Wasn’t the Devil he had locked up in his basement, was it? Were you down there… all this time?” Her questions came out in a slow, disbelieving whisper, her gaze searching his features with an intensity that bordered on genuine fear. Morpheus’s face, usually impassive, seemed to fill with a profound sorrow, and his heart, a place Nora felt deeply through their link, seemed to drop like a stone. Nora, feeling the cold weight of his pain like a physical ache in her own chest, stepped up beside him and wrapped a hand around Morpheus’s arm, squeezing gently in a silent show of support. 

Johanna’s eyes then shifted to Nora, the second part of the truth hitting her with the force of a physical blow. Her gaze narrowed, a flicker of suspicion mixing with the shock. “And you?” she demanded, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Nora looked back at Johanna, a somberness settling over her features, a century of silent captivity etched into her expression. “I was trapped with him too. Ten years after he was.” 

Johanna’s jaw dropped almost imperceptibly, a silent gasp. She knew Nora was mortal, yet she looked to be in her early twenties, certainly not over a hundred years old. But as Johanna took another, more scrutinizing look over Nora, her eyes scanned the familiar but dramatically outdated dress, its material thin and well-worn from a century of suspended wear. A flicker of disbelief, then a grim, almost reluctant acceptance, crossed Johanna’s face. Holy shit, she thought, a rare flicker of genuine understanding in her eyes. Yeah. She was stuck with him for that time . The sheer, impossible reality of it settled over her, chilling her more than the damp London air. 

A slight amount of empathy, alien to her usual demeanor, touched Johanna. She scratched her temple, trying to appear nonchalant, as if merely making a practical suggestion. “Nora,” she said, her voice a little gruff, “I’ve got some clothes in here that would fit you if you wanted a change. You look like you’ve been… well, stuck in time.” 

Nora’s face broke into a soft, genuine smile, touched by the unexpected kindness. “Actually, yeah, that would be very sweet, thank you.” 

As she spoke, an unfamiliar, yet also strangely familiar, feeling began to build in her lower stomach. It had been a subtle pressure for several hours now, a quiet urging she had ignored as a phantom limb of a forgotten existence. But now, with startling realization, it clicked. Oh. Oh, yeah. This is a thing that humans have to deal with. It was her bladder, demanding attention, something she hadn’t had to do in almost a century. She blushed faintly, the sheer mortification of the moment almost overwhelming. 

She shyly turned to Johanna, her voice a nervous, almost unheard whisper. “Johanna? If you wouldn’t mind… could I possibly use your bathroom?” 

Johanna, who had been about to delve back into a stack of arcane texts, paused, her movements halted by Nora’s quiet request. She straightened up, her gaze flicking from Nora’s earnest, flushed face to her surprisingly well-preserved but clearly ancient dress, its fabric hanging in graceful, if dated, folds. With a curt nod, almost impatient in its brevity, she stepped out of the office and gestured down the cluttered hall. “Yeah, this way. Come on.” She left Morpheus to stand amidst the chaos of the office, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the jumbled artifacts, an ancient lord in a modern mess. 

Nora followed Johanna, who led her across the hall, navigating around leaning towers of books and strange, forgotten implements. Johanna then slipped inside a bedroom door, rummaging for a moment before reappearing with a small, neatly folded bundle of clothes tucked under her arm. She gestured vaguely towards a door on the other side of the hall. “It’s on the other side. And look,” she continued, her voice a little gruffer than before, “you’ve probably been, uh, ‘out of commission’ for a bit. There’s a shower. You’ll probably feel a lot better if you actually, you know, clean up.” The offer, delivered with a casual brusqueness that was almost disarming, was punctuated by a slight, almost imperceptible upward twitch of Johanna’s eyebrow, as if she were surprised by her own thoughtfulness. 

Nora blinked, genuinely surprised by the unexpected kindness. The thought of true cleanliness, after a century of simply not decaying, hit her with the force of a revelation. She realized that even in a dustless glass fishbowl, and then traveling through the raw fabric of The Dreaming, getting properly cleaned up would feel utterly amazing. Her skin, which had always simply existed, now tingled with the imagined sensation of warm water and soap. But the word “shower” hung oddly in the air. They weren’t exactly commonplace back when she was locked up. Her confusion, a slight furrow of her brow and a questioning tilt of her head, must have been evident. 

In a rare, almost imperceptible show of kindness and empathy, a side of her rarely seen, Johanna quickly stepped into the bathroom. With swift, efficient movements, her hands moving with practiced ease, she demonstrated how to operate the mixer tap for the shower, showing Nora how to adjust the temperature and flow. “Hot’s that way, cold’s this,” she mumbled, gesturing. She pointed to a few plastic bottles. “This one’s shampoo for your hair, this is soap for your body. Lather, rinse, repeat, you get the drill.” She gave a quick, no-nonsense overview of how to use them, her eyes occasionally flicking to Nora’s bewildered face. She then presented the bundle of clothes: a simple pair of well-worn jeans, a spare, unopened pack of underwear, a light sports bra, and a long-sleeved shirt. “Thought you’d be more comfortable with longer layers,” Johanna mumbled, almost to herself, scratching the back of her neck as if the act of being thoughtful was physically uncomfortable, a foreign sensation. “Not something revealing, not used to this day’s fashion.” 

Just as Johanna was about to leave the bathroom, stepping into the doorway to give Nora privacy, she paused, her hand on the frame. She turned back, her voice dropping to a quiet, almost curious tone, devoid of its usual brashness. “Hey. What happened? How’d you get locked up? You’re just… human. You weren’t summoned, not magically trapped like a demon or something. What happened?” There was a genuine note of inquiry in her voice, a rare glimpse into her fascination with the strange and unusual, even when it involved human suffering. 

Nora looked at her, then down at her old dress, the fabric suddenly feeling thinner, more fragile than ever. The memory, though distant, brought a fresh sting. “Roderick,” she began, her voice low, a tremor of old anger in it. “He couldn’t bear to have anyone show even an inch of compassion to Morpheus. As soon as I fought for his freedom, he decided to lock me up with him. Didn’t even care if I lived or died.” 

Johanna’s expression shifted, a curious intensity in her eyes, a strange mix of morbid fascination and something akin to respect for Nora’s ordeal. “But… how did you not die? No food, no water, for a hundred years? Humans don’t just… not die.” Her voice was soft, almost for once without cynicism. 

Nora shrugged slightly, the explanation still feeling bizarre even to her. “Morpheus’s theory was the magic rune circle, the one that was keeping him contained, it cut me off from the rest of the Endless. So, Death couldn’t take me.” 

Johanna nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on her face, as if that bizarre explanation made perfect, horrifying sense in her world. “Huh. Right. Well, hurry up and clean up. We’ll be in the office when you’re done.” With a final, lingering glance at Nora, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, she stepped out, closing the door behind her, leaving Nora alone with the silence and the promise of a hot shower. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Nora emerged from the bathroom feeling like a brand-new woman. After a few stumbles, some soap in her eye that she furiously scrubbed out while cursing, and getting used to the sensation of a piece of material tucked between her cheeks (a thought that made her privately muse, women these days are absolutely crazy ), she felt, dare she say, human. She threw her old dress, which felt thin and dated against the modern fixtures, into the bin she found in the bathroom, its silent fall a punctuation mark on a century of suspended animation, and then made her way back across the hall into the office where she’d left Morpheus. 

She found Morpheus standing in the center of the room, in the exact same spot she’d left him. He hadn’t moved an inch, a statue of pale skin and raven hair, looking utterly out of place amidst the mundane clutter of Johanna’s office. Johanna, for her part, was still engrossed in her search, meticulously looking through other artifacts and boxes. The only sounds in the room were her muffled mumbling and the rustle of the items she moved. 

When Nora approached Morpheus, she saw his shoulders drop just slightly, an almost imperceptible movement that spoke volumes of his relief that she was back. She dared to do it, feeling a sudden, overwhelming urge for connection. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her forehead into the middle of his back, squeezing just slightly, taking a second to connect and breathe. Their emotions, linked as they were, seemed to calm down just slightly, a shared tranquility settling between them. 

When she unwrapped her arms, she stepped beside him and, without a moment's hesitation, grabbed his hand, her fingers a warm anchor in his pale, elegant ones. She looked up at him, a very small smile touching her lips, and sent a single thought to him: Hi . 

He looked back at her, his ancient eyes filled with a profound fondness that flowed to her through their link. Hello, Nora, he sent back, his mental voice deep and resonant. Do you feel better?  

Yes, surprisingly, she thought, a genuine lightness in her tone. Bathrooms nowadays are much nicer. Much more handy. A small, amused hum, a sound more felt than heard, radiated from him, conveying his quiet contentment that she felt better and cleaner. After staring at her for a few more seconds, a faint blush began to rise in Nora’s cheeks, and she had to turn away, the intensity of his gaze too much even after all these years. He just smirked to himself in his head, the amusement palpable in their silent connection. 

As Johanna continued her meticulous search around the room, she moved from one stacked box to another, her movements brisk and efficient despite the chaos. Suddenly, she banged her foot against a table leg, letting out a sharp curse. "Are you okay?" Nora asked, her voice soft but clear. Johanna merely grunted in response, already distracted. 

But then, Nora’s eyes caught on something: a box shoved haphazardly to the side. Peeking out from beneath a pile of yellowed parchments was a small, familiar item: a photo booth strip, with three sequential pictures. A wave of nostalgia, sharp and unexpected, washed over her. She moved a dusty grimoire out of the way to take a closer look, her fingers tracing the faded images. 

“Is this you?” Nora asked, holding up the photo strip, her voice barely a whisper of surprise. 

Johanna paused her swearing, her head snapping up to look at what Nora was holding. “Yeah, why?” she asked, a flicker of distant memory in her eyes. “Do I look different?” 

Nora took another second, studying the youthful, vibrant face in the photographs before looking at Johanna, staring her in the eye. “No,” Nora said softly, her voice filled with a quiet certainty that transcended the decades. “You look happy.” 

Johanna approached Nora, taking the picture from her. She looked at it for a second, a fleeting ghost of a smile touching her lips before vanishing. Then, as if a sudden, stark realization had struck her with the force of a physical blow, her gaze snapped to Morpheus. 

“Shit…” she muttered, her eyes widening, the word a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “I know where your sand is.” 

~ 

The scene shifted, and the trio found themselves walking down a bustling London street, the damp air thick with the scent of exhaust and damp concrete. Rain, having just ceased, left the pavements slick and reflective, mirroring the glow of distant streetlights. They approached a sturdy, red-brick apartment building, its numerous windows, some lit, some dark, reflecting the grey, bruised sky. The rhythmic thrum of city life, a symphony of distant sirens, chatter, and rumbling buses, enveloped them. 

As they walked up to the entrance, Nora turned to Johanna, her curiosity piqued. "Who was the woman in the picture?" she asked, the image of the smiling woman still vivid in her mind. 

Johanna, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her trench coat, glanced at Nora, a wry smirk touching her lips. "Her name's Rachel. Rachel Moodie." 

"Did she do magic as well?" Nora pressed, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. 

Johanna scoffed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "God, no. Absolutely not." She paused, then added, a softer, more reflective tone entering her voice, "Actually, she's a decent person. Proper job, nice family. Fucking hated all the magic stuff." 

Morpheus cut in, his voice a low, resonant hum in Nora's mind, laced with a subtle undercurrent of ancient judgment. "And yet you left the sand with her?" 

Johanna bristled slightly, her shoulders tensing. She pulled one hand from her pocket, gesturing vaguely. "No, I did not leave it with her. I sort of… left it. And her." She finished the sentence with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if the matter was closed. 

Nora let out a soft, understanding "Oh," the single syllable filled with a shared melancholy. 

"I was staying at her place," Johanna continued, her voice gaining a defensive edge, as if anticipating an argument. "She interpreted that as us living together, which we weren't. We were just... occupying the same space. So one night, I just went on a job and never went back." She shrugged, the movement sharp and decisive. 

"Why?" Morpheus asked, his dark gaze unwavering, a hint of ancient curiosity in his expression. 

Johanna met his eyes, a world-weariness settling on her features that seemed deeper than her years. "Because it never ends well, does it?" 

Morpheus stopped walking, his tall, dark form casting a long shadow on the damp pavement. His gaze fixed on her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "What?" 

Both Nora and Johanna stopped too, the city's background hum suddenly seeming louder in the stillness of their conversation. Johanna looked at Morpheus, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. "Love." 

Morpheus considered her words for a long second, his eyes shifting to Nora's face, then back to Johanna. "I wouldn't say that." A profound, quiet certainty underpinned his statement, almost a rebuke. 

Johanna gave a small huff, a sound of exasperation and perhaps a hint of bitter amusement, before resuming her walk. Nora hung back for just a second, looking at the back of Morpheus's head in slight shock. What ? Then, shaking her head slightly, she hurried to catch up.  

"I don't think you've noticed, but people tend to get hurt around me," Johanna said, her voice a little softer now, less defensive. "It was safer for her if I left." 

"Did you tell her that?" Nora asked, her voice quiet, a touch of empathy for Rachel in her tone. 

"No," Johanna replied, a hint of resignation in her tone, her gaze fixed on the building ahead. "I suppose I'll have to now." They had reached the main door to the apartment building. Johanna walked up to the row of buzzers, scanning the names. "It's been six months," she muttered to herself, her finger tracing a name on the list, almost as if willing it to disappear. "She might have moved house. Please have moved house." But then her finger stopped abruptly. She saw Rachel Moodie's name clearly listed on one of the doorbells. "Oh, bollocks." 

She pushed the button, a sharp, almost violent jab, and waited, a tense silence stretching between them. "Maybe we'll get lucky and she won't be in," she mumbled, but she was cut off by the faint bzzzz of the door buzzing open, almost immediately after her finger left the button. Johanna looked at the door, a confused frown on her face. "That's weird. She didn't even ask who it was. Maybe she's expecting someone. This could get awkward. More awkward, even." She reached for the handle, pushed the heavy door open slightly, then looked back at Morpheus and Nora. "Wait here." 

"I'm coming with you," Morpheus stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. 

"No, you're not," Johanna retorted instantly, her cynical edge back, sharper than before. "Do you have any idea how much she probably hates me right now? All the reasons she has to slam a door in my face? Don't you have any ex-girlfriends?" 

Morpheus paused for a second, and a face of what looked like previous trauma and slight horror came over his features – a brief, profound flash of an ancient, unresolved pain that Nora felt acutely through their link. He quickly composed himself, his expression hardening. "I will not wait long." 

Johanna huffed out a laugh, a dry, humorless sound that contained a hint of genuine amusement at his discomfort. "You won't have to, mate. She's going to slam the door in my face, just like I'm about to do to you right now." And at that moment, with a swift, deliberate movement, she closed the door with a decisive click, plunging them back into the muted city sounds. 

A moment later, a flutter of black wings broke the silence directly above them. Matthew, having apparently circled back, descended with surprising grace and landed gently on top of Nora’s head. His talons, surprisingly light, gripped her hair. 

Nora, startled but not alarmed, tilted her head up very slightly, a soft smile touching her lips. “Hello, Matthew,” she murmured, her voice warm. 

“Oh, hey, Nora,” Matthew replied, his voice a casual, slightly gravelly chirp, as if perching on a human head was an everyday occurrence. 

Morpheus’s deep voice, resonant and carrying an ancient weight, cut through the air. “You’ve returned.” 

“Oh, yeah, boss,” Matthew chirped, ruffling his feathers on Nora’s head. “Just checking the perimeter. All’s good. Nothing untoward in this neck of the woods, far as I can tell.” 

Nora chuckled softly at the raven’s nonchalant demeanor, a fond, amused sound escaping her lips. She could feel the slight shifting of his weight, a comforting, familiar presence. Morpheus, meanwhile, remained impassive, his gaze fixed on the closed door, no doubt contemplating Johanna’s unusual departure and Matthew’s sudden return. The scent of damp brick and lingering city grit filled the air around them. 

Nora shifted slightly, careful not to dislodge Matthew. The air felt heavy with unspoken thoughts, with the weight of Johanna’s abrupt departure and Morpheus’s lingering concentration on the door. She wanted to lighten the mood, to steer their conversation away from the tense unknown. 

“So, Sandy,” Nora began, her voice gaining a playful lightness, “quick question, purely hypothetical, of course.” She paused, then tilted her head back just enough to catch his gaze, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “If you had to pick, which would be worse: always having that unbearable itch in the middle of your back that you can’t quite reach, or perpetually feeling like you’ve forgotten something crucially important, but you can never remember what it is?” She waited, a small smile playing on her lips, watching for any flicker of reaction on his usually impassive face. 

Morpheus considered her question, his features remaining still for a moment that stretched. Then, a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed a flicker of amusement. "The latter, by far," he stated, his mental voice dry and deliberate. "An absence of knowledge, a void where understanding should be, is a far more pervasive discomfort than a fleeting physical irritation." 

Matthew, perched on Nora’s head, ruffled his feathers, then leaned down to look at Nora with a beady eye. "How many times do you ask the Boss these kinds of things, Nora?" he chirped, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "Honestly, he gets all serious. Me? I'd take the forgotten thing. What you don't know can't haunt you, right? Better a mystery than a permanent itch. Though," he continued, preening a bit, "that reminds me of this one: would I rather constantly have the song 'Never Gonna Give You Up' stuck on a loop in my head, or only be able to communicate through interpretive dance?" 

Nora blinked, utterly confused. Her brow furrowed. "What... what's 'Never Gonna Give You Up'?" she asked, looking between Matthew and Morpheus, neither of whom seemed to understand her bewilderment. 

Matthew, oblivious to Nora’s cultural gap, just flapped his wings. “Regardless, it seems that girl’s been in there for a while,” he chirped, turning his head towards the apartment door. 

At that exact moment, Morpheus seemed to sense something, his head tilting infinitesimally. A flicker of ancient awareness crossed his face. He disappeared with a silent, abrupt movement, taking Nora with him. One moment they were there, the next, the space they occupied was empty. Matthew was left alone, squawking indignantly as his perch had suddenly disappeared from underneath him, sending him flapping wildly in the damp London air. “Hey! Where’d you go, Boss? Nora!” he squawked, circling the now-empty patch of pavement.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus and Nora reappeared in a living room, the lingering, ethereal effects of a bright and sunny dream melting away like morning mist. The air, which had moments before shimmered with the golden haze of slumber, grew dim, the mundane reality of the room settling in. Morpheus, his voice a deep, commanding resonance, cut through the fading dreamscape. "Constantine. Wake up." 

As Johanna’s vision sharpened, the bright cheer of her dream dissolved, replaced by the shadowed familiarity of her Rachel’s living room. The abrupt transition from sun-drenched tranquility to the present gloom made her eyes sting. "What did you do to me?" she rasped, her voice thick with sleep and confusion. 

"It was the sand," Morpheus replied, his form tall and stark against the growing shadows. 

Johanna’s eyes, still adjusting, darted around the room, a sudden, desperate thought seizing her. "Where is Rachel?" Before Morpheus could answer, the realization hit her, sharp and cold. "Rach!" she called out, a guttural cry of fear, and bolted towards the bedroom. 

Morpheus and Nora followed, stepping into the dim, hushed bedroom. The air felt heavy, stagnant, imbued with a strange, unnatural stillness. Rachel lay in the bed, her body tragically thin and gaunt, her skin a pallid gray as if all life and nourishment had been utterly drained from her. Her breath was shallow, almost imperceptible, and her eyes, though slightly open, held no light. She was barely clinging to existence, a fragile wisp of a person. 

As Nora entered, her heart ached at the sight. She heard a faint, struggling whisper, barely audible. "Jo? Jo, is that you?" Rachel's voice was a fragile thread of sound, stretched thin by her suffering. 

Johanna was already by the bedside, perched on the edge, her hand gently grasping Rachel’s skeletal fingers. Her face, usually so composed, was contorted with a raw, unprotected grief. "Yes, it's me," she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft, filled with a desperate tenderness. "It's Jo." 

Morpheus moved to the other side of the bed, his presence a stark, otherworldly contrast to the human sorrow in the room. His gaze fell upon Rachel's other hand, clasped loosely on the crumpled sheets. There, nestled securely in her grasp, was his leather pouch of sand. He reached out slowly, his pale, elegant fingers carefully encircling the worn leather. The silence in the room seemed to stretch, thick and heavy, as he began to pull the pouch away. 

As the sand pouch left Rachel's hand, her body seemed to deteriorate further before their eyes. A shiver ran through her, and her already pale skin grew even more ashen. She began to mumble and cry out, a pained, whimpering sound, her fingers weakly clawing at the air where the pouch had been. "No... give it back... it hurts..." The words were slurred, barely coherent, but the agony in them was undeniable. 

Morpheus took a few steps away from the bed, turning towards Nora, the reclaimed pouch held firmly in his grasp. But Nora, her hand already raised, stopped him, pressing her palm gently against his chest. "Wait." Her gaze moved from Rachel and Johanna on the bed to Morpheus, then back again, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. Hoping to repay Johanna’s unexpected kindness, if only slightly, and hurting deeply at Rachel's visible suffering, Nora looked up at him through her lashes. "Can you do anything?" she asked softly, almost a plea. "Please. Is there anything, anything at all, that you can do?" She then sent a thought to him, a clear, desperate pulse through their link: She's hurting. This isn’t just about your sand. This is about a life, about someone who deserves peace.  

He looked between Nora and the two women on the bed, his ancient gaze briefly shadowed by something akin to discomfort, an unfamiliar ache perhaps, before a resolution hardened his expression. The raw, unprotected suffering of a mortal, so close to him, so clearly linked to his lost tool. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible nod of decision passed over his face. He turned to Johanna. "Wait outside." 

Johanna, her face streaked with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away, her shoulders slumped with a century of accumulated cynicism and recent heartbreak, quickly squeezed Rachel’s hand one last time. "I'll be right outside, Rach," she whispered, her voice cracking. Then, with a visible effort, she stood and briskly walked out of the room. 

Morpheus walked to the side of the bed. With a deliberate, almost ritualistic movement, he unfastened the drawstring of the leather pouch. The golden, shimmering sand, the very essence of dreams, spilled out into his palm, catching the faint light from the window. His gaze, usually so distant, was now focused with an intense, ancient purpose. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand and lightly dusted a sprinkle of the small golden grains over Rachel's head. As soon as the shimmering sand touched her hair, dissolving into her form like mist, the immediate, profound relief was almost palpable in the room. The lines on her face, scrunched up in pain, instantly eased out, softening her features. Her shallow breaths deepened, and she took a long, slow, deep breath out, a soft sigh escaping her lips, before becoming utterly still, a peaceful calm settling over her. 

Nora, her heart aching for Rachel’s ordeal, walked up behind Morpheus. Rachel’s shallow breaths were a fragile echo in the dim room, and Nora’s own breath caught, a silent plea for solace. She reached out, taking his free hand—the one not occupied by the sand pouch—and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze, as if to tether him, and perhaps herself, to the undeniable pain unfolding before them. Morpheus, without turning, squeezed her hand back, a rare, almost imperceptible tremor in his touch, a silent acknowledgment of their shared empathy, a brief moment of connection in the somber room. 

They then turned and walked out of the apartment building into the brisk London air. Johanna was pacing back and forth outside, her hands tucked into her pockets, her movements sharp, agitated. When she saw them emerge and walk towards her, she stopped pacing abruptly, her shoulders tensing. 

As they reached her, Morpheus's voice was quiet, devoid of its usual resonance, carrying a somber finality. "She died in peace, in her sleep." 

Johanna swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the pavement, her expression unreadable. "I'll let her dad know," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. After a pause, she looked up, her eyes, though still red, holding a new, unexpected softness. "You know, she's actually a good person. A decent sort. There are a few of them out there, you know." 

Morpheus took a second to reflect on her words, his ancient gaze sweeping over the urban landscape, taking in the myriad of lives around them. Then, his voice, still quiet, held a hint of acknowledgment, a subtle shift from his usual aloofness. "I know." 

Johanna looked towards Matthew, who landed a few feet away from them on the ground with a soft thud, hopped a few times, then stood still, preening a feather. She nodded towards the raven, her tone gruff but laced with genuine concern. "Look after him," she said to Matthew. "He needs it." Then, she looked towards Nora, her gaze quickly flitting between Nora and Morpheus before locking eyes with Nora again. "You too," she added, her voice softening imperceptibly, and then, with a quick, knowing wink, she began to walk away, her trench coat flapping around her like a protective cloak. 

She had taken maybe ten steps when Morpheus called out, his voice a sudden, sharp command that cut through the city's din. "Constantine!" 

Johanna paused, then turned around, looking at him with a questioning eyebrow raised, her posture defensive. Morpheus’s eyes met hers, holding a profound, ancient promise. "That nightmare won't bother you anymore." 

She looked him over for a second, a flicker of surprise, then understanding, in her eyes, before giving a curt nod. Then, she turned around again and walked away, disappearing around the corner of the building without another word. 

When she was gone, Nora turned to Morpheus, a soft, appreciative smile on her face. "That was nice of you." 

He grumbled softly, a sound that vibrated through their mental link, almost a purr of discomfort at the compliment, a rare crack in his stoic facade. "I can do nice things... occasionally." 

Nora stared up at him, her smile widening into a playful smirk, a hint of teasing in her eyes. “Uh-huh. Occasionally. Like, when you decide to start wearing colors other than black. Or the day you try a new facial expression that isn’t your usual brooding intensity or mild annoyance. I’m holding out for a full-on grin, Sandy. Just one.” 

Matthew, who had been perched silently on the ground a few steps away from them, suddenly let out a loud, shocked “Caw!” that was unmistakably a burst of laughter. He flapped his wings frantically, launching himself off the pavement as if physically startled by Nora’s audacity. “Oh, man! You tell ‘em, Nora!” he cawed again, circling once before darting away, a black streak against the grey London sky, clearly making a hasty retreat. 

Before Matthew could fly too far away, Nora yelled, her voice cutting through the urban din, “Hold on, Matthew! We still got another stop to make!” The sound of her voice, clear and unyielding, seemed to tug at the very air, pulling him back. 

Matthew circled around sharply, his black wings blurring as he executed a surprisingly tight turn that defied avian physics. He landed neatly, if a little dramatically, on Nora’s outstretched arm. The unexpected weight, though light, made her shift slightly, a small huff of breath escaping her. He didn’t say anything, but he tweaked his head slightly to the side, his beady eyes fixed on Nora as if to say, Yes ? 

Nora looked at Morpheus, a wry half-smile on her face, a glint of shared mischief in her eyes. “You said we had to go to Hell, right?” she asked, her tone almost conversational, as if she were inquiring about the nearest post office. 

Matthew, still perched on her arm, let out a loud, incredulous “ What?! ” The single word was laced with profound shock, a dawning horror, and a clear, emphatic declaration that he had definitely not signed up for this. He looked from Nora to Morpheus, then back again, his tiny raven heart seemingly doing frantic somersaults in his feathery chest. “Hell? You mean, like, the actual Hell? With the fire and the brimstone and the paperwork?” He gave a nervous little hop on Nora’s arm, his grip tightening imperceptibly. He looked quickly between Morpheus and Nora, a wave of avian despair washing over him as he realized there was no conceivable way he was getting out of this, or that they were changing their minds. He then let out a low sigh, the avian equivalent of resignation. “Fine. Fuck it! Let’s go to Hell!” 

Morpheus looked at Nora, a flicker of something akin to exasperated fondness in his ancient eyes. He realized there was no way he could talk her out of this. With a subtle, almost imperceptible nod to himself, he took out his sand pouch. With a sweeping gesture, he poured the shimmering golden sand around them. The air immediately thickened, swirling with iridescent light, and then, with a soft whoosh, they disappeared in a golden vortex.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The chill of Hell was immediate, a pervasive cold that seeped into Nora's bones despite the layers of clothing. It was a grey, desolate landscape, stretching endlessly under a bruised, perpetual twilight. Brittle, bare trees clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers, and the air hung heavy with the cloying scent of death and brimstone. Nora shivered, letting out a breath that plumed in front of her like a small, white ghost. 

Matthew, who had landed on the desolate ground, hopped several times between Morpheus and Nora, his small avian body agitated. "Holy shit," he chirped, his voice high with disbelief. "I didn't think Hell was going to be so cold! I mean, it's Hell, for crying out loud. Wouldn't it be like, you know, hot ?" 

Nora shook her head, a low hum of agreement escaping her lips. "Yeah, it is a bit brisk." She then turned to Morpheus, her gaze scanning the bleak horizon. "Which way do we go?" 

"I suggest we follow the damned," Morpheus replied, his voice a low, resonant hum. 

A faint, rhythmic chanting reached them, a near-constant, booming sound that vibrated through the desolate landscape. As they followed the hypnotic rhythm, the chanting grew louder, leading them to a hulking, stone archway. A thin, metal gate, clearly off-kilter and barely clinging to its hinges, sagged in the middle of the arch. 

Matthew semi-whispered to Morpheus, his head cocked to the side. "So, we're not sneaking in then?" His tone held a hint of surprise, perhaps even disappointment. 

"A king may not enter another monarch's realm uninvited," Morpheus responded, his gaze fixed on the gate. He paused, turning his head slightly to look back at Nora and Matthew. "There are rules. Protocols. Which must be followed." 

Matthew let out a single, exasperated caw in response. Morpheus turned to Nora, his expression grave, and his voice, now sharp with warning, cut through the oppressive air. "Nora, you are mortal here. No matter what befalls us, you must not leave my side. The denizens of this realm… they will seek to exploit any weakness they perceive. They will try to take advantage." 

Nora met his gaze, her jaw firm, and gave a single, resolute nod. 

Just before Morpheus turned back towards the gate, he paused again, a subtle flicker of realization crossing his face. He looked at Nora once more, his ancient eyes locking with hers. "And be mindful of your words." The spoken warning was polite, a veiled caution, but the thought he projected directly into her mind was laced with exasperation and urgency: We do not need a dispute with Hell, Nora, so please, for the love of the Dreaming, watch your language and do not piss anyone off.  

The full weight of his mental addendum hit Nora. Her eyes widened, and her lips pressed into a thin, affronted line. Oh, come on, really? she thought, a spark of indignation flaring. But then, she gave it another moment of thought, the logical part of her mind asserting itself. He had a point. This was Hell, after all, and she had a bit of a… mouth. She raised her eyebrows slightly, tilting her head in concession, and then gave a small, rueful nod. Yeah, okay. You got me. Morpheus nodded once, then turned back and took the last few steps towards the gate, the others following close behind him. 

The banging gong sound continued its ceaseless rhythm in the background, growing louder with each passing second. Then, heavy, deliberate footsteps crunched on the gravel, approaching the gate. 

"There's one at the door. At the gate of damnation. Is it thief, thug or whore?" a deep, gravelly voice chanted on repeat, slowly, deliberately. He said it once, then again, closer this time, and Nora frowned, trying to decipher the slurred words. As the figure approached the gate and spoke the line once more, very clear and distinct, Nora's eyes widened in dawning horror. Not only had she understood the words, but she realized what he had just called them. 

A half-choked sound of indignation escaped her lips, and she took an aborted step forward, ready to let her thoughts be voiced. Morpheus held out a pale hand towards her, looking over his shoulder, a silent query in his eyes: What did I just say? Nora looked back at him, a silent "Crap" crossing her features. She bit her lip slightly, then shrugged her shoulders, taking a step back. Nora looked down for a second, and in that brief moment, Morpheus's eyes heated, a low, intense warmth radiating from their depths. He then slowly lowered the hand he had raised to stop her, and once it was back at his side, his fingers curled into a fleeting, tight fist before relaxing. Morpheus then turned back towards the guard. 

"Greetings, Squatterbloat," Morpheus said, his voice level, echoing with ancient authority. "I seek an audience with your sovereign." 

The giant guard, who stood easily eight feet tall and was twice as wide as the largest man Nora had ever seen, chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very ground. "And who might you be?" 

"I am the King of Dreams. Ruler of the Nightmare Realms," Morpheus responded, his voice unwavering. 

The guard's massive head tilted back, and he let out a booming laugh. "Mmm. Yes, my clown." 

Excuse me, what the hell did he just call my Sandy? Nora's thoughts screamed in her head, a torrent of indignant rage. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. 

"Guard your tongue, demon," Morpheus's voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, laced with a cold, ancient fury. The Nightmare King side of him, long dormant, surfaced slightly. "The ruler of Hell will not be kind to one who insults an honored guest. And I am a guest in this realm, as I am monarch of my own." 

The guard's laughter died, replaced by a sullen glare. "So, where's your Ruby?" he grunted, his eyes narrowing. 

Morpheus's gaze sharpened, a challenge in his starlit eyes. "Shall I use it to haunt your dreams and your waking hours too? Or will you open the gates of Hell and let us through?" 

The demon grunted again, a low, guttural sound of reluctant assent. He slowly reached for a massive ring of keys hanging from his belt, the metal clanking with each movement. He fumbled for a moment, then selected a key and thrust it into the rusty lock. With a loud, grinding screech, the gate groaned open. He stepped back a few paces, a scowl on his brutish face. 

Morpheus, Nora, and Matthew walked through the gate, the chill of Hell seeping deeper into their bones. "Now, take us to the palace," Morpheus commanded, his voice firm. 

Squatterbloat merely mumbled under his breath, "There's one at the door, there's one at the door, there's one at the door," a nonsensical, repetitive drone. 

Nora's mind, meanwhile, was a swirling maelstrom of curses. That rude, obnoxious, grotesque piece of overgrown muscle! The nerve of him, calling people whores! And insulting Morpheus! Oh, I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on a crowbar again, he's going to regret every single word that spewed from his foul mouth. 'My clown'? I'll show him a clown. A clown with a crowbar. Her silent tirade continued, punctuated by mental images of Squatterbloat experiencing every one of her more creative curses. The sheer audacity of the demon was almost enough to make her forget the grim reality of their destination. 

Morpheus, sensing the furious, unvoiced torrent within her, was like mentally shaking his head, a wave of exasperated amusement rippling through their connection. At least she was keeping her colorful opinions internal, for now. It promised to be a source of rather personal entertainment for the foreseeable future. 

~ 

They walked for a little while, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound besides the distant, rhythmic gonging. Squatterbloat, a hulking shadow, lumbered several paces ahead of them. The oppressive quiet, broken only by their footsteps, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the sense of desolation. 

"Any idea where we are, Boss?" Matthew chirped, his voice a little strained, his head swiveling nervously. 

"The landscape is subject to the whims of the Morningstar," Morpheus replied, his voice a low, even hum, his gaze sweeping across the bleak expanse. 

Matthew gave a little hop, his feathers ruffling. "The morning star? We have to spend the night in this literal godforsaken—" 

"I believe Morpheus meant Lucifer Morningstar, Matthew," Nora gently cut him off, her voice soft but firm. She looked back up at Morpheus, her eyebrows raised in a silent question, Right?  

"As in, The Devil?" Matthew added, his head cocked, questioning Morpheus directly, a note of genuine disbelief in his tone. 

"The ruler of Hell is no mere devil," Morpheus stated, his voice carrying a subtle weight, a distinction lost on most mortals. 

"So, you two know each other?" Matthew asked, a hint of something akin to awe, and perhaps a touch of trepidation, in his voice. 

"We have known each other for a very long time," Morpheus responded, his gaze distant, lost in the eons of shared history. After a moment's pause, he continued, "When we first met, Lucifer was the angel Samael." 

"I forgot the Devil used to be an angel," Matthew commented, a trace of wonder in his tone, a memory from a forgotten mortal life resurfacing. 

"Not just any angel," Morpheus stated, a subtle weight in his voice, his eyes seeming to hold the light of distant stars. "The most beautiful, wisest, and most powerful of all the angels. Saving only the Creator, Lucifer is perhaps the most powerful being there is. By far. Especially now." 

"Why now?" Matthew pressed, hopping closer, drawn in by the gravity of Morpheus's words. 

"The last time I was here, I was an honored guest, an envoy for my own kingdom," Morpheus replied, a faint shadow of past pride in his tone. He paused, the memory settling around him, a stark contrast to their current situation. "This time, I have invited myself, and I lack my symbols of office." 

"But you're still Dream of the Endless, right, Boss? You've got your sand." Matthew's words trailed off, replaced by a sudden, unnerving silence. The near-constant gonging that had been a grim soundtrack to their journey was gone. The abrupt absence of the sound left a hollow space, a disquieting void. 

"Wait a second," Nora said, looking around, her head tilting. The silence was almost louder than the gonging had been. "Squatterbloat," Morpheus murmured, his eyes scanning the bleak landscape, a grim realization dawning. "He's gone." 

"Alright, don't panic," Matthew announced, puffing out his chest, trying to project an air of competence. "I'm just going to fly up and see where we are." He flapped his wings twice, launching himself into the air, a picture of avian determination. He immediately spun back around, landing heavily on the ground, his feathers ruffled and his small body trembling. "Nope! Nope, not doing that." 

Nora and Morpheus looked up, their gazes following Matthew's terrified stare. Nora immediately grimaced, a wave of revulsion washing over her. Interwoven into the skeletal trees above them were decaying, grey corpses, their forms grotesque against the twilight sky. Their leathery skin clung to bone, and empty eye sockets stared down at them. Groaning sounds, like wind whistling through hollow reeds, drifted down from the branches, mingling with the creaking of the skeletal trees as they swayed in the unseen currents of Hell's air. 

"Does this seem like the way to the palace to you, Boss?" Matthew asked quietly, his voice barely a chirp, his tiny eyes wide with primal fear. 

"A demon has a hundred motives for anything he does," Morpheus replied, his voice low, addressed to both Matthew and Nora, a cold certainty in his tone. "All of them malevolent." 

As they continued to look around, the oppressive silence was broken by a quiet, feminine voice calling out from behind them, soft but clear in the desolate air. "Kai'ckul?" 

The trio turned, their gazes drawn to the source of the voice. They saw a structure that was more prison than home, a grim, organic architecture seemingly grown from the very rock of Hell. It was a low-slung, almost squat hut, but its walls appeared to be a twisted, petrified wood, interwoven with sharp, gnarled branches that emerged like spikes, creating a menacing, skeletal facade. Heavy, rusted iron bars covered the single, small window, making it clear that this was a cage, not a dwelling. The scent of despair seemed to emanate from it, mingling with the ever-present brimstone. 

A female form approached the barred window. Her deep chocolate skin appeared drawn and pale in the dim light, framed by a slightly compressed afro that sat close to her head. She grasped two of the cold, iron bars, her knuckles white, her face almost touching the rusted metal. "Kai'ckul?" she whispered again, her voice raw with a desperate hope. Then she breathed out heavily, a visible plume of cold air. "Dream Lord?" A gasp escaped her lips, and then, a breathy, choked whisper: "It is you." 

At this, Morpheus took a very small, almost imperceptible step towards her. "I greet you, Nada." 

Nora, who had harbored a small, gnawing suspicion of the woman's identity given their environment and Morpheus's prior confession in the glass cage, remained utterly quiet in the background. The confirmation from Morpheus solidified her fears, a heavy weight in her chest. As he spoke Nada’s name, she slowly lowered her arm towards the ground, extending it to Matthew in a silent gesture for him to hop on. Once he had settled, a light, familiar weight on her forearm, she took a few silent steps backward, maintaining a proximity close enough for safety, as she had promised she would stay near Morpheus earlier, yet still far enough away to afford them a semblance of privacy. She wasn’t sure if Morpheus was truly ready for this interaction, or how he would navigate the treacherous currents of this ancient pain. But she was ready for whatever he decided to do, a silent vow of unwavering support echoing in her mind. 

"How I have prayed for this day," Nada breathed, her voice a fragile whisper, yet filled with an almost unbearable hope. She looked at Morpheus, her eyes, even in the dimness, radiating love and a desperate yearning. "I knew you would come." 

"It pains me to see you like this," Morpheus responded, his voice a low, somber murmur. 

Nada pleaded, her voice rising slightly, infused with a raw, desperate need. "Then free me, Lord! Only your forgiveness can free me." After a weighty pause, her voice dropped, hushed and vulnerable. "Do you not still love me?" 

Morpheus took a moment, a long, agonizing beat, to collect his thoughts. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken history. "It has been ten thousand years, Nada." His voice was soft, laced with an ancient weariness. "Yes, I still love you. But…" He paused, turning his head just slightly in Nora’s direction, not quite looking at her, but acknowledging her presence. He thought for a moment, a brief, internal reflection, recalling Nora’s poignant observation from the glass prison: Her fear of that life... it was not a rejection of you, but of what it would mean for a mortal . The truth of it, the simple, devastating truth of his own blind pride, settled deeper within him. The raw, recently endured pain of his own imprisonment, of being judged and confined for what he was, echoed Nada's ancient plight, granting him a profound, bitter empathy. 

He turned his head back towards Nada, his gaze filled with that understanding of deep pain, but also softened by the wisdom of his own suffering. He took a hesitant step closer to the bars, his pale hand rising slightly as if to reach out, then faltering. "Nada," he began, his voice a low rumble, searching for the right words, a visible struggle in his features. "Your choice, born of fear for a life you could not embrace… It was my anger… my hurt… that compelled my actions. My judgment was… " He paused again, a deep furrow forming in his brow, wrestling with the unfamiliar exposure of his own vulnerabilities. "It was... unjust. Wrong of me to punish you for such mortal fears." He took a second, collecting his thoughts, his eyes fixed on hers. "After all this time, I do… I forgive you for those fears. And I hope, in time, you can forgive me for the unjust punishment I inflicted upon you." 

Nada gasped, a sharp, choked sound of pure shock and surprise. Tears, shimmering streaks on her dark cheeks, began to pour from her eyes. Her mouth fell agape, trembling, yet it was subtly upturning at the corners, a nascent, fragile curve of joy amidst her sorrow. "Forgive… me?" she whispered, the words barely audible, as if the concept were too immense to comprehend. "Oh, Kai'ckul… my Dream Lord..." She reached out instinctively, her hand pushing through the bars, desperate to touch him. 

Morpheus took a swift, subtle step back, a clear, unspoken boundary. His gaze remained sorrowful, but unwavering, a silent testament to his decision. He nodded to himself, a definitive movement. He looked Nada in the eye once more. "I will speak to Lucifer," he stated, then paused, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, "regarding your imprisonment." 

Nada slowly pulled her arm back in through the bars, her hand falling to grasp the cold iron once more. She nodded, tears still streaming from her eyes, her gaze fixed on Morpheus. She seemed to want to say more, her lips parting slightly, but no sound emerged. She simply held his gaze, a quiet, profound acceptance in her eyes. 

Nora, from her position, felt a quiet awe settling over her. A couple of tears escaped her own eyes, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She had felt the profound struggle Morpheus had undergone, the sheer effort of exposing himself, of articulating such deep, personal vulnerability. A powerful warmth spread through her chest, a profound pride and happiness that he had made this choice, that he had extended such forgiveness and understanding to Nada. 

Morpheus took several steps back, then a couple more, creating a small distance. Nora, still carrying Matthew, made her way over towards him. Just as they reached his side, before either of them could utter a word, the demon guard, Squatterbloat, suddenly materialized beside them, his massive form appearing from the desolate landscape with a low grumble.  

"Follow me," Squatterbloat grumbled, his voice like grinding stones, and the trio began to move, the demon's massive, heavy footsteps crunching loudly on the desolate ground several paces ahead of them. They walked for what felt like an eternity, the grey, barren landscape stretching endlessly under the bruised, perpetual twilight of Hell. The oppressive quiet, broken only by their footsteps and the distant, unseen groans of the damned, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the profound sense of desolation and isolation. The air remained frigid, biting at exposed skin, heavy with the cloying scent of death and brimstone. 

After several minutes, as the monotonous trek began to wear on them, Matthew finally piped up, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. "So, that woman back there. Anything you want to share with your best friend Matthew?" His tone was carefully casual, almost conspiratorial, despite the inherent danger of their surroundings. 

After a moment, Morpheus turned his head, his gaze distant, lost in eons of memory, though he continued to walk forward, his tall frame cutting a silent silhouette against the dim horizon. "Her name is Nada. She was the ruler of a tribe that called themselves the First People. We were in love." His words were soft, almost a whisper, laden with an ancient sorrow. 

Matthew paused for a second, then hopped agitatedly on Nora’s arm. His tiny head swiveled directly to Nora, then back to Morpheus, then quickly back to Nora, and then back to Morpheus. "So what did she do? How did she end up here?" He seemed almost afraid to ask, yet his curiosity outweighed his fear. 

"She defied me," Morpheus replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet the weight of the statement hung heavy in the cold air. 

Matthew's feathers ruffled, his small body tensing. "Wait, you put her here?" The accusation, raw and incredulous, hung between them. 

Before Morpheus could explain further, the demon guard in front of them stopped abruptly, his immense bulk suddenly still. Squatterbloat then stepped with surprising agility to the side, his massive, gnarled hand gesturing forward with a brisk, almost impatient motion, revealing what lay beyond. 

"Why are we stopping?" Matthew asked both Nora and Morpheus, his voice a bewildered, slightly panicked chirp, his tiny head craning. 

Nora looked ahead, past the hulking, shadowed form of the guard, and her eyes widened, a slow gasp escaping her lips. "I think we're here."

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The short, stone archway tunnel opened almost immediately into a vast, awe-inspiring atrium. It was a large, circular room, a dizzying expanse of dark, almost black wood and polished obsidian, its surfaces gleaming faintly in the flickering light. Intricate, flowing carvings, impossibly detailed and ancient, ascended towards the unseen, vaulted ceiling, depicting scenes both noble and terrifying. In between each arch on the wall, fire sconces blazed with hot coals, burning a furious, bright red, casting dancing, crimson light that chased the shadows across the polished, dark surfaces. The air in this space was palpably warmer, thick with the scent of heat and something metallic, almost like blood. 

The central area of the floor was sunken, two wide, shallow steps leading down into a vast, circular expanse. Directly in its center was a waist-high fire pit, heavily carved with grotesque and beautiful designs, yet it contained no wood or fuel. It was merely a bed of blazing, incandescent red hot coals, radiating immense heat, with the occasional ethereal blue flame coiling and wisping out from its depths like spectral tongues. 

On the far side of the expansive room, opposite their entry, was a large, ornate opening that led to a broad, dark balcony. Beyond it, Nora could hear a tremendous commotion, a deafening cacophony that vibrated through the very stone of the atrium: a raw, primal chanting, the rhythmic, booming thud of massive drums, and a pervasive haze of deep, infernal red light emanating from the ground below, a stark and startling contrast to the dark, oppressive twilight sky they had just left. 

Standing in the archway before the balcony was a very tall person, who held themselves with an undeniable, regal grace. Their short, stark white hair curled slightly at the ends and enormous, leathery wings, remarkably similar to those of a bat, spread out behind them like a dark, imposing cloak, shifting slightly with an unseen current. They were clad in a floor-length robe of satin-looking white, its fabric seemed to absorb the flickering light of the coals rather than reflect it, lending to their shadowy allure. 

After a short, charged pause, the figure slowly turned, their movements fluid and deliberate. Nora realized with a jolt that it was a woman, and even from this distance, a palpable dark aura seemed to emanate from her, a curious, unsettling juxtaposition against her stark white hair, which, paradoxically, appeared almost like a halo around her head. 

“Hello, Dream,” the woman’s voice resonated through the vast space, cool and clear, carrying an ancient authority that spoke of millennia. 

“Greetings to you, Lucifer Morningstar,” Morpheus responded, his voice equally composed, devoid of warmth or deference, yet laced with an ancient recognition. He then turned his head slightly to the side, acknowledging another figure Nora hadn’t noticed until that moment, partially obscured by Lucifer’s imposing presence. “And to you, Mazikeen of the Lillim.” 

The second woman turned her head a fraction more towards Morpheus, and Nora saw, with a jolt of revulsion, that the other side of her face was a grotesque landscape of melted, stretched skin, pulled and scarred in odd, horrifying directions. Despite the disfigurement, the woman bowed her head towards Morpheus, a faint rasp in her voice as she spoke. “Greetings, Dream Lord.” Her eyes, sharp and intense, flickered over Nora for a brief moment. 

Lucifer cut in then, her voice abruptly shifting to a saccharine, almost unnervingly cheery tone, utterly fake, a mockery of genuine pleasantry. “You look well, Dream. Are you well? And your family… Destiny, Death, Despair…” She paused, a brief, theatrical sigh escaping her lips, as if the sheer number of names was well beyond her effort level, or perhaps merely a rhetorical flourish to emphasize her feigned concern. “And the others?” 

Morpheus’s patience was visibly thin, though he attempted to mask it, his voice tight. “I presume the ruler of Hell knows this is no social call.” 

Lucifer took a languid, deliberate step forward, her expression shifting to one of almost hopeful curiosity, a glint in her eyes like ancient ice. “Have you come to join forces then? To ally your realm to ours? To acknowledge the sovereignty of Hell?” Her words dripped with a mocking invitation. 

“You know my feelings on that, Lightbringer,” Morpheus responded, his tone unwavering, a steel edge beneath the calm. 

Lucifer laughed softly to herself, a sound like dry leaves rustling across a desolate plain. “Well, feelings change.” After a short pause, her eyes, usually devoid of obvious emotion, held a strange, piercing glint, alight with malicious amusement.  

"Especially when one has been caught and imprisoned by mortals." Lucifer's voice, though light, carried a sharp, predatory edge. She left the archway of the balcony, descending with an unnerving grace down the few steps into the very center of the sunken floor. Her long white robe seemed to flow around her like liquid moonlight. "We expected better of you, sweet Morpheus," she said, her tone dripping with mock sorrow, a theatrical sigh accompanying her words. 

"I have come because my Helm of State was stolen from me," Morpheus cut in, his voice cutting through her performance, cold and unyielding as granite. "I believe one of your demons has it. I should like it back." A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge, before he lowered his voice, the word resonating with ancient power: "Now." 

Lucifer began to walk around the central fire pit, her movements slow and deliberate, her gaze never leaving Morpheus. Her pale hand stretched casually towards the intensely hot coals, and a wisp of blue flame, as if drawn by an invisible thread, curled delicately around her fingers, dancing on her skin without harm. "And if only it were that easy, Dream," she purred, her voice a mocking echo of true sympathy. She paused, the flame twisting around her digits, before continuing, her tone almost a direct taunt, "But there are rules, you see. Protocols. Which must be followed." 

Nora, watching from a few paces behind Morpheus, saw a minute tremor pass through his shoulders. He very slightly shook his head, a ghost of a self-mocking smile curving his lips. He should have known. He, who embodied the very essence of rules and cosmic laws, was now being lectured on them by the King of Hell. The irony was palpable. 

Lucifer gave him a small, knowing smile, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, before turning sharply. Her wings unfurled subtly, momentarily casting a vast, sweeping shadow across the gleaming floor as she moved. She walked back towards the balcony opening, her white robe trailing elegantly behind her. "Which demon has your Helm? Name it, and we will bring it here." 

"I confess, I do not know the name," Morpheus called out, his voice betraying no frustration, only fact. 

Lucifer paused at the archway, her expression suddenly, almost terrifyingly cheerful, as if everything was proceeding exactly as she desired. "Then we will have to summon all of them!" She turned, her arm sweeping out in an almost languid wave motion towards the unseen crowds below the balcony, and the distant, drumming noise level increased drastically, swelling into a thunderous roar. Morpheus took several swift steps to follow her to the balcony, his dark coat billowing, and Nora and Matthew following. 

As Nora peered over the edge of the balcony, her eyes widened in stunned disbelief. Below them, stretching into the hazy red distance, were not just hundreds, but thousands of demons, a churning, chaotic sea of monstrous forms. Their grotesque faces, horns, and varied shapes were barely discernible in the infernal glow, illuminated sporadically by massive bonfires that dotted the landscape like angry, pulsing sores. The air below was thick with their collective, malevolent presence, their roars and chants rising like a storm. 

"There, now, Dream," Lucifer said, her voice carrying over the din, impossibly clear. "You may inquire which demon has your helmet." She then turned her head towards him, her beautiful features tilting in an almost innocently light inquiry. "Shall we interview them one at a time, or…?" A subtle, cruel smirk played on her lips, hinting at the endless, soul-crushing task she was proposing. 

Morpheus gave an almost invisible nod, a flicker of resolve hardening his gaze. "That won't be necessary." He turned abruptly, walking back towards the other side of the atrium, away from the roaring abyss and the grinning Devil. Nora and Matthew followed close behind him, neither wanting to stand within Lucifer's immediate vicinity for a second longer than required. 

Lucifer shared a quick, knowing look with Mazikeen, a silent exchange of triumph, before turning and following Morpheus, her words a mournful, almost sorrowful lament that was entirely for show. "It surprises us how easily you would give up, Dream." Her voice deepened, becoming more melodious, as she walked towards where Morpheus now stood in the central atrium. "We know how you relied upon your tools. But tools are the subtlest of traps. We become reliant upon them, and in their absence, we are vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless." She continued to speak, her words like poisoned honey, enumerating all the ways she believed Morpheus was diminished, exposed, and helpless without his sigils, without his realm, without his strength. Each syllable was a carefully crafted insult, designed to chip away at his ancient pride, to remind him of his recent captivity and loss. 

With each word from Lucifer, Nora's anger coiled tighter, the rage inside her building. She could feel the mocking scorn, the insidious joy Lucifer took in tearing down Morpheus. Her free hand, the one not cradling Matthew, clenched slowly into a tight, white-knuckled fist, held just slightly behind her back, out of sight. Her jaw was tight, a silent vow of retribution forming in her mind. 

Morpheus, still facing away from them, towards the desolate stone wall, allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips. "Not entirely." He reached into the deep pocket of his dark wool coat, pulling out his familiar leather pouch of shimmering sand. He knelt down towards the polished obsidian floor, his movements deliberate. With a practiced motion, he tilted the pouch, and the golden, ethereal sand began to spill out, piling onto the smooth stone in a small, glowing mound. His voice, low and resonant, cut through Lucifer’s lingering taunts. "I have recovered my sand. It brought us to Hell. And it now brings that which is mine in Hell to me." 

The sand he had poured onto the floor began to swirl, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, forming a shimmering, golden vortex. Morpheus took a single step back, his eyes fixed on the growing phenomenon. The sand continued to swirl outwards and upwards, coalescing into a shimmering, miniature tornado in the center of the sunken floor. Slowly, within that swirling column of golden grains, a dark form began to appear, solidifying from the ethereal shimmer. With a final, violent swirl of golden sand, the body completely solidified, facing away from them, a tall, hunched figure. Morpheus's helm, dark and intricately crafted, was clearly held in its hands. The figure's head moved slowly, side to side, as if confused, disoriented, or perhaps searching for its bearings. Then, as abruptly as it appeared, the sand dissipated into nothing, leaving only the demon standing before them. 

The demon, whose form was grotesque and hulking, swiftly turned around, its eyes, like burning coals, fixing on Morpheus. Morpheus's voice, sharp with ancient authority, cut through the silence. "Tell me your name." 

The demon's gaze flickered towards Lucifer, who stood behind them, off to the side, a faint scowl on her perfect features now that Morpheus had cleverly circumvented her attempt to prolong his search. "Do I have to?" the demon grumbled, its voice like gravel. 

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated growl, muttering to Morpheus, "That is Choronzon. A Duke of Hell." 

"Choronzon," Morpheus repeated, his voice low, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the demon directly. "The Helm is mine. You will return it to me." 

"No," Choronzon replied, almost childishly, clutching the helm tighter. "It's mine now. I traded it from a mortal for a paltry thing. It was a fair trade. I've broken no laws." After a pause, the demon seemed to regain a measure of its infernal courage, its voice growing in arrogance. "And if the Dream King wants his Helm back, he will have to fight me for it." 

Morpheus's lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. "Very well. I challenge you, Choronzon." 

The demon chuckled, a guttural, wet sound. "You know the rules, Dream Lord." 

"If I win, you will return my Helm," Morpheus stated, his eyes blazing with resolve. 

Choronzon countered, a cruel gleam in his eyes, "And if you lose, you'll serve as my slave in Hell." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, allowing their full weight to sink in. "For eternity." 

At Choronzon's final pronouncement, both Nora and Matthew sharply turned their heads to Morpheus, their expressions mirroring each other's shock. "For... forever?" Matthew squawked, his voice high with disbelief. 

Nora's breath caught in her throat. The casual bravado of Hell, the chilling indifference to endless suffering, suddenly became terrifyingly personal. Forever? A slave in Hell? The stakes just went from bad to unspeakably, cosmically catastrophic . Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the encroaching dread. 

“I accept the terms,” Morpheus stated, his voice ringing with a cold, unwavering resolve that seemed to cut through the infernal din. 

Matthew let out a dread-filled caw, a mournful, terrified sound that echoed in the vast atrium. Nora’s arm, still holding the raven, shook slightly, a tremor that ran through her entire body. 

“And whom will you choose to represent you in this battle?” Lucifer asked, her voice smooth as polished marble, her eyes gleaming with an unholy light amidst her ethereal beauty. 

“I shall represent myself,” Morpheus replied, his gaze fixed on Lucifer, unwavering, his own dark eyes burning with ancient fire. 

“And whom will you choose to represent you?” Lucifer turned to Choronzon, her white hair framing her unsettlingly perfect face. 

Choronzon paused for a second, his brutish features contorting in thought, the faint glow of the coals reflecting in his deep-set eyes, before a slow, cruel grin spread across his face, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. “Hmm. I choose you, Sire.” He pointed a thick, clawed finger at Lucifer. 

Lucifer bowed her head, a show of fake sorrow, her satin-white robe rustling softly around her. Her voice dripped with mock apology. “Apologies, Dream, but the laws of Hell demand that I become his champion.” Her eyes, when she lifted them, gleamed with triumphant malice, utterly devoid of the feigned regret. “But if you would not fight me…” 

“I have accepted the terms,” Morpheus cut her off, his voice absolute, each word a hammer blow of conviction. “We will challenge.” 

Lucifer’s smile became almost saccharine, too sweet, too wide for the hellish setting, revealing teeth that were just a touch too sharp. “Perfect. But first…” She paused, her gaze fixed on Morpheus for a deliberate, challenging moment, then, with agonizing slowness, shifted her attention towards Nora, a calculating gleam entering her eyes. Her hand, pale against the stark white of her robe, flicked once into the air, a quiet, almost imperceptible signal in the cavernous space. 

Suddenly, Nora found herself assailed from behind. Two hulking demon forms, their skin like cracked earth and eyes like embers, seemed to spawn from the very shadows of the atrium, their clawed hands clamping down on both her arms with bruising force. Matthew, caught completely by surprise as Nora’s arm was ripped out from beneath him, let out several loud, indignant squawks, flapping wildly with a flurry of black feathers before landing a few feet away with an undignified thud, his tiny body trembling. Nora gasped in shock, the air driven from her lungs by the sudden assault, and instinctively tried to pull her arms from the demons’ iron grip, but their hold was locked tight, almost crushing her bones. 

Morpheus’s attention immediately snapped to Nora, his eyes blazing with ancient fury, starlit pools of rage, and he took a furious, ground-eating step towards her, his dark coat swirling around him like a storm cloud. 

“Dream!” Lucifer’s voice cracked like a whip, stern and absolute, cutting through the sudden chaos and stopping him immediately, a palpable wall of command erected between him and Nora. 

Lucifer then began to move, taking slow, deliberate steps around the other side of the central fire pit, her movements intimidatingly graceful, subtly gaining ground towards Nora. Her white robe flowed around her like a predatory cloud, the light from the coals dancing in its folds. “You think I had forgotten the mortal,” Lucifer purred, her voice a silken thread of accusation, “that you brought along with you into Hell, into my realm, without consideration for me, or for asking permission?” She shook her head, a theatrical display of disappointment. “Tut, tut sweet Morpheus. It’s almost as if you don’t care about this mortal, or what happens to her.” As she finished speaking, she stopped directly in front of Nora, her ethereal beauty an unnerving contrast to her malevolent intent. With unexpected gentleness, she delicately placed her forefinger underneath Nora’s chin and tilted Nora’s head up, forcing her to meet Lucifer’s gaze. “And such a pretty thing too,” Lucifer mused, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper, her eyes raking over Nora’s face with a proprietary gleam. A shiver, cold as grave dust, ran down Nora’s spine. The “gentleness” was far more terrifying than any overt threat, a promise of exquisite, prolonged torment. 

At Lucifer’s words, the two demons holding Nora grumbled in guttural agreement, their monstrous grips on Nora’s arms tightening just slightly, almost imperceptibly, yet enough to send a sharp pang of pain through Nora’s limbs. The smallest whimper, a sound of fear and pain, leaked out of Nora’s mouth, escaping before she could stop it. This is it, a panicked thought screamed in Nora’s mind. This is where it all goes wrong. This is where I break. She could feel the demons’ raw power, the immense weight of their presence, and Lucifer’s gaze felt like a physical violation. The heat from the fire pit seemed to intensify, pressing down on her, suffocating. 

Morpheus’s eyes, already burning with fury, flared with a possessive rage that ignited like supernova. The subtle possessiveness he held for Nora, a feeling he rarely acknowledged even to himself, roared to life. How dare she touch what is not hers? How dare she lay a hand upon her! His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous growl, laced with ancient ice. “Unhand her, Lucifer. She is not yours to touch, nor yours to threaten.” 

Lucifer’s delicate touch lingered on Nora’s chin for another agonizing second before she slowly withdrew her finger, a dismissive flick of her wrist. A cold, knowing smile spread across her face, thin and sharp. “Oh, but she is, Dream. She is within my domain now. And this little side-venture of yours, this unexpected baggage… it was not part of your original, rather pathetic, challenge for your Helm.” Her eyes, once again fixed on Morpheus, blazed with triumphant malice, utterly devoid of the feigned regret. “Even if you win this little contest against Choronzon, that does not mean the mortal leaves with you. You will have to fight for her as well. Perhaps, a new wager, Dream Lord? For her soul? For her eternal service here in Hell?” The last words were a taunting whisper, a direct challenge to his authority, his compassion, and his carefully constructed detachment, promising an agonizing choice. 

The thought of Nora, held captive, threatened, her spirit vulnerable to the myriad torments of Hell, caused a profound, almost physical agony within Morpheus. Every instinct screamed at him to tear through the demons, to snatch her back, yet Lucifer had halted him, binding him with the very laws he himself upheld. The seconds stretched into an unbearable eternity, each one a torment as he left Nora in the hands of his ancient foe. The pain, sharp and cold, resonated through their psychic link, and Nora felt it too, a mirrored ache of his extreme reluctance, of his controlled fury. He forced himself to take a single, agonizing step back, away from Nora, before turning slowly towards Lucifer. His face, usually a mask of detached solemnity, was now contorted into a dark, predatory sneer, a sight rarely seen even in the deepest nightmares he commanded. His eyes, burning like twin abyssal stars, fixed on Lucifer Morningstar, daring her to flinch. “Let us begin, then.”  

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

As Nora stared, held captive by the demons, Morpheus's form shimmered, and his familiar floor-length wool coat dissolved, replaced almost instantly by a new ensemble. It was a striking outfit, entirely in black, accentuating his lean, elegant frame. A fitted, high-collared leather jacket formed the top, its smooth, dark surface hinting at suppressed power. Below it, a sweeping, floor-length skirt or robe of dark fabric billowed around his legs, giving him an imposing, almost regal silhouette despite its simple design. The jacket's design featured what looked like a central zipper or seam, flanked by sculpted panels across the chest and shoulders that gave it a subtly armored appearance. 

Nora’s mind, despite the terrifying predicament she was in, screamed with an utterly inappropriate thought: Holy shit, he looks way too good in that. The sudden, unexpected shift from his usual somber attire to this sleek, almost predatory leather was jarringly attractive. This is not the time, Nora! her internal voice shrieked in self-admonishment. You are literally being held by demons, in Hell, about to be bartered for, and your brain decides now is the moment to appreciate his fashion sense?! The sheer, infuriating absurdity of her own thoughts, even as a sharp pang of pain shot through her arms from the demons' tightening grip, made her want to bang her head against the nearest — non-demon-held — surface. Her internal mortification warred with the desperate fear of her situation, a truly unhelpful internal monologue as Morpheus prepared to duel for his freedom, and now, for hers. 

Morpheus quickly knelt down to Matthew, his voice low and urgent. “You must return to The Dreaming,” he commanded. “If anything were to go wrong, Lucienne should not be left without word of our fate.” 

Matthew, now hopping agitatedly on the polished obsidian floor, flapped his wings. “No!” he chirped, his voice high with disbelief. “I’m not leaving you here!” 

From several paces away, Lucifer’s cool, clear voice cut through the air. The faint, ethereal blue flames from the central fire pit seemed to pulse with her amusement. “Am I interrupting some preliminary bout of some kind?” she asked lightly, a mocking lilt in her tone, her vast, leathery wings shifting subtly behind her. 

“Just a ringside pep talk,” Matthew shot back, his tiny head cocked. Then, after a short pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Your Majesty.” He then turned his beady eyes back to Morpheus, his resolve hardening. “We came here for the Helm, and we’re not leaving without it!” 

Lucifer’s lips curved into a faint smile, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “We shall see.” 

Morpheus slowly rose, his new leather attire rustling faintly, taking one short step away from Matthew and towards Nora. He reached out, his pale hand gently cupping her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. His ancient eyes, pools of starlight in the dim infernal light, locked with hers, a profound promise in their depths. “I will get us out of here, Nora. Don’t worry. I promised I would protect you, and I will keep that promise.” He flooded their mental link with every comforting thought he could muster – courage, safety, my protection, I will not abandon you – a warm, steady stream against the cold dread. Then, as if the very act tore at his soul, he slowly stepped away and headed towards Lucifer. 

They now stood several paces apart, facing each other in a tense standoff. Morpheus radiated an imposing aura, his dark, new leather ensemble a lesser version than Lucifer’s own transformed attire. At some point while Morpheus was speaking to Nora, Lucifer’s stark white robe had been replaced by a sleek, dark leather outfit mirroring Morpheus’s own, though hers seemed designed for fluid, deadly grace rather than somber authority. It was a semi-armored look, fitted and severe, accentuating her powerful form, with subtle gleams of what might be polished metal or intricate stitching within the dark material. Her stillness spoke of immense, contained power, matched by Morpheus. Lucifer, meanwhile, leaned slightly on one hip, her movements fluid and languid, exuding an air of casual indifference, as if the impending duel were a tiresome obligation, yet a subtle, almost hungry gleam in her eyes betrayed her excitement for the exquisite torment that to come. The air between them crackled with unseen energy, thick with the scent of brimstone and anticipation. 

“Very well, Dream,” Lucifer said, her voice carefree, almost melodic, her white hair framing her perfect face. She stood with her arms lightly folded in front of her. “As the challenged, I set the meter and take the first move. However, to avoid any future…” She paused, her gaze flicking pointedly towards Nora, a chilling sweetness in her tone, “…distractions.” 

With a light, almost imperceptible flick of her fingertips upwards, a subtle ripple in the oppressive air, the two hulking demons still grasping Nora’s arms began to move, pulling her backward, dragging her away from the center of the atrium towards a shadowed archway. Nora immediately fought back, twisting and pulling against their iron grip. The fabric of her long sleeves bunched grotesquely under the demons’ hands, stretched taut over her upper arms, and she could feel the bone-deep pressure of their clawed fingertips, a clear promise of dark bruises to come. Yet, she ignored the searing pain, struggling furiously, her shoes catching on the polished obsidian floor, offering no traction as they scraped helplessly. 

“Let go of me, you ugly bastards!” Nora screamed, her voice raw, all the pent-up frustration and terror unleashing in a torrent of curses. The demon on her left, who had just given her a rough shake, earned her direct, blazing gaze. “I’ll rip off that damn horn and shove it down your throat!” She continued to rage, her voice cracking but unwavering, the words echoing off the dark, carved walls. “You freaks! You think this is funny?!” Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of where they were dragging her: the shadowed archway wasn’t just an opening; it housed a heavy, iron-bound door, barely ajar, revealing a deeper, absolute blackness beyond. A cold, horrifying realization washed over her, a fresh wave of panic joining her fury. After a few agonizing moments of futile struggle, as the doorway grew closer, she twisted her head back towards Morpheus, her eyes wide with a desperate plea, filled with a mix of fear and righteous fury. “Morpheus!” she cried out, her voice raw and torn, echoing in the vast chamber, before she was finally pulled in through the doorway, disappearing from sight, the heavy door groaning shut behind them, sealing her screams within. 

Morpheus roared, a sound of ancient, raw fury that shook the very foundations of the atrium, vibrating the red-hot coals in the fire pit. He took an aborted step towards the doorway where Nora had vanished, his dark leather coat swirling around him like a storm cloud, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with suppressed rage. Then, his eyes blazing like twin abyssal stars, cold and incandescent with a newfound, terrifying possessiveness, he whipped his head back towards Lucifer, his voice a low, dangerous growl that resonated with the weight of millennia. “Where have you taken her?!” 

“Where have you taken her?!” Morpheus’s voice, though a low growl, vibrated with a raw, ancient fury that shook the very foundations of the atrium, causing the red-hot coals in the central pit to shimmer. He stood, his dark leather coat swirling, hands clenching into fists that trembled with suppressed rage, his eyes blazing like twin abyssal stars, cold and incandescent with a newfound, terrifying possessiveness. 

Lucifer merely chuckled, a light, almost musical sound that seemed utterly out of place in the infernal chamber. She tilted her head, her stark white hair framing a face of unsettling serenity. “Oh, do not worry about her,” she purred, her voice dripping with mock reassurance. “She’s just going for a little bit of a timeout. You have other things to concern yourself with now, sweet Dream.” Her gaze swept over Morpheus, a triumphant glint in her eyes. 

Morpheus stood, near trembling with a rage that felt like icy fire under his skin. His worry for Nora, a sharp, aching concern he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, he forced the tumultuous emotions down, channeling them into a laser-like focus. He knew, with a cold certainty that settled deep in his bones, that no matter how profoundly he cared for Nora, he could not allow even a moment of his resolve to falter in this challenge. Everything rested on him to win, to ensure their return to The Dreaming. His jaw clenched, a muscle working visibly in his cheek, as he locked his gaze onto Lucifer, his own formidable presence a defiant counterpoint to her ethereal malice. 

Lucifer paused for a moment, staring Morpheus down, her dark leather attire shifting with her subtle movements, before her voice, light and deceptively soft, filled the vast atrium. 

“I am a Dire Wolf,” Lucifer declared, her voice a low purr that resonated with a chilling power. “Prey-stalking, lethal prowler.” 

A deep, guttural growl, impossibly real, echoed around them, seeming to emanate from the very stone walls, making the air prickle with primal fear. 

Morpheus stared back, a sneer, cold and sharp, twisting his lips. “I am a Hunter,” he bit out, his voice laced with grim resolve. “Horse-mounted, wolf-stabbing.” 

The faint, rhythmic clop-clop-clop of horse hooves, muffled but clear, echoed across the polished obsidian floor, followed by the sharp thwip of an arrow being loosed from a bow. Lucifer, mid-stride, gasped. Her body arced, bowing forward as if struck by an invisible force, her hand flying to clutch her stomach. A low groan escaped her lips. Slowly, agonizingly, she lifted her hand away, revealing a small, glistening pool of dark blood collected in her pale palm. Morpheus looked on, a grim satisfaction hardening his features. 

Lucifer’s eyes, wide with surprise and a flash of pain, fixed on the blood. She slowly clenched her palm into a tight fist, the blood smearing, before looking back up at Morpheus. A light smile, thin and stretched, touched her lips, quickly twisting into a grimace of furious defiance. 

“I am a Serpent,” Lucifer hissed, her voice quieter now, a venomous whisper that slithered through the air. “Horse-biting, poison-toothed.” 

Morpheus stretched his head upwards and to the side, his neck arching. Beneath the pale skin of his face and neck, livid, purplish-green veins began to writhe and spread, creeping upwards from his chest like insidious vines, reaching towards his jaw, a visceral depiction of internal poison. He gasped, a guttural sound, before biting out his retort, his voice strained. 

“I am a Bird of Prey,” he snarled, his eyes blazing. “Snake-devouring. Talons-ripping.” 

As his words left him, the purplish-green tendrils beneath his skin began to recede, as if dissolving. The natural, pale hue slowly returned to his face and neck, the poison bleeding away, leaving his skin clear and untainted. Lucifer, however, was not so lucky. Her head sharply whipped downward, as if she had been physically slapped, a faint rip resonating through the air. As she slowly raised her head, three distinct, angry gouges, like fresh claw marks, raked across her cheek, dark red lines stark against her pale skin. 

Lucifer’s voice, quieter but no less lethal, was a low snarl. "I am a Butcher Bacterium. Warm-life destroying." 

Morpheus immediately bent over, a sudden, agonizing cramp seizing his core. He gasped, a ragged, choking sound, collapsing onto his knees as if his very insides were being consumed. His form shuddered violently. His skin, already pale, began to blotch and turn grey, areas sinking inwards, growing translucent as if the very flesh were dissolving. Patches on his cheeks and forehead seemed to liquefy, leaving hollows and a ghastly sheen, as if the invisible bacteria were eating him alive. He struggled, slowly tilting his head upwards, his eyes wide with torment, his form visibly shrinking. He fought for breath, for words, a guttural struggle tearing at his throat, his ruined face a mask of profound agony. Finally, with immense effort, he forced out, "I am a World." 

Suddenly, his voice gained strength, smoothing out, filling the atrium with a resonant power. A faint, ethereal flutter of birds chirping, like distant bells, echoed around them. Morpheus pushed up, his form still hunched and marred, but his eyes blazing with renewed defiance. "Space-floating, life-nurturing." 

Lucifer hesitated for a moment, her perfect features contorting in a flash of frustration. Then, her voice strong, almost a shout, she delivered her next move. "I am a Nova! All-exploding, planet-cremating!" 

Morpheus instantly held up a hand, as if to physically block the approaching onslaught. A giant, blinding wave of pure explosive energy seemed to rush towards him from Lucifer, a sunbeam of incineration. His raised hand began to visibly burn, the skin blistering and melting, charring black, as if it were directly on the surface of the sun. His face, too, twisted in agony, the skin seeming to liquefy and peel away. He cried out, collapsing onto the ground on his side, his body wracked with pain, struggling to even push himself upright. Lucifer let out a slow, deliberate beat of her wings, as if in impatience, a subtle tremor running through the air. 

After a few quiet moments, thick with the stench of scorched flesh, Morpheus quietly, agonizingly, let out, "I am a Universe." His voice was barely a whisper, echoing through the vast space. "All things encompassing, all life embracing." 

Lucifer responded, her voice rich, almost cherishing each word, imbued with a profound, terrifying finality. "I am Anti-Life. The Beast of Judgment. The Dark at the end of everything." 

Morpheus, still lying on the ground on his side, struggled to take a breath, but his lungs refused, as if there was no more air for him to breathe in the entire universe. His skin had gone a horrifying, pale ashen, and his face was drawn and shallow, the melting features now sunken, as if the very life within him had been utterly sucked out. His fingers twitched weakly on the polished obsidian floor, trying to find some semblance of reality, some anchor in the encroaching void. 

Lucifer stood above him, her leather-clad form an imposing silhouette against the fiery pit. Mockingly, she purred, "What will you be then, Dream Lord?" 

"I—" Morpheus gasped, trying to push himself up, but his strength failed him, and he collapsed back to the ground. "I—" he tried again, his breath stuttering, raw and desperate. He couldn't form the words, only that initial, strangled sound. 

Matthew, who was watching worriedly from the sidelines, suddenly hopped over towards Morpheus, his tiny body trembling. "Hey, Boss!" he chirped, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. 

"Still with us, Dream?" Lucifer's voice, devoid of mercy, echoed from above. 

Matthew sharply turned towards her, his small body puffed out with defiant courage. "He is," he chirped, his voice surprisingly firm. "And it's his move, Your Majesty." Reluctantly, he bowed his head, a quick, resentful dip. 

Lucifer let out a dry, mirthless laugh, as if sharing a grim, undeniable fact. "There are no more moves. What can survive the Anti-Life?" 

Matthew turned sharply towards Morpheus, his tiny eyes wide with an impossible, fierce conviction. "Listen, Boss, you know what can survive the Anti-Life, you!" he insisted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Because dreams don't fucking die... Not if you believe in them. And I believe that Dream of the Endless would never leave his Raven here alone, in Hell with Lucifer. And don't you dare forget about Nora. She's counting on you too, Boss." 

At that moment, as Matthew's words pierced through the encroaching darkness, an epiphany, sharp and clear, clicked in Morpheus's mind. Nora ... The thought resonated within him, a vivid, internal sensation of that bright light at the end of a long tunnel, of the pervasive warmth and happiness that seemed to emanate from her very being. It was the feeling she gave him, a grounding, joyful presence in his existence, and it suffused his battered form, a stark contrast to the despair Lucifer sought to impose. His rattling breaths suddenly stilled. He took one slow, deep breath, a profound intake of air, before his eyes, no longer shadowed by despair, locked onto Lucifer standing above him. He slowly, deliberately, said, "I am..." 

And then, with a surge of strength that seemed to defy all the pain and loss, he pushed himself up onto his knees, his ravaged face slowly beginning to reform, the ashen skin regaining a faint hint of color. He tilted his head upwards towards Lucifer, Morpheus finally finished his move, his voice ringing out, strong and clear, filling the entire atrium. "...Hope." 

A bright glow suddenly encompassed the entire room, pushing back the oppressive shadows. The fiery coals in the pit seemed to dim in its presence, and Lucifer's face, for a fleeting moment, seemed to stutter, her perfect features momentarily losing their composure. Morpheus, his color now fully returned, the ghastly marks vanishing, stood strongly, fully upright. 

Lucifer, her voice weak, almost a whisper of disbelief, repeated, "Hope?" 

"Well, Lightbringer," Morpheus responded, his voice cool and steady, a touch of mocking triumph now evident, echoing the countless times Lucifer had taunted them during this entire encounter. "It's your move. What is it that kills Hope?" 

Lucifer's jaw clenched, a muscle working furiously. She turned sharply towards Choronzon, who had been watching the duel with a mixture of awe and fear. "Give him back his Helm!" she ordered, her voice sharp with frustrated command. 

"No!" Choronzon protested, almost childishly, clutching the Helm closer. "I won't! It's mine!" Then, after a second, a desperate whine, "Please!" 

Mazikeen, who for the entire challenge had been standing impassively on the side, suddenly moved. With a predatory grace, she walked up behind the demon, her hand lashing out. With unnatural strength, she forcibly wrenched the Helm from his grip, then gripped Choronzon by the back of his neck, dragging him, whimpering and struggling, over towards the balcony. Without a word, she threw him off the side, his screams cut short as he plunged into the unseen depths below. Mazikeen then turned, her movements fluid and unhurried, and walked towards Morpheus, the dark Helm, intricately crafted, held out to him. 

Morpheus accepted it, his pale fingers closing around the cool metal. He took a second, allowing his gaze to linger on the dark, intricately crafted helm, the weight and familiarity of it a profound anchor after so long. He then tucked it securely under his arm, the hard metal a solid presence against his side, before slowly turning back to face Lucifer. His voice, now deep and resonant with ancient power, carried a predatory edge. "Now, Lucifer. Nora will be returned to me." 

Lucifer, still seething from her loss in the duel, seized the opportunity to add a cruel twist. She responded lightly, her voice like a silken thread of malicious amusement. "Oh, that won't be an issue. However, the state of her return is entirely up to her." A faint, chilling smile touched her lips. "And the 'timeout,' as I so quaintly put it, that she was in... it's a very peculiar form, you see." 

Morpheus took a deadly step towards her, his body taut with sudden dread. The air around him seemed to thicken, charged with his barely contained fury. "Explain yourself," he growled, the command tearing from his throat, his eyes blazing. 

Lucifer turned slightly, her sleek leather attire rustling with a soft hiss as she began to walk around the central fire pit, subtly widening the distance between them. Her movements were unnervingly calm, her expression serene, conveying no hint of the horrors she described. Her voice, light and unaffected, floated across the vast chamber. "Nora spent some time in what we in Hell like to call the Garden of Perpetual Silence." The name hung in the vast atrium for a moment, resonating with its own chilling history, the distant, ceaseless gonging of Hell seeming to grow faintly louder, as if in recognition. "It's a void, basically, where light, sound, touch, and even the whisper of one's own breath are utterly absent. It truly is quite… empty." She drew out the last words, savoring them, a perverse satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "A place designed to dismantle the mortal mind piece by agonizing piece." 

Morpheus felt an internal dread sink like a stone into his gut, cold and heavy. What Nora went through... The thought was a lead weight. He forced the words out, his voice raw with barely suppressed fury. "Why was that chosen for her?" 

Lucifer let out a light chuckle, devoid of warmth, her head tilting slightly. “Oh, only the best for valuable guests, Dream.” The word “valuable” was hissed, laced with mocking scorn, a clear jab at Nora’s perceived insignificance in the grand scheme of Hell. “And,” she continued, almost as an afterthought, her gaze drifting towards the immense, flickering blue flames of the central pit, “the time in the void, you see, is… malleable. While we have spent only several minutes in here, your companion has endured days. Days of absolute nothingness. Her mind, I assure you, is either a shattered wreck or close to it. It is, shall we say, a testament to the resilience of her species ,” the last word an almost imperceptible sneer, dripping with disdain, “if she retains any semblance of sanity at all.” 

With a chilling smile that never quite reached her eyes, Lucifer slowly approached Morpheus, her leather outfit gleaming in the dim infernal light, her presence radiating cold power. “And when I said earlier that we would ‘debate’ what you must do to get her back… that wasn’t quite the truth, Dream. In all honesty,” she purred, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, “the choice is entirely up to her.” She paused, a show of exaggerated sincerity crossing her features. “If there’s anything left to her mind at all, she can rejoin the waking world, or… “ her voice dropped to a low, mocking whisper, filled with a twisted, perverse delight, “remain completely and utterly lost within her own broken consciousness.” 

A cold, primal terror ripped through Morpheus, sharper than any wound inflicted by the duel. He reflected on the preceding contest, how his focus, his entire willpower, had been directed at defeating Lucifer, at winning the Helm. He had thought to protect Nora through victory, to secure her freedom by his own might. But as he looked deeper within, to the internal anchor bond he shared with Nora, he realized with a sickening lurch that her side had been terribly quiet. There had been nothing echoing, not even a faint whisper, no trace of her vivid warmth or sharp wit, since she was pulled away. The silence of her side of the bond was now a deafening roar in his mind, confirming Lucifer’s cruel words. 

Lucifer, utterly oblivious to the dawning horror twisting Morpheus’s features, turned away. Her movements were fluid and unhurried as she walked back over to the ominous archway leading to the balcony, her vast, leathery wings shifting subtly. She called over her shoulder, her voice casually dismissive, “She’s being retrieved now.” The words hung in the air, echoing with an unspoken threat. “We shall see what remains.” 

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The ominous creak of the dark archway door dragged on, a tortured groan of old iron and protesting wood that seemed to stretch the very fabric of Hell’s perpetual twilight. Footsteps, loud and heavy, crunched on the obsidian floor, echoing through the vast atrium, and then they appeared. The same two hulking demons, their skin like cracked earth and eyes like embers, emerged from the oppressive blackness, dragging Nora back into the flickering crimson light of the fire pit. 

She was barely on her own two feet, her worn shoes slipping precariously on the polished surface, as if her legs had forgotten the very concept of solid ground. Her head was bowed, a curtain of hair obscuring her face, and her arms hung limp and lifeless beside her, devoid of any tension or will. She looked utterly, frightfully empty – a vessel drained of its spirit, her essence diffused into the suffocating silence of the Garden of Perpetual Silence. 

In the span of a single, agonizing heartbeat, Morpheus was there. He moved with a speed that defied his long imprisonment, a dark blur against the gleaming floor. Just as the demons, with a grunt of release, let go of her arms, he caught her, his pale hands firm and steady against her wavering form. He gently lowered her to be kneeling on the ground in front of him, his recently reclaimed helm, a symbol of his restored power, placed down beside them, completely forgotten for the moment. All that mattered was Nora. 

Morpheus’s hands, pale and elegant, ran up and down her arms, a frantic search for any warmth, any sign of life. He felt the pervasive chill that clung to her skin, an icy touch that seeped into his very being, a stark contrast to the infernal heat of the coals. His fingers then moved, with an almost desperate tenderness, to either side of her head, his thumbs sweeping upwards to cup the delicate curve of her jawline. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. 

“Nora,” he pleaded, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to crack with uncharacteristic desperation, “Nora, please… are you there? Can you hear me? Can you feel me?” He was begging, his ancient eyes, usually pools of starlight and fury, now wide with a raw, pleading vulnerability. Please, respond. Just a flicker.  

Matthew, a flurry of black feathers and worried caws, hopped over, his tiny body trembling. He bumped his head, once, then twice, against her thigh, a silent gesture of desperate inquiry. “Nora!” he begged, his voice high with fear, bumping his head against her again. “Nora, come on!” 

And then, ever so slowly, Nora’s eyelids, heavy with unseen burdens, fluttered open. Her eyes, clouded and distant at first, found Morpheus’s face, a beacon in the dim, red-lit expanse. A soft, bare whisper, barely audible above the distant clamor of Hell, escaped her lips: “Morpheus.” The word was a fragile thread, but it was there, a spark of recognition in the overwhelming void. And then, with an explosive sigh that seemed to release a century of suspended agony, she collapsed forward into his chest. 

She didn’t have the strength to lift her arms, no matter how desperately she yearned to grasp him, to cling to his familiar presence. Her forehead came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, the smooth fabric of his new leather attire a sudden, grounding reality against her skin. All Morpheus could do was wrap his arms around her, holding her close, her stillness a terrifying weight against him. Please, let her be okay. She has to be okay. He squeezed his eyes shut, a silent, fervent plea echoing in the depths of his ancient mind. 

He held her for several tense seconds, the frantic thrum of his own heart mirroring the terrifying silence on her side of their bond. The air, thick with the cloying scent of death and brimstone, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the dreadful sense of vulnerability. Then, a cold, steely rage, ancient and unyielding, began to unfurl within him, pushing back the edges of his fear. Without breaking his protective hold on Nora, he turned his head just slightly, his eyes, burning like twin abyssal stars, fixing on Lucifer. 

“I will not forget this,” Morpheus practically growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the atrium, “nor will I ever forgive you. Any future interaction between Hell and The Dreaming, Lightbringer, you will tread with extreme caution.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threats, the underlying power in his tone a stark contrast to his earlier weakness. 

With his free hand, he pulled out his familiar leather pouch of shimmering sand. He poured a small pile onto the polished obsidian floor beside them. The golden grains immediately began to undulate, a shimmering, golden curtain rising and coiling around them in a wide, luminous spiral. The ethereal light of the sand pulsed, casting dancing shadows that momentarily softened the dim, infernal illumination of the vast chamber. 

Lucifer, who had been watching the scene with an almost terrifyingly cheerful expression, reveling in the cruel irony of Nora’s broken state and the pain it caused Morpheus, suddenly found her sadistic amusement evaporate. Just as the shimmering light began to encompass them, pulling them away from the infernal realm, Morpheus’s voice, now sharp with ancient authority, cut through the air, directed solely at Lucifer. “And one last thing, Morningstar.” He paused, letting the words hang, letting the full weight of his impending declaration sink in. His gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto Lucifer’s. “Nada is free to go.” 

The pronouncement struck Lucifer like a physical blow, though she showed no outward sign beyond a sudden, almost imperceptible stiffening of her perfect posture. It was a final, exquisitely precise thrust of the knife, aimed at the very heart of her perverse pleasure. For ten thousand years, Nada’s continued imprisonment had been a small, private triumph for Lucifer. A living testament to Dream’s past rigidity and a constant, visible thorn in his side. To have that prize, that source of enduring satisfaction, snatched away so effortlessly, declared null and void by the very being she had sought to humble – it was an unbearable insult. The air around Lucifer seemed to crackle with suppressed fury, a silent, burning resentment. With Morpheus’s declaration, echoing with his newly reclaimed authority, Lucifer had absolutely no legal or magical grounds to keep Nada imprisoned and was compelled, by the ancient laws she herself so meticulously upheld, to release her. 

~ 

In the next blink, the infernal atrium, with its burning coals and tormented air, vanished as if it had never been. Morpheus, Nora, and Matthew simply were elsewhere. One moment they were in Hell, and in the next, they were in the ruined throne room of Morpheus’s palace, still kneeling on the ground, just as they had been a moment before. Morpheus still held Nora, her head resting against his shoulder, and Matthew continued to hop anxiously beside them, his small body a bundle of worry. The spot they had seemed to land upon, where shattered marble and crumbling stone should have been, was miraculously clear of any debris, as if the swirling vortex of golden sand had meticulously swept it away for them before dissolving into nothingness around them. 

"Nora," Morpheus murmured softly, his voice a low, insistent hum, one hand rubbing up and down her back in slow, soothing sweeps. His touch was light, almost a caress, designed to gentle her back to awareness. He desperately needed a response, any sign that the harrowing experience in Hell's void hadn't irrevocably shattered her. Through the deep, enduring connection of their bond, he began to pour a torrent of emotions directly into her mind, a desperate, targeted effort to reignite the spark within her. 

He sent her the pure, unadulterated joy he felt from her very presence, a feeling so ferocious it had bloomed within him during his long solitude. He projected the sharp, unexpected amusement from her whimsical comments, the bizarre questions about giraffes in trousers or rainbow-furred capybaras that had brought light to his long imprisonment. He replayed the keen understanding that had blossomed when she offered her unique perspective on his past trauma with Nada, the incisive, compassionate logic that had begun to mend his ancient pride. He flooded her with the warmth of her own kindness, the selfless empathy she had shown him even when facing her own slow, agonizing demise. He sent the echoes of her laughter, particularly the breathless, joyous sound she made when recounting her absurd dreams, a sound that had been a fleeting connection to his lost kingdom. Every emotion he had gleaned from their shared century, every nuance of her vibrant spirit, he now poured into her, a frantic, desperate offering, as if feeding a starving flame. 

Gradually, almost painfully slowly, her arms, heavy and unresponsive moments before, began to stir. They came up, with immense effort, her fingers seeking purchase on the sides of Morpheus's new leather coat. Her touch was so light he could barely feel it, a mere whisper against the dark fabric, yet it was there – a fragile, almost imperceptible thread of contact that pierced through his overwhelming dread. "Nora," he called out again, his voice raw with renewed hope, a desperate plea for more, for confirmation. And he felt it more than heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible breath against his neck: "Sandy?" The word was a fragile question, laced with disbelief, as if she were testing the reality of his presence. 

"Yes, Nora. It's me," Morpheus responded instantly, his voice thick with overwhelming relief, a dam almost breaking within him. "You're here with me. You're in The Dreaming. We are safe." His voice, though quiet, was resolute, carrying the weight of ancient power newly re-asserted. She is here. Oh thank the endless night.  

For Nora, those last three words, "We are safe," resonated like a hammer blow to glass, shattering the fragile composure she had maintained. He's here. He's safe. He's alive. Matthew's also here. He's safe. He's alive. The thoughts began to loop in her mind, faster and faster, a desperate mantra: Safe. Safe. Safe. They're okay. We're okay . She had focused solely on their survival, on his well-being, on Matthew’s, ignoring her own suffering in the crushing void. 

Lucifer, in her twisted cruelty, had sought to inflict the worst agony a mortal could endure: absolute sensory deprivation in the Garden of Perpetual Silence, a void of nothingness designed to break the mind. What the Morningstar could not have anticipated was the nature of the deep, internal anchor bond between Morpheus and Nora. Lucifer was aware of some bonds throughout the universe, but the true depth and unique connection of theirs was beyond her comprehension. And so, while Morpheus had felt nothing from Nora's side, as she had absolutely nothing to project, Nora had felt everything from his. 

In that terrible, crushing darkness, where she could see nothing, hear nothing, feel no breeze, no heat, no cold, she had still felt him . The searing pain of the venom burning through Morpheus's veins, the insidious gnawing of the butcher bacterium eating away at his insides and flesh, the terrifying conflagration of the nova, the sensation of being burnt alive. These were not pleasant feelings, far from it. They were agony, pure and unadulterated. And they were stretched out over what felt like endless, agonizing periods, from one wave of torment to the next, a constant, pervasive torment that felt as if it would never end. Yet, they were feelings . They were enough to ground her, anchors in the terrifying, formless void, proof that he was still out there, fighting, living, connected to her. She had clung to every spike of pain, every wave of exhaustion from him, knowing that if he still felt, he still lived. She had held onto that thread, that agonizing awareness, for every endless second she had been trapped. 

Now, with Morpheus's voice confirming their shared reality, the dam inside Nora broke completely. The overwhelming wave of joy, of absolute, pure, soul-deep relief that he and Matthew were alive, that they had survived Hell, washed over her. Tears, hot and seemingly endless, streamed from her eyes, soaking into the fabric of his coat against his neck. A choked sob tore from her, her breath catching in her throat as she gasped for air. She was happy, so deliriously, utterly happy, it was almost painful. But beneath that joy, an acute weariness, bone-deep and crushing, asserted itself. She was utterly, completely exhausted. Her weak grip tightened on his coat, an almost desperate clawing, trying to ground herself, to pull him impossibly closer, to ensure he was truly there, truly safe. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, but her spirit, alight with fierce relief, refused to let go. 

Morpheus felt the sudden, desperate clench of her fingers, the warm, wet deluge against his neck. A fierce, aching tenderness bloomed in his chest as her sobs shook her frame, a feeling so vast it threatened to overwhelm his ancient stoicism. Her gasps for breath tore at him, a raw sound of distress that pierced through his victory. He knew the ordeal she had faced in the Garden of Perpetual Silence was designed to break her, and seeing her now, shattered and clinging, confirmed the depth of the torment. His only thought was to offer what comfort he could.  

He stopped the slow, soothing sweeps of his hand on her back, instead wrapping one arm firmly around her waist, pulling her even tighter against him. His other hand moved upward, past her shoulder, to cup the back of her neck, fingers splaying against her hair. With a decisive, tender motion, he pressed her head deeper into his shoulder, holding her fast, trying to absorb her tremors. He mumbled into her ear, his voice a low, continuous vibration of reassurance, "I'm here. I'm here with you. You're safe. I'm safe. I'm here. I'm not letting go. I'm never letting you go." The words were for her, but they were also a promise to himself, a vow whispered into the ethereal air of his restored realm. 

They stayed like that for what seemed like very long moments, suspended in the quiet solace of their reunion. The air of The Dreaming, usually filled with the gentle hum of creation, felt muted around them, respecting the sheer intimacy of the moment. Gradually, Nora’s breath calmed, evening out from ragged gasps to soft, steady sighs, and the flow of tears against his neck subsided to a gentle dampness. The tremors that had wracked her body slowly, slowly receded, leaving her feeling hollowed out but undeniably present. She pushed ever so slightly against his sides, a faint signal of returning strength, a tentative movement to re-engage with the world. Then, slowly, she raised her head. 

Morpheus didn’t remove his hand from the back of her head; instead, he lightly gave a comforting squeeze, his thumb tracing the delicate curve where her neck met her skull. His eyes, usually deep pools of starlight, softened further, filled with a raw, almost painful empathy. His heart, an ancient, cosmic thing that had endured eons of stoicism, now ached with a searing tenderness when he saw her face. Her cheeks were still stained with tear tracks, etched like painful rivers on her pale skin, and her eyes, though no longer vacant, were red and swollen from the intensity of her release. He had never wanted to see her like this, marked by such oppressive distress, her vulnerability laid bare before him, and it cut him deeply that she had experienced such agony. Every tear seemed to burn him, a testament to the suffering she had endured because of him, because of Hell. 

Nora, with an unstable hand that still trembled minutely, raised it towards Morpheus’s face. Her fingers, cool and hesitant, gently cupped his jaw, feeling the sharp line of his bone, the smooth, cool texture of his skin. Her thumb began to rub along his cheekbone, a tender, feather-light stroke, a gesture of reassurance for both of them. A soft, but happy-filled, “Hi, Sandy,” escaped her lips, barely a whisper, yet resonating with all the warmth and irreverence he had come to cherish. The familiar nickname, a secret comfort between them, brought a jolt of relief through Morpheus. 

He was momentarily static, stunned that even in this raw, vulnerable state, a small portion of the fire, the unique spark of personality that made Nora Nora , shone through, bright and unextinguished. He couldn’t help but let out a very soft grin; it just suddenly appeared on his face, there was no fighting it back. The warmth that bloomed in his chest from her very presence, the sheer joy that his Nora was still with him, spread upward, making his entire face glow almost imperceptibly with that happiness. Nora, seeing that rare grin, after a brief moment of shock, let out a light chuckle. “Oh, now you smile, huh?” she whispered, the words a soft, shared secret between the two of them, as she returned his gaze with a soft smile of her own. 

Hearing that familiar sass, the playful irreverence he had come to cherish from Nora, Morpheus couldn’t help but let out a slight chuckle, a low, resonant sound that vibrated against her. It was a sound few had ever heard from him, a genuine expression of mirth. Nora’s eyes widened fractionally, a new glint of mischief shining through the lingering exhaustion. “Oh my,” she murmured, her voice still weak but laced with an undeniable, mock horror. “And the laugh too? Well, the world really is coming to an end.” She managed a faint, teasing smirk. 

Morpheus adjusted his grip around her waist, pulling her just ever so slightly closer, tightening the protective circle he had formed around her. His gaze, now filled with an open, unshielded tenderness, met hers. “Oh no, My Star,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, unable to hide the feeling from her any longer. “The world is most definitely not coming to an end. I would rearrange the cosmos itself, unravel the very threads of creation, if it would keep that smile on your face and allow me to hear your laughter.” His thumb, still at the back of her neck, stroked gently. “Your joy is a melody I would traverse endless nights to hear, your presence a beacon that guides the very flow of my realm.” 

As he continued speaking, his voice dropped even further, becoming a barely audible, intensely private murmur, meant only for her ears, for her soul. “You are My Star, Nora. You were the improbable light during my imprisonment, a small, absurd spark in my oppressive gloom that became the blinding, brilliant relief of a possible dawn. You are the light to my darkness, the unexpected constellation in my often shadowed skies. Stars are unique, are they not? They are singular points of radiant warmth, and they serve as navigational guides. You, My Star, help me navigate my own conflicts, the internal wars that have raged within me for millennia. You are the fixed point in my shifting reality, the constant against the chaos. To see you smile, to hear your mirth… it is something I have come to cherish more deeply than any dream, any realm, for it speaks of a future I once thought impossible.” He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping further, “You are a light, Nora, that has pierced through eons of my quiet darkness. And I would defy any entity, any law, any consequence, to ensure that light never dims. Never .” 

Nora was utterly struck speechless. The hand that was cupping his jaw, her thumb, previously stroking his cheekbone, was now frozen in movement, paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his words. He… he said all that. All that, to me? He really said all that to me. Her mind, still reeling from the ordeal in Hell, struggled to process the magnitude of his raw, unfiltered proclamation. Rearrange the cosmos? A light to his darkness? A navigational guide? She knew he felt things deeply, knew there was a magnified connection, but to hear it articulated with such dreamlike intensity, with such utter devotion from a being as ancient and formidable as Dream of the Endless… it was almost too much. Her gaze, wide and unwavering, remained locked on his, trying to decipher if this was real, if she was truly worthy of such a universe-altering sentiment. It felt both impossible and undeniably, wonderfully real, a perfect dream woven just for her. 

She couldn't find the words to respond. Her jaw worked, her mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, a silent struggle to articulate the tempest of emotions swirling within her. Anything she tried to form, any phrase that came to mind, felt utterly inadequate, too small, too mortal to encompass the vastness of what he had just bestowed upon her. 

Internally, Nora reached, searching for the link in their minds, the bond that connected them. It felt almost dormant on her side, quieted by the oppressive emptiness of the Garden of Perpetual Silence, only stirred by the agony of Morpheus's struggle. She had to look for it, stretching her awareness, almost forcing it to open back up again. 

The bond, which until this moment had been empty from Nora's side – a silent void where Morpheus had received no projected feelings – suddenly seemed to spark. Morpheus felt it, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a flicker like a distant, dying ember suddenly rekindling. Then, with astonishing, breathtaking intensity, it flared to life, a rush of sensation that felt like floodgates opening. Morpheus had to physically stop himself from gasping aloud at the sheer force of the sudden emotions Nora was sending him. It was a torrent, raw and vibrant, that surged through their link, an explosion of feeling that threatened to overwhelm his senses, a stark contrast to the quiet empathy he had carefully projected to her for decades. 

Nora, with fierce concentration, focused on sending what she was feeling through the bond to Morpheus. You make me happy. So utterly, completely happy. The words were less words and more pure emotional waves, painting vivid landscapes in his mind. You make me feel whole. Like I have finally found where I belong, where every scattered piece of my soul converges. She projected her absolute conviction: I don't for one second regret anything. Not getting locked up with you, not spending all that time in the glass. I would go through every single moment of it again, every fear, every agonizing second, if it brought us back to this exact place, to this moment, with you. I couldn't imagine being with anyone else, anywhere else, in the entire, vast expanse of the universe . Her feelings were a boundless ocean of devotion, gratitude, and a love so absolute it was almost terrifying in its purity. 

This… this is what she feels? Morpheus's ancient mind reeled, bombarded by the sheer, overwhelming beauty of her transmitted emotions. He had known her compassion, her wit, her defiance, but this... this unburdened outpouring of unconditional affection, directed entirely at him , was a revelation that shook him to his core. The warmth in his chest intensified, spreading through his entire being, solidifying the delicate joy that had blossomed. It was a deep, almost dizzying vindication of his quiet affection for her, a fulfillment he hadn't known he desperately craved. 

Yet, even after pouring out the depths of her soul through their bond, Nora didn't think it was enough. The intensity of her feelings, the sheer boundless love, still felt too vast to be contained by mere thought. She couldn't not show him physically as well. After just a brief, almost imperceptible moment of hesitation, her eyes, now shining bright with unshed tears and a burgeoning hope, flickered from his cosmic gaze down to his lips. They were slightly full, with a light rosy tinge, a subtle contrast to his pale skin. Then, her gaze snapped back up to his eyes, a silent question, a daring challenge, a world of affection in their depths. She leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, bridging the last few inches between them. 

Morpheus's breath hitched, a faint, unheard sound. His starlit eyes, which had been locked on hers, dropped to her lips, watching their approach, a dizzying anticipation blooming in his ancient heart. He too, with agonizing slowness, began to lean in, his pale face drawing closer, closer, until their breaths mingled, a soft, ethereal sigh in the quiet of the ruined throne room. They were only a few millimeters apart, the air shimmering with unspoken desire, with a century of shared solitude and a lifetime of burgeoning, impossible connection. This was it. The moment, vast and fragile, hung suspended in the very fabric of The Dreaming, a universe waiting for two souls to finally meet. 

Then, a loud, piercing "CAW!" ripped through the sacred stillness, shattering the exquisite tension like a thrown stone. 

Nora, startled, recoiled instantly, leaning back from Morpheus with a sharp gasp. Her head whipped to her right, her eyes wide as she found Matthew a few feet away, perched awkwardly on a crumbled pillar. He shuffled one clawed foot, his black feathers ruffling with feigned nonchalance, as if he hadn't just deliberately interrupted something cosmically important. He let out another, slightly more sheepish, squawk before proclaiming, "Hey, Nora! Glad to have you back!" It was quintessential Matthew: the perpetually anxious, occasionally brilliant, and unfailingly awkward third wheel. He had been a silent, suffering witness to their tender reunion, trapped between the desire to give them space and the undeniable, catastrophic awkwardness of what was about to happen directly in front of him. Clearly, his self-preservation instinct (or perhaps just his internal monologue screaming at him) had won the day. 

Nora huffed out a laugh, a breathless sound that bordered on a groan, and shook her head. "Hello, Matthew," she said in a placating, almost chiding tone, as if speaking to a mischievous toddler. Her gaze, still soft with lingering emotion, flickered back to Morpheus. 

He was frozen, statue-still, his face a mask of carefully controlled fury. Through their bond, Nora caught a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of pure murder and incandescent rage radiating from him. It might be time for a new Raven , Morpheus thought, the sentiment laced with dangerous ice, directed with chilling clarity at the cawing figure.  

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Matthew, completely oblivious to the silent, murderous intent now emanating from his Boss, ruffled his feathers and preened, seemingly pleased with his successful intervention. He hopped down from the crumbling pillar, strutting a few steps closer. “So, what’s the plan, Boss? We got the Helm, Nora’s back… what next? More adventures? Maybe somewhere with less brimstone and more, you know, biscuits?” 

Nora, catching the full, crushing weight of Morpheus’s internal fury directed at Matthew, bit back a laugh that threatened to bubble up. She gently squeezed Morpheus’s arm, her fingers a silent, desperate plea for him to rein in his cosmic wrath. He needed his raven, even if the raven had the timing of a broken clock. 

Morpheus slowly turned his head, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, sweeping over Matthew with an intensity that would have withered a lesser being into dust. The murderous gleam in his eyes, however, subtly shifted, morphing into something that bordered on long-suffering exasperation. He let out a silent, aggrieved sigh that rippled through their shared link, a sound Nora felt deep in her own chest, a familiar echo of his weary soul. 

“The next step,” Morpheus stated, his voice now deep and resonant, a velvet rumble that vibrated through the desolate air, “is to recover my ruby.” He looked towards the distant, hazy horizon of The Dreaming, his gaze already piercing through the desolation, fixing on an unseen point beyond. “I will retrieve it alone.” 

Nora looked at him, her eyes, still shadowed with lingering exhaustion, searched his face. She sought to discern the layers of his resolve, the hidden currents beneath his stoic exterior. She saw a flicker of understanding there, a hint that he knew what she might be about to say, what argument was already forming on the tip of her tongue. 

But Morpheus cut her off, his voice firm and unwavering, a decree carved from ancient stone. “No. You will remain here. You require rest and time to recover. The void took a significant toll upon you, Nora. I will not have you burn out.” 

Matthew tilted his head, a flicker of genuine concern in his beady, intelligent eyes. “Alone, Boss? You sure about that? Things get a bit… tricky out there. Real tricky.” 

“Yes, I can handle it,” Morpheus replied, his voice gaining a cold, ancient certainty that brooked no argument. “I have my Helm and my sand back. I am not as weak as I was.” 

Nora, still kneeling in front of him, her hands gently pressed against his chest, started to speak, her voice soft but firm, a quiet challenge in its tone. “Morpheus,” she began, the name a soft invocation. 

“Nora, you are in no condition,” Morpheus cut in, an uncharacteristic, almost desperate plea entering his dark gaze. “You have endured days within the Garden of Perpetual Silence. Your mind, although demonstrably resilient, has been stretched to its very limits. You need time to recover, to mend. I cannot, and will not, ask you to endure more.” 

Nora’s gaze held his, unwavering, her voice dropping to a raw, whispered confession, laced with a tremor of genuine, deep-seated exhaustion. “You need rest too, Morpheus. I… I know what you went through.” 

Morpheus froze. A flicker of shock, then dawning horror, spread across his face, a raw emotion rarely seen upon the countenance of the Endless. His eyes widened as he stared at her, a silent, almost begging question in their depths, demanding: Explain . 

Nora sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of aeons. She shifted her weight, a palpable reluctance in her posture, but then met his stunned gaze. “Yeah. I felt it. Everything.” Her voice was a low murmur, a secret shared between them. “I was in there, and yeah, I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel any breeze, no heat, no cold, no touch… but I felt exactly what you felt when you were dueling Lucifer.” She paused, her eyes clouded with the remembered torment. “The burning through your veins, feeling your insides and flesh get eaten away, the searing heat, the sensation of being burnt alive, unmade molecule by molecule.” A shudder ran through her, but her gaze remained firm. “It was… it was enough. It was enough to know you were still fighting. It was enough to know you were still alive.” 

A silent, devastating wave of realization washed over Morpheus. He had poured his emotions into her, a vessel for his despair, but he had never conceived that the raw, agonizing reality of his duel, the literal unmaking and remaking of his form, had been mirrored in her experience within the void. His greatest fear, that she had been shattered by the sensory deprivation, now took on a horrifying new dimension. He hadn’t been able to shield her, even when he believed she was merely in a state of suspended animation. The thought that she had endured his torment, alone and untouchable in that desolate space, ripped through him, a fresh wound in his ancient soul. He was supposed to protect her. 

Nora, sensing his distress, the invisible agony that gripped him, softened her gaze. She reached up, her fingers lightly caressing his jaw. “And besides,” she continued, a faint, teasing smirk touching her pale, tired face, “if I’m stuck here resting, then we’re all stuck here resting. We’ve all been through a lot, you included.” She gestured to him with a slight incline of her head, a gentle, knowing accusation. “A little rest won’t kill us. In fact,” her smile widened, “it might just be exactly what we need.” 

- 

Morpheus, with Nora held carefully in his arms, strode from the ruined throne room into one of the few remaining, albeit still damaged, chambers of his palace. He was still clad in his sleek, dark leather attire, which seemed to accentuate his lean, elegant frame. The air in this room, unlike the dust-choked hall they had just left, felt surprisingly still, almost hushed. Dust motes still danced in the faint, ethereal light filtering through what remained of a grimy, arched window, painting shifting patterns on the stone floor. He walked with his customary, almost supernatural grace to the bed, its ancient frame, though stripped of its former grandeur, still conveyed a sense of deep history. 

He gently, with a care that transcended his ancient reserve, laid Nora down upon it. The weight of her body settling caused a soft sigh of protest from the old mattress, a sound almost swallowed by the silence of the room. The bed itself was adorned with a very deep blue comforter and blanket set, once undoubtedly vibrant, but now dull and muted, as if the magic that permeated the Dreaming had been sucked from its very fibers during his long absence. It hung heavily over the sides, a stark visual representation of the realm’s decay. 

“You may rest here,” Morpheus said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air around them, a steady current of reassurance. 

Nora’s body, already aching with an intense weariness, now felt the true, heavy weight of exhaustion settle deep into her bones. Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked up at him through a haze of fatigue as he started to silently turn and walk away from the bedside, his dark leather attire a silent silhouette against the dimness of the room. A wave of alarm, sharp and unwelcome, cut through her stupor. “Where are you going?” she asked quietly, her voice a fragile whisper, laced with a plea he could not ignore. 

Morpheus paused, his steps halting. He turned his head slightly, looking back at her over his shoulder, his ancient eyes, usually unreadable, holding a silent question, a flicker of surprise at her interjection. 

Nora’s lips curved into a soft, teasing smirk, a faint echo of the irreverent humor that had sustained them through a century of confinement. “Don’t make me drag you down to this bed, Sandy,” she whispered, her eyes glinting with a challenge he understood far too well. 

A long-suffering sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of ages and countless instances of her stubbornness, echoed in Nora’s mind. But Morpheus acquiesced to her unspoken demand. He walked slowly, his movements still impossibly fluid, to the other side of the bed. As he did, his sleek leather attire shimmered and softened, transforming back into his usual long wool coat and black pants, the familiar fabrics settling around him. He removed his coat and draped it carefully over the back of a lone, wooden chair beside them. With a soft rustle, he settled himself beside Nora, his dark form a stark contrast to the dull blue of the comforter, yet radiating a quiet, unwavering presence that filled the small space with an unexpected sense of peace. 

A few moments later, Nora, her movement’s languid and guided by a deep, unconscious exhaustion, turned onto her side and cuddled into Morpheus. Her one hand came to rest gently on his chest, her fingers idly, softly running over the extremely soft black t-shirt he wore. Morpheus, who had instinctually raised his arm as Nora turned into him, held it frozen above her. His ancient eyes, unblinking in the dimness, watched her, a new sensation blossoming within him. She seeks comfort, even in slumber, he mused, a flicker of something akin to wonder stirring in his endless soul. Nora, with her boundless spirit and unwavering loyalty… this closeness she offers, so freely given, so utterly trusting. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered his arm and wrapped it around Nora’s upper back, his hand gently cupping her shoulder. Nora, operating on instinct and utter depletion, was almost immediately lost to the depths of sleep, her breathing evening out into a soft, steady rhythm, a testament to her utter exhaustion. 

This was a very new scenario for Morpheus. To have Nora, so utterly fragile yet so incredibly resilient, nestled so close, utterly trusting in her unconsciousness. Her warmth, her very presence… it is a solace I never wish to be without again. He found his heart warmed by the intimate contact, a surprising and intensely enjoyable sensation that spread through him, quiet and persistent, unlike any dream or nightmare he had ever woven. It was a feeling specifically tied to her , to the unique bond they shared. He lightly gripped Nora’s shoulder with his hand, a gentle squeeze of pure contentment, a silent acknowledgment of the overwhelming joy this moment brought. Perhaps… perhaps rest is not entirely without its merits after all, especially when shared with her. Before finally, carefully, falling into a meditative, light sleep beside her, his presence a dark, protective anchor in the quiet room. 

- 

As the stillness of Morpheus’s meditative rest settled over the ruined palace, the passage of time became a gentle current rather than a grinding measure. When Nora finally stirred from the deepest sleep she had known in over a century, it was not with a jolt, but a slow, unfolding awareness. Her limbs, accustomed to the hard, unyielding glass, now luxuriated in a softness that felt alien and impossibly comforting. The dull ache that had become a constant companion was gone, replaced by a deep sense of ease. 

A soft, contented sigh escaped her lips, and she instinctively burrowed deeper Into the source of warmth beside her. Her leg, in its search for a more comfortable position, hooked around something firm and solid, her knee tucking neatly behind what felt like a remarkably unyielding thigh. Her arm, reaching out in unconscious embrace, splayed across a broad, shallow rising chest. Her head, nestled into a surprisingly comfortable curve, could faintly feel a rhythmic thrumming she recognized, even in her sleepy haze, as a heartbeat. She was, to put it mildly, a human pretzel, thoroughly entwined with Morpheus. 

The last tendrils of sleep clung to her, soft and warm, but as her mind began to fully surface, a horrifying clarity descended. This was not a dream. This was Morpheus . And she was currently draped across him like a particularly clingy houseplant. 

Her eyes snapped open. The dim light of the room filtered through the tattered window, illuminating the familiar, pale curve of his jaw, only inches from her face. His raven hair, impossibly soft, brushed against her cheek. Oh, God.  

A mortified blush, hot and undeniable, spread from her neck to the tips of her ears. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand, the warmth radiating from him. Every inch of her body was pressed against his, a silent, undeniable testament to her unconscious cuddle. The sheer, utter embarrassment was a physical wave, threatening to drown her. 

Slowly, carefully, as if a sudden movement might cause the entire universe to unravel, she tried to disentangle herself. Her leg, however, seemed to have developed a will of its own, remaining stubbornly hooked around his. Her hand, plastered to his chest, felt impossibly large and clumsy. She managed to lift her head a fraction, her eyes darting to his face. He was utterly still, his eyes closed, his breathing even and deep. He was still asleep. Thank the Endless Night. 

A tiny, hopeful sliver of a thought, desperate and fleeting, whispered in her mind: Maybe he didn’t notice.  

At that exact moment, a low, resonant hum, a sound more felt than heard, rippled through their mental link. It was Morpheus. And it was pure, unadulterated amusement. He was not only awake, but he had clearly been awake for some time, silently enjoying her predicament. 

Nora’s cheeks burned even hotter. You absolute, smug, infuriating…! Her mental retort was a scramble of indignant, colorful expletives. She could practically feel his silent smirk, a wave of ancient satisfaction radiating from him. 

His eyes, those endless pools of starlight, slowly, deliberately, opened. They were filled not with annoyance, or even mere amusement, but with a vast, tender, and deeply, overwhelmingly fluffy fondness. A tiny crinkle formed at the corners of his eyes, a subtle betrayer of his otherwise impassive face. 

Good morning, My Star , his thought resonated in her mind, the words drenched in affection, tinged with that silent, knowing mirth. Did you sleep well?  

Nora groaned, a tiny, strangled sound that barely disturbed the quiet, even as her cheeks heated with a furious blush at his new nickname for her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, for the briefest moment, that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. The humiliation was exquisite. She could feel the gentle, rhythmic stroke of his fingers at the back of her head, where his arm was still wrapped around her. 

I… I seem to have… she fumbled for words, both spoken and thought, her mind a chaotic mess of mortification. I seem to have… tangled myself.  

A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle vibrated through him, echoing in her mind like warm honey. Indeed , he thought, his mental voice swirling with suppressed laughter. A most… enthusiastic slumber.  

He didn’t move. He simply lay there, holding her, his presence a comforting, if currently embarrassing, anchor. The hand at her back stroked her hair again, a slow, tender motion that sent shivers, not of cold or fear, but of pure, dizzying affection down her spine. 

Are you… comfortable? She thought, venturing a tiny, hopeful question. It was her only defense. If she was going down, he was coming with her. 

His internal response was immediate, overflowing with a earnest, almost aching contentment. More comfortable than I have been in millennia, Nora. Your warmth… it is a rare and precious thing.  

He adjusted his grip slightly, pulling her just a fraction closer, a movement so subtle she almost imagined it. His thumb, resting on the soft skin of her upper arm where her hand was still pressed to his chest, began to trace slow, lazy circles, a silent, rhythmic lullaby. 

Nora finally opened her eyes again, meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually so serious, were alight with a tender warmth that made her heart ache with a joyful sweetness. The faint, almost imperceptible crinkle at the corner of his eyes deepened, a silent, loving smile. 

You know, she thought, a spark of her usual sass returning, emboldened by his overwhelming softness, you could have moved. When I first started… pretzel-ing.  

Another silent chuckle, deeper this time, resonated through their link. Perhaps. But then, I would have deprived myself of this… unique experience. And such a rare display of unburdened comfort from you. It is… quite delightful.  

The word ‘delightful,’ used by the King of Nightmares to describe her clingy sleeping habits, sent a fresh wave of warm, fuzzy embarrassment through her. But this time, it was mingled with an almost unbearable swell of tenderness. He truly didn’t mind. He liked it. He liked being her human pillow, her tangle of comfort. 

She let out a soft, defeated sigh, but a genuine smile touched her lips. She tightened her grip on his coat, burrowing just a little bit closer, abandoning all attempts at disentanglement. If she was a pretzel, she might as well be a happy, comfortable pretzel. 

You are truly ridiculous, Sandy, she thought, the affection in her mind boundless and pure. 

He simply hummed again, a low, resonant vibration that filled her very being. Perhaps, he conceded, his voice soft and vast, brimming with an unspoken promise of endless comfort. Only for you My Star. And I would not have it any other way.  

The silence that settled around them was not empty, but filled with the quiet hum of contentment that emanated from Morpheus. Nora, nestled securely against him, felt the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of her ordeal finally giving way to a heartfelt peace. His rhythmic breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her head, became a new kind of lullaby, more potent and comforting than any she had ever known. She felt the warmth of his presence seep into her, dispelling the last lingering chill of Hell and the emptiness of the Garden of Perpetual Silence. 

A few moments later, a small, black form landed silently on the edge of the bed with a soft thud. Matthew, ever the vigilant, if occasionally awkward, companion, hopped closer, his beady eyes peering at the entangled pair. He cocked his head, a silent question in his gaze, before letting out a soft, almost imperceptible “Caw,” a sound that was more a gentle inquiry than a complaint. 

Morpheus, without opening his eyes, simply tightened his arm around Nora, a clear, unspoken message to his raven. All is well, Matthew. We are merely… resting.  

Matthew, however, was not easily deterred by silent pronouncements. He hopped a bit closer to Nora’s head, his beady eyes fixed on her. “Well, well, well,” he chirped, his voice a low, teasing rasp. “Look at you, all tangled up like a kitten in a ball of yarn. Someone looks awfully cozy.” 

Nora groaned, a tiny, strangled sound that barely disturbed the quiet. She could feel a fresh wave of heat creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks a vibrant crimson. 

“And who knew the Boss was such a good cuddle buddy, eh?” Matthew continued, oblivious or simply uncaring of Nora’s mortification, hopping another inch closer. “Usually, he’s more of the ‘brooding in a corner, contemplating the existential dread of a universe without coffee’ type. But here he is, a big, dark, fluffy pillow.” 

“Matthew,” Morpheus grumbled, a low, sharp warning that vibrated through the air. 

Matthew, though unconcerned, took a very distinct hop back, away from Morpheus, his black feathers ruffling with a theatrical shrug. “Just stating facts, Boss!” he chirped. “No judgment here! Just your ever faithful Raven.” 

Nora, her face still warm with embarrassment, felt a chuckle bubble up from deep in her chest. It started as a small, suppressed sound, then blossomed into a full-body, breathless chuckle that shook her frame with silent mirth. She raised her head, looking at Matthew with a fond, exasperated smile that pulled at the corners of her lips. “Oh, Matthew,” she said, her voice soft but clear, carrying a playful chiding, “we really need to work on your timing. It’s simply atrocious.” 

Matthew ruffled his feathers, seemingly pleased with his ability to provoke a reaction. “Hey, I’m just here to help!” he chirped, puffing out his small chest. 

Morpheus, his eyes now open, looked from Nora to Matthew. “As Matthew so helpfully reminded us with his presence,” he said out loud, his deep voice carrying a dry, almost imperceptible undertone of exasperation, and then he paused, glaring ever so slightly at Matthew, his starlit eyes holding a silent threat, “we still have one more task before the Dreaming can truly begin to mend.” 

Nora’s chuckles settled, replaced by a more serious expression as she considered his words. “The ruby,” she said, nodding, her gaze meeting his with understanding. 

“Indeed,” Morpheus confirmed, his voice regaining its customary gravitas. “My Helm is recovered. My sand is restored. The ruby remains.” 

Matthew hopped onto Nora’s calf, his tiny talons gripping her jeans lightly. “So, what’s the plan, Boss?” he chirped, his tone more serious now, his beady eyes fixed on Morpheus. “Where’s this ruby hiding out?” 

Morpheus stared at the crumbling ceiling of the ruined palace, his gaze distant, as if sifting through the very fabric of fate. “The Fates said it was passed from a mother to a son.” After a slight pause, Morpheus continued, his voice a low, resonant hum, “The ruby, though seemingly a simple item, is imbued with immense power. It will be more difficult to reclaim than the sand.” 

“So, no kicking down doors and demanding its return?” Matthew asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice, a slight slump to his feathered shoulders. 

Morpheus’s lips thinned into a faint, tiny smirk, a fleeting shadow of amusement on his pale face. “Not in this instance, Matthew. We currently have no idea who holds the ruby, and so we cannot anticipate what they will do.” 

Nora cut in, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, “Well, so I guess we can’t just… ask nicely?” 

“Unfortunately, not,” Morpheus stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “And we must tread with caution. We cannot disrupt the balance of the waking world any more than it has already been done.” 

Nora turned her head to face Morpheus fully, her eyes reflecting the dim light of the room. “How do you plan on finding where the ruby is?” 

“With my Helm,” Morpheus responded, his voice filled with quiet certainty, “I should be able to find it.” 

Matthew hopped in place a little bit on Nora’s calf, a surge of renewed energy seeming to pulse through him. Then, with a frantic flutter of black wings, he took flight. “CAW! Alright, alright, you two! Enough with the lovey-dovey staring! Time is wasting, the realm is literally crumbling, and I, your most indispensable companion, am ready for action! Let’s go! Chops-chops, people! No more lounging around like pampered housecats! We got a ruby to find, and I’m not getting any younger out here, you know!” before darting through the shattered window and vanishing into the twilight sky of The Dreaming. 

Nora and Morpheus shared a single, long look. A silent acknowledgment of their chaotic but utterly endearing companion.  

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus poured the golden sand with a practiced flourish, and the familiar shimmer enveloped them. In the next breath, the crumbling palace vanished, replaced by the damp, cool air of a London night. They materialized in a swirl of dissipating golden light, standing outside what appeared to be a nondescript storage unit. The night was absolute, thick with shadows that clung to every corrugated steel wall. 

Matthew, with a faint, surprised "Caw!" that was more a muffled squawk, found himself perched on Nora’s shoulder, his claws digging gently into the unfamiliar fabric. Nora, meanwhile, took a quick look around, her gaze sweeping over the rows of identical units, the only sound the distant hum of the city. Then, her eyes drifted downwards, and she blinked. The well-worn jeans and long-sleeved shirt Johanna had given her were gone. In their place, she wore a pair of sturdy black boots, black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a short, fitted black coat that mirrored Morpheus’s own dark attire, albeit with a distinctly feminine cut. 

She looked up at Morpheus, one eyebrow raised in a silent, amused question. He met her gaze, and then, slowly, his eyes drifted down, taking in her new attire with an almost imperceptible, lingering appreciation before returning to her eyes. 

"Something you'd like to say, Sandy?" Nora asked, a hint of playful humor in her voice. 

He simply locked eyes with her, a subtle smirk playing on his lips, and a deep, undeniable satisfaction gleamed in the depths of his dark gaze. Then, as if the moment had stretched just long enough, he turned his attention to the door of the nearest storage unit. 

He walked towards it, his movements fluid and silent. With a mere touch, the heavy padlock on the unit door seemed to click open, the metal groaning softly as he pushed it inward. 

Morpheus stepped inside, pausing just past the threshold, his head tilted slightly, his eyes closed as if sifting through unseen currents. Nora waited, the air thick with anticipation, until his gaze snapped open, locking onto a single, unremarkable black box, almost like a jewelry box, sitting on a dusty table in the very back of the unit. He moved with swift, purposeful strides, and gently, reverently, lifted the lid. It creaked silently. Lying there, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was the ruby, glowing with a soft, ethereal light, a vibrant pulse in the surrounding gloom. 

Matthew, unable to contain his curiosity, hopped off Nora’s shoulder with a soft flutter of wings. He flew the short distance to the table, landing neatly in a small patch clear of clutter, his black feathers ruffling. He stretched his neck, raising his head just enough to peer over the edge of the open box Morpheus now held in his hands. “So, that’s the ruby, huh?” he chirped, his beady eyes fixed on the rich red glow emanating from it, a glow that seemed to be growing ever so slightly brighter. 

Morpheus looked at the ruby for a second longer, his expression unreadable, before a faint furrow appeared between his brows. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured, his voice a low, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate in the air. As he spoke, the ruby pulsed again, its red light intensifying, almost throbbing. “Someone’s altered it,” he added, his voice gaining an edge of grim certainty. 

At that exact moment, the ruby’s energy exploded outwards, a violent wave of intense red light and raw power that burst from the box. Matthew, caught completely off guard, was blasted off the table, sent tumbling through the air with an indignant squawk. Morpheus was thrown backward by the concussive force, slamming against the opposite wall with a dull thud before collapsing to the ground, unconscious. 

Nora, who had been leaning against the open door of the unit, was violently blasted outward. She didn’t hit the damp pavement outside the storage facility. Instead, her vision spun, a kaleidoscopic blur of colors and shapes, until the world re-formed around her. She hit the ground with a jarring impact, not on concrete, but on cracked asphalt, the faint scent of stale oil and frying food assaulting her senses. Above her, a garish neon sign, half-broken, flickered erratically: ‘DIN_ _’. Her head swam, the spinning world refused to settle, and then, mercifully, she lost consciousness. 

~ 

A loud crash of thunder ripped through the oppressive silence, jolting Nora awake. Her eyes snapped open, a throbbing ache behind them, and she found herself still sprawled on the cold, cracked asphalt in front of the diner. Rain, light at first, had begun to fall, each drop a chilling pinprick against her skin. She pushed herself up slowly, groaning, onto her hands and knees, her muscles protesting with every movement. What happened? Where am I? her mind screamed, the questions echoing in the dull throb behind her eyes.  

Her gaze swept around, disoriented, trying to piece together where she was and what had happened. The half-working diner sign still flickered erratically above her, casting a ghostly blue-red glow on the wet ground. Inside, most of the diner’s lights were off, save for a few lingering, flickering bulbs and the eerie blue glow of a small television screen. Morpheus? Matthew? She desperately tried to recall the moments before the darkness, but it was all a blur of red light and impact. With a weary sigh, Nora slowly, painfully, got back onto her feet, her black boots squelching slightly in a puddle. She took a tentative step, then another, moving forward, drawn by the dim, distant light, towards the door of the diner, a strange, unsettling quietness in the air, broken only by the patter of rain and the distant rumble of thunder. 

As Nora pushed open the diner door, a gust of cold, rain-laden air swept past her, carrying with it the sickeningly sweet scent of blood. The flickering neon light from outside cast grotesque, dancing shadows across the scene within. Her breath hitched in her throat, caught by the sheer horror that unfolded before her. 

The diner was a macabre tableau. Bodies lay scattered across the checkered floor in impossible, twisted positions, each surrounded by a dark, glistening pool. Near the entrance, a woman in a floral dress lay on her back, her throat a gaping, crimson wound, a blood-slicked knife still clutched in her stiff hand. Beside her, a man mirrored her, his fingers still desperately clamped to his own severed windpipe, his eyes wide and vacant. Further in, near the empty, overturned stools, a young woman knelt, slumped forward, her delicate wrist deeply sliced, staining the floor around her. And then, the waitress. Nora’s stomach churned as she saw her, slumped over the counter, her face a mask of agony, two screwdrivers protruding from where her eyes had been, stark and horrifying against her pale skin. 

Nora had never seen so much blood in one place, not even in her most terrifying nightmares. It was a visceral, overwhelming sight that rooted her to the spot, just a few steps past the entryway, her gaze wide with a mixture of shock and revulsion. 

“Hello there,” a voice rumbled, surprisingly calm, even welcoming, from the end of the diner bar. 

The unexpected sound snapped Nora out of her horrified trance. Her head whipped around, eyes locking onto the hunched back of an older man, seemingly oblivious to the carnage surrounding him. He sat calmly at the bar, a massive tub of ice cream before him, its contents slowly melting. 

“What… what is going on here?” Nora’s voice was a shaky whisper, barely audible above the insistent drumming of rain on the roof and the distant crackle of static from the TV. “What happened to these people?” 

The old man sighed, a sound of weary satisfaction. He didn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the flickering blue glow of a small television screen above the bar, which displayed an emergency news channel. A harried weather person gestured frantically at a map, describing power grid failures, explosions, and widespread fires engulfing the country. 

“I offered them a world where they could be themselves,” he began, his voice surprisingly gentle amidst the horror, “without having to suffer for it. I took away the lies they hid behind.” He paused, his gaze drifting lazily over the lifeless bodies strewn across the floor beside him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “But it seems,” he continued, a faint, almost amused inflection in his tone, “they enjoyed their suffering. And so, their suffering set them free.” 

Nora stared at him, baffled, then frustrated. How could he speak of freedom while surrounded by such devastation? Her jaw tightened, a slow burn of anger replacing her initial shock. 

“The truth,” he pontificated, reaching for a spoonful of ice cream, “is a cleansing fire. It burns away the lies we’ve told each other, and the lies we’ve told ourselves.” 

Nora scoffed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cut through his detached rhetoric. “A cleansing fire?” Her voice was raised now, tinged with disbelief and a rising frustration, as if explaining a basic moral concept to someone utterly alien to human thought. “You didn’t ‘cleanse’ anything! You didn’t ‘set them free’!” She took a step closer, her voice growing in intensity. “You didn’t give them truth! You gave them absolute despair and called it revelation! You ripped away the very fabric of their reality, simply because you, in your infinite arrogance, decided their ‘lies’ were somehow less valid than your so-called ‘truth’!” 

The old man finally stirred, turning his head slightly, just enough for Nora to glimpse a pale, detached profile. At that moment, a pulsing red glow erupted from the bar top in front of him, drawing Nora’s gaze downward. There, sitting amidst scattered crumbs and melted ice cream, was the ruby. It pulsed with an internal light, growing steadily brighter. The old man’s hand instinctively cupped around it, as if trying to harness its power, and the ruby’s glow intensified, casting a crimson sheen across his face. 

Nora stared at him, eyes wide, a silent “What the hell are you doing?” written on her face. The old man, in turn, looked back at her, a confused frown creasing his brow, clearly baffled as to why the ruby’s intense energy seemed to have no effect on her. 

“They chose their fate, young woman,” he interjected, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, still watching her with that bewildered expression. “The truth simply made it manifest. They were already broken.” 

“Oh my God! Would you just shut up?” Nora exclaimed. “Of course, they were broken! We all are, in some way! But people don’t always hide behind lies, old man. Sometimes, those ‘lies’ are hope for the future, or the dreams that keep them going. They’re the stories we tell ourselves to survive the grim reality, to build something beautiful and meaningful beyond the pain! You can’t just rip that away from someone and call it freedom. You left them with nothing but raw, unfiltered despair, and they turned it on themselves! Do you even understand the most basic concept of human empathy? Of shared existence?” She ended, a wave of disappointment washing over her. 

He remained impassive, his eyes, though still holding that flicker of confusion regarding her, seemed untouched by her words. The utter lack of comprehension on his face, the vacant detachment, finally broke Nora’s already frayed patience. She was utterly fed up. 

With a decisive stride, Nora started moving, picking a careful, slightly winding path around the small, glistening pools of blood on the floor, making her way towards the counter. Her boots made soft squelching sounds with each step. She rounded the end of the bar, her hand shooting out to grab a spare spoon from a cluttered tray behind the counter. Then, without hesitation, she snatched the giant tub of melting ice cream directly from in front of him. 

“You don’t get no damn ice cream,” Nora declared, her voice tight with indignation, holding the tub possessively. She spun on her heel, already walking away from him towards one of the only free, clean booths left at the far side of the diner. As she walked, a low mutter escaped her lips, “Been transported who knows where, knocked unconscious for who knows how long, and now I gotta deal with your cynical ass…” 

She reached the booth, slamming the ice cream tub down onto the table with a thud that echoed in the eerie silence. Nora slid into the red vinyl seat, pulling the tub close. “This ice cream is mine, damn it!” 

The old man, for the first time since Nora had walked in, wore a distinct emotion: a deep frown, a mix of confusion at the ruby’s ineffectiveness and annoyance at his ice cream being commandeered. He watched her, his expression a tight knot of disbelief and petty outrage. 

Nora ignored him, digging her spoon aggressively into the cold, sweet concoction. She shoveled a giant spoonful into her mouth, chewing with a fierce determination. Seriously, Morpheus, where in the ever-loving Dreaming are you? She thought, the cold sweetness doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. Because if I have to endure this guy’s ignorance for much longer, someone’s getting an ice cream facial, and it won’t be me.  

~ 

Nora had been sitting in the booth, the ice cream tub now abandoned and pushed away from her, a sizable dent taken out of what remained. The only sound was the muffled television the old man still watched. Nora didn’t know how much time had passed, but the chill in the air and the lingering scent of blood were starting to permeate her newfound composure. Just as she was contemplating several particularly inventive curses for the oblivious man at the bar, the doors to the diner slammed open with a violent crash, rattling the remaining glass in the windows. 

Morpheus stood framed in the doorway, his dark coat billowing slightly in the draft, his face a grim, serious mask. His gaze swept around the horrific scene within the diner, taking in the scattered bodies and crimson pools. Then, his eyes locked onto Nora. Through their bond, a potent wave of emotion washed over her: the sharp anxiety from waking up alone in the storage unit, the piercing worry of not finding her anywhere, to the overwhelming comfort and immense relief of seeing her safe and unharmed. 

“Well, it’s about time you made an appearance, Sandy,” Nora quipped, a slight touch of humor in her voice, attempting to mask the lingering unease of the situation. Without a second thought, she pushed herself out of the booth, the red vinyl sighing in protest, and began to weave her way around the scattered chairs and tables, navigating the grotesque landscape of bodies and blood. Her pace quickened as she approached him, until she practically collided with his solid form, her arms snaking around his body underneath his coat. She tucked her head beneath his chin, her ear pressed against his chest. Morpheus didn’t hesitate, his arms immediately encircling her, pulling her as close as humanly (or un-humanly) as possible. He squeezed her, and Morpheus could feel some of the stress simply drain from her body, such was her incredible relief at his presence. He tucked his nose into her hair, breathing in her familiar scent—a mix of rain, a faint trace of Johanna’s soap, and her own unique essence—grounding him amidst the chaos. One hand pressed gently into the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head, holding her steady. He simply basked in the quiet intimacy of the moment they could share. 

I’m not sure if you can help him, though, Nora thought to him, her internal voice tinged with skepticism. She shifted her head slightly, making a subtle gesture with her chin towards the old man still at the bar. 

How did you get here? Are you alright? Morpheus asked, his mental voice laced with concern, the words echoing clearly in her mind. 

Nora looked off to the side, her brow furrowed in concentration, trying to recall anything. I don’t know , she responded, giving a little shake of her head, the memory a blur of red light and impact. One second, I was with you both at the storage unit, and the next I was on the ground outside the diner. It was just… sudden . She looked back up at him, her gaze clear. I’m fine. He didn’t do anything to me, not really. I’ve just been waiting for you.  

Morpheus eased his embrace just enough to perform a quick, thorough once-over of Nora, his eyes scanning her new attire, searching for any physical sign of harm. While he did so, he kept one hand still cupping the side of her head, stroking gently along her jawline and cheekbone in a soft caress. Nora gently turned her head into his palm. When he found no physical harm, a visible easing of tension flowed through him. His gaze then shifted inward, conducting an ‘emotional’ once-over, confirming her spirit remained intact, though clearly rattled. He nodded once to himself, then to her, a silent acknowledgment of her resilience. “Wait outside with Matthew,” he conveyed, his voice calm and resolute. “I will handle this.” 

Nora raised a quick eyebrow at him, a silent question in her eyes, a faint doubt flickering within her. When he nodded again, his gaze unwavering and firm, she let out a soft, almost imperceptible “Okay.” Almost reluctantly, she pulled her hands out from around him, letting them drag lightly along his torso, a lingering touch. Then, rising onto her toes, she cupped one side of his face and pressed a soft kiss onto his cheek, just slightly  closer to his mouth, before moving around him and walking towards the diner doors, her gaze briefly sweeping over the devastation one last time. 

Morpheus did not move from his spot, frozen for a beat after her lips left his cheek. When he heard the doors close with a soft thud behind him, sealing away the outside world, he slowly raised a single hand. His fingers, pale and elegant, delicately touched the spot she had kissed, almost in reverence, as if to preserve the fading warmth. Then, with a visible shift in his demeanor, his expression became cold and utterly resolute. He lowered his hand, his eyes darkening, and steeled himself to face the man who dared to hold his stolen ruby.  

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

With Nora safely outside with Matthew, the diner, previously a scene of chaotic horror, now felt eerily still, save for the low chatter from the television, the hum of the old refrigerator and the faint, unsettling drip of something on the floor. Morpheus turned, his silhouette stark against the flickering neon glow from the street. His gaze, devoid of the earlier warmth he had shown Nora, settled on the hunched figure of John Burgess at the bar, the stolen Ruby clutched loosely in his hand. 

“You hold what is mine, mortal.” Morpheus’s voice, though quiet, resonated with an authority that seemed to vibrate through the very air of the diner. John, still perched on his stool, slowly turned. A small, unsettling smile played on his lips, a chilling contrast to the dim, mundane surroundings. 

“Oh, you’re the Sandman,” John drawled, his eyes gleaming with a strange, possessive light. “My mother was right. She said you’d be coming for it.” He held up the Ruby, its fragmented facets catching the faint diner light, each shard a tiny, malevolent eye. 

“You must return it to me so I can repair the damage you’ve done,” Morpheus commanded, his gaze fixed on the pulsating jewel. 

John's smile widened, a mockery of genuine amusement. “Return it? No, I don’t think so. It found me. It chose me. And it showed me the truth. The truth of all of them.” He paused, gesturing dismissively towards the door through which Nora had just exited. “I even tried to show that woman the truth. The Ruby… it didn’t work on her. No matter, she was quite rude anyway.” 

“You dare,” Morpheus seethed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that promised retribution. The thought of John’s tainted influence reaching for Nora, his Nora, was an unpardonable transgression. “You have abused its power. You have inflicted your twisted reality upon others, and for that, there will be consequences.” His voice rose slightly, the air around him growing taut with suppressed power. “The Ruby is a sigil of my realm. It carries the very essence of dreams and nightmares. It was never meant for mortal hands to wield with such reckless abandon.” 

“Well, maybe there needs to be a new King of Dreams,” John countered, his voice rising with a dangerous crescendo of delusion. He held the Ruby aloft, its crimson glow intensifying, casting grotesque shadows across his face. “I can steal the rest of your powers!” 

Before the words had fully left his lips, Morpheus responded, his voice low and firm. “If you rob a Dream Lord of his power, you shall do so in his realm. In dreams.” 

In that instant, the greasy diner floor beneath them dissolved. The flickering fluorescent lights warped into a swirling vortex of stardust and nebulae, a vast, cosmic canvas. Yet, oddly, beneath their feet, a stark, concrete floor remained, its edges crumbling away into an infinite abyss. Dust and debris, like fragments of forgotten realities, swirled around them in the boundless expanse. 

John spun, his gaze darting around the impossible landscape, a mixture of awe and manic glee distorting his features. He still clutched the Ruby, its light now a beacon in the galactic maelstrom. “Is this your palace, Dream Lord? Is this your throne, King of Lies?” He laughed, a high, strained sound that echoed eerily in the vast emptiness. “Well, it’s mine now. Are you watching me? Can you see me, using your own powers to burn away your lies?” 

Morpheus swayed, a faint tremor passing through his tall, slender frame. He felt himself weakening, his essence, his very being, being pulled from him, siphoned by the grotesque parody of his own power in John's hand. “You must stop,” he rasped, his voice strained. “It’s not too late to save yourself.” 

“You think it’s me that needs saving?” John shouted, his voice cracking with intensity, his eyes blazing with a deranged triumph. 

“Your father stole the Ruby from me and cursed you with it,” Morpheus persisted, a desperate plea in his tone. 

“You mean he blessed me with it!” John retorted, his grip tightening on the Ruby. “Your reign ended when my father captured you. Your kingdom is my birthright!” He emphasized with a venomous snarl. “Your power now resides within me. How does it feel to know I hold your life in my hands?” 

Even as his own strength faltered, Morpheus’s thoughts turned to those suffering under John’s cruel distortions. “You’re hurting the dreamers,” he murmured, the words heavy with concern. He could only imagine what Nora, so sensitive to the currents of the Dreaming, must be enduring if he, Dream himself, felt so incredibly weak, his essence being torn away. 

John’s face contorted in a sneer. “Well, maybe it’s time they woke up. Your life, and your lies, ends now!” With a final, triumphant yell, he crushed the Ruby in his hand. The crystalline structure, already fragmented, exploded inward. Instead of a simple shattering, the very air around them ignited, not with fire, but with pure, raw power. A blinding, searing white light erupted from John’s clenched fist, a silent scream of energy that consumed the swirling abyss, the crumbling floor, and even the cosmic dust. It was an instant of absolute void, everything washed away in the incandescent brilliance, leaving only the ringing silence of its passing. 

Then, silence. And stillness. 

As the light faded, John found himself standing, intact, in the same unsettling cosmic void. He looked around, a bewildered triumph blooming on his face. “I killed him! I won!” he crowed, a manic laugh bubbling up. 

But as he looked down, his laughter died in his throat. He wasn't standing on the concrete floor, or stardust, or even the abyss. He was standing in the palm of a colossal hand, a hand impossibly vast, crafted from the very fabric of dreams. Morpheus, now towering over him like a benevolent, yet stern, titan, held John aloft, inspecting him with an expression that was a curious blend of amusement and weariness. It was the look one might give a child who had attempted a remarkably foolish, yet ultimately harmless, prank. 

“Thank you, John,” Morpheus said, his voice now rich and resonant, echoing through the boundless space. 

John was utterly baffled. “But… I killed you!” 

“You destroyed the Ruby and released the power inside it,” Morpheus explained, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “I never would have thought of that.” His gaze drifted to some unseen point beyond John, a flicker of distant memory in his eyes. “I’d forgotten just how much of myself I’d placed in the jewel.” 

A fresh wave of terror washed over John, the manic triumph replaced by desperate fear. “Are you going to kill me?” he whispered, his voice trembling. 

Morpheus considered him, his gaze piercing. “I could. Perhaps I will.” A moment stretched, hanging heavy in the infinite silence. Then, Morpheus shook his head, a gesture of dismissal. “But the Dreamstone was not made for mortals, and it came to you through no fault of your own. So no, John. I will not kill you.” 

With a gentle, invisible force, Morpheus willed John to fall asleep. John’s eyes fluttered, then rolled back, his body collapsing into unconsciousness as Morpheus lowered him. 

In a blink, the cosmic realm dissolved, replaced by the sterile, familiar confines of the mental hospital. Morpheus gently laid John back into his bed, arranging the thin blanket over him. “Sleep well, John,” he murmured, his voice laced with a lingering sorrow. Once certain that John was secure, and would cause no more harm, Morpheus vanished. 

He reappeared just outside the diner, the mundane world stark and silent after the fantastical realm. Nora was there, a figure of distress, huddled on the ground with her back pressed against the diner’s grimy wall. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, elbows resting on them, and her hands were clamped over her forehead, as if to contain a fracturing mind or block out an unbearable memory. Matthew, ever loyal, hopped nervously beside her, his soft caws a concerned murmur. “Are you feeling better now? You… you went down pretty fast there. What happened, Nora?” 

Matthew’s head suddenly snapped up, his small, black eyes fixing on Morpheus’s silent arrival. He hopped out of the way, making room. Morpheus knelt before Nora, his pale hands gently, almost reverently, wrapping around her wrists. He pulled them away from her face, revealing eyes wide and bewildered, still clouded with residual trauma. 

“Nora, are you… ” Morpheus began, his voice low and laced with a fragility that was rare for him. He paused, his face now drawn with worry, his gaze searching hers, knowing the deep, empathetic connection they shared. The air between them grew heavy, thick with the suspense of her revelation. He hesitantly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “What did you feel?” He knew she must have felt his agony, the terrifying sensation of his essence being stripped away, and the not knowing, that agonizing uncertainty of his fate, must have been its own unique torment for her. 

Nora shook her head slowly, a soft, shaky breath escaping her lips. Her eyes, still swimming with unspoken experience, met his. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, her voice thick with raw relief, a relief that dwarfed any personal pain she might have endured. It did matter, of course. It had hurt . A deep, tearing ache, a sudden, terrifying emptiness where he usually resided in her periphery. But the fear, the agonizing uncertainty of what was happening to him, of whether he would return, had been far worse than the pain itself. The not knowing had been the real agony. 

“You’re here. You’re okay,” she continued, the words a desperate litany of comfort for herself as much as for him. With a small, desperate cry, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close, burying her face against his shoulder. He returned the embrace, holding her tightly, his grip a silent promise of his presence. Both breathed out, a long, ragged sigh that spoke of shared relief, of horrors averted. They were okay now. He had all of his tools. They were both safe. It was over. Soft reassurances, indistinguishable murmurs of comfort, passed between them as the diner’s dim lights cast long, weary shadows. 

After a moment, Nora mumbled against his neck, her voice muffled but clear, “Can we go home now?” 

Morpheus felt a warmth bloom in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation that spread through him like sunlight. Home. She considered the Dreaming her home. His realm, her haven. He held her a little tighter, a whisper of a smile touching his lips. “Yes, absolutely, My Star,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. “Yes, we can go home.”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The air in the Dreaming, once thick with the dust of despair and ruin, now hummed with a quiet, persistent energy. Morpheus, fully restored with his sand, helm, and ruby, moved through his shattered kingdom with a grim, yet hopeful, purpose. He was a force of gentle creation, his presence a steadying balm on the wounded realm. 

The rebuilding was not a swift, dramatic act, but a slow, meticulous weaving, like mending a frayed tapestry thread by delicate thread. Where once the sky had been a flat, oppressive gray, now faint streaks of lavender and rose began to bleed into the horizon, hinting at the vibrant dawns that would once again paint the Dreaming. The desiccated riverbeds, which had long been nothing more than parched dust, gradually darkened, then glistened with the promise of returning water. First, a trickle, then a meandering stream, eventually swelling into the impossibly clear blue river Nora remembered from her childhood dream. Broken pillars and crumbling spires, remnants of his magnificent palace, slowly, agonizingly, knit themselves back together, not with a sudden flash, but with the quiet resilience of time-lapse photography. 

Nora was almost always nearby, a grounding presence in the often-shifting landscape of his restoration. Sometimes, she would perch on a newly mended archway, or sit cross-legged amidst the nascent greenery, watching Morpheus with a contemplative gaze. Matthew, ever the garrulous companion, would frequently join her, hopping from her shoulder to her knee, offering a running commentary that was a delightful blend of observation and mild complaints. 

“He’s certainly putting his back into it, isn’t he, Nora?” Matthew chirped one afternoon, tilting his head towards Morpheus, who was currently coaxing a section of a dilapidated wall to reform. “Bit of a perfectionist, Boss. You’d think after a century off, he’d be more for the ‘good enough’ approach.” 

Nora chuckled softly, the sound a warm ripple in the air. “He built this realm, Matthew. It’s a part of him. They’re sort of one and the same.” She paused, a faint smirk playing on her lips, a shared joke only she and Morpheus understood. “So knowing who Morpheus is, then absolutely yes, the realm must be perfect.” 

“Still,” Matthew grumbled, ruffling his feathers, “all this focused intensity. It’s exhausting just watching him. Doesn’t he ever just want to kick back and, I don’t know, manifest a giant, comfortable sofa made entirely of clouds and binge-watch some particularly absurd human nightmares?” 

Morpheus paused in his work, the reforming stone shimmering slightly. A low, dry chuckle, a sound that only Nora could truly distinguish as amusement, echoed in her mind. One must attend to one’s duties, My Star. The Dreaming requires order.  

Nora tilted her head, giving Matthew a wry look. “He’s attending to his ‘duty’,” she said, making finger quotation marks around the last word. 

“See?” Matthew squawked, nudging Nora’s ear. “Always with the ‘duty.’ Doesn’t he know about self-care? Honestly, a giant cloud-sofa would probably do wonders for dream-production. More comfortable dreamers, better dreams. It’s basic economics, Boss!” 

Nora reached up and gently stroked Matthew’s head. “He’s getting there. Baby steps, Matthew.” 

Other times, Nora would be resting, curled up on a patch of emerald grass that had just sprung from the once-barren ground. She loved to encourage Morpheus to join her. 

“Sandy,” she’d project, her mental voice a soft, insistent coaxing, when she noticed him looking particularly strained, a fine sheen of cosmic effort on his brow. “Come on. Just for a bit. The palace isn’t going to disappear if you take five minutes.” 

He would sigh, a long, drawn-out sound in their shared mental space, one that conveyed millennia of obligation. There is much to be done, Nora. The absence was long. The damage is extensive. 

“Which is precisely why you need to rest!” she’d counter, already making room beside her, patting the soft grass. “You’re no good to anyone, especially your realm, if you collapse from sheer stubbornness.” Besides , she’d add, a playful note entering her thoughts, I miss being your human pillow.  

This last comment, delivered with her characteristic blend of affectionate teasing and undeniable truth, would usually do the trick. A reluctant, yet deeply felt, warmth would emanate from Morpheus. He would, with fluid grace, settle beside her, sometimes resting his head on her lap, sometimes simply lying close, allowing her warmth and presence to seep into his ancient being. The gentle rhythm of her fingers carding through his impossibly soft hair was, as he had once discovered, “quite delightful”. 

The rebuilding of the Dreaming continued, a testament to a king’s unwavering will and the quiet, comforting presence of his Star. The laughter of restored dream-creatures began to echo through the nascent forests, the scent of impossibly fragrant flowers filled the air, and slowly, surely, the myriad wonders of Morpheus’s realm began to unfurl anew, each vibrant detail a silent promise of brighter days. 

It had been a couple of days since Nora had successfully coaxed Morpheus into a much-needed respite, a small victory in the face of his tireless efforts. Now, refreshed, though still burdened by the sheer scale of his work, Morpheus was deeply immersed in the meticulous restoration of a grand antechamber within his palace, a room once opulent but now a skeletal ruin of crumbling stone and phantom tapestries. Nora was with him, quietly sketching in a small notebook, while Matthew flitted about, inspecting newly formed architectural details with a critical eye. 

Morpheus, with a focused intensity that bordered on the ethereal, was coaxing intricate patterns to reform on a vast, cracked ceiling. The air around them thrummed with the soft energy of creation, the subtle hum of ancient magic slowly reasserting itself. 

It was into this atmosphere of quiet, concentrated work that Lucienne, the librarian of the Dreaming, entered the antechamber. Her footsteps were light, almost imperceptible on the newly solid floor, but her presence, a beacon of meticulous order and intellectual vigor, was instantly felt by Morpheus. She held herself with her usual scholarly precision, her spectacles gleaming, a hint of unusual excitement in her otherwise composed demeanor. 

“My Lord,” she began, her voice crisp and clear, as Morpheus paused his work, his gaze shifting to her. Nora looked up from her sketching, and Matthew settled onto her shoulder, curious. 

Lucienne executed a small, deferential bow. “I bring news, My Lord,” she continued, her voice gaining a touch of barely contained triumph, a rare display from the usually reserved librarian. “It is… it is as we hoped. The disruption is receding further. And with it…” She paused, as if savoring the moment, allowing the full import of her words to settle in the air. “…the library has returned.” 

An Immense stillness fell over Morpheus. His gaze, usually so unreadable, softened, and a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his form. The Library. The repository of every story, every dream, every unwritten tale. Its loss had been a wound as deep as any sustained by his own imprisonment. To have it back, complete and vibrant, was a monumental step in the Dreaming’s full recovery. 

“Entirely?” he asked, the single word laden with centuries of longing. 

Lucienne nodded, a small, delighted smile gracing her lips. “Entirely, My Lord. Every volume, every scroll, every whispered thought of every living being, past, present, and future, accounted for. It stands as it always has. A little dusty, perhaps, after its… unscheduled departure, but whole.” 

At Lucienne’s words, Nora jumped up from her spot, Matthew wobbling slightly on her shoulder before deftly adjusting his balance—his aerial maneuvers had much improved since he’d decided Nora’s shoulder was his primary perch. Nora hurriedly walked over to them, reaching out to grasp Morpheus’s hand, her fingers intertwining with his. 

“Lucienne, that’s fantastic news!” Nora exclaimed, her voice bright with genuine joy. “I’m so incredibly happy for both of you!” 

Lucienne’s smile broadened, a rare and truly luminous expression that she shared directly with Nora. Their interactions since returning to the Dreaming had been cordial but brief, always revolving around Morpheus. Yet, Nora knew how vital Lucienne was to him, not just as a librarian but as a trusted friend and advisor, perhaps his closest. Nora hoped that in the quieter days to come, they might forge a deeper bond of friendship themselves. 

“Excellent,” Morpheus said, the single word resonating with an unshakeable power that spoke volumes. He turned his gaze, which had been fixed on Lucienne, now to Nora, a shared sense of immense relief passing between them. The Dreaming was truly coming home. 

Nora’s grip on Morpheus’s hand tightened, her eyes, wide and sparkling with a childlike eagerness, turned to him. “Sandy,” she began, her voice a soft, almost breathless plea, “can I see it? The library? Can we go see it, please, please, please, pretty please?” Her eyes, usually so calm, now shimmered with an irrepressible excitement, mirroring the youthful wonder of a child on the cusp of a grand adventure. 

From behind them, Lucienne let out a quiet huff of a laugh, a rare, almost imperceptible sound of amusement that spoke volumes. She couldn’t help but appreciate Nora’s unbridled enthusiasm for something she, Lucienne, held in such great pride and reverence. It was a stark contrast to the often stoic and reserved demeanor of her lord. As Nora practically vibrated with anticipation, Lucienne’s sharp gaze caught the incredibly fond, almost tender, look that Morpheus sent Nora’s way. It was a look rarely seen on the face of the Lord of Dreams, a softening of his ancient features that spoke of deep affection and a quiet joy. 

Morpheus’s lips, which seldom curved into a full smile, quirked upwards ever so slightly. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a hint of what, for him, was deep amusement. “Very well, My Star,” he conceded, the depth of his voice a warm rumble that resonated through Nora’s hand. “We can see the library.” 

Nora let out a little squeal, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight that was entirely human and entirely charming. She bounced on the balls of her feet, a quick, uncoordinated little happy dance, her face alight with joy. Releasing Morpheus’s hand for a moment, she spun around, her bright gaze landing on Lucienne. 

“Well, lead the way, please!” Nora urged, gesturing grandly towards the entrance of the antechamber, her enthusiasm utterly infectious. 

Lucienne’s smile widened, a genuine, warm expression that momentarily erased her usual scholarly gravity. She dipped her head in a small, elegant nod. “Of course, Nora,” she replied, her voice tinged with her own quiet delight. Turning on her heel, the meticulous librarian led them out of the antechamber and deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, towards the very heart of reclaimed knowledge and dreams. Morpheus followed, a silent, powerful presence, but his steps seemed lighter, imbued with a quiet happiness he hadn’t known in centuries. Nora, still buzzing with excitement, walked beside him, her hand instinctively finding his once more, ready to explore the endless wonders of the returned Dreaming Library. 

Lucienne led them through corridors that seemed to mend and reform with every step, the Dreaming itself shifting to accommodate its returning heart. Walls that had been dust-choked rubble now solidified into polished obsidian, reflecting faint, ethereal light. The air grew richer, thick with the scent of aged paper, leather, and something else—something distinctly of forgotten knowledge and potential, a fragrance unique to the boundless archive. Matthew, perched comfortably on Nora’s shoulder, occasionally ruffled his feathers, his head cocked as If listening to the silent whispers of a million untold stories. 

Nora’s excitement grew with every turn. She squeezed Morpheus’s hand, feeling the subtle tremor of anticipation that ran through him. Even for the Lord of Dreams, the return of his library was an event of great significance. It wasn’t just a collection of books; it was the accumulated consciousness of all dreaming, the very fabric of human and indeed, all sentient, thought. 

Finally, Lucienne stopped before a colossal archway, one that had been a gaping, impossible void only days before. Now, it stood proud and magnificent, carved with intricate symbols that seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light. Beyond it, through the massive, open doors, Nora could discern the vast, endless expanse of the library. It was even more magnificent than she had imagined from Morpheus’s descriptions or her own fleeting dreams of it. 

Rows upon rows of shelves stretched into infinity, reaching heights that defied mortal architecture. Books, scrolls, and unbound pages floated gently in the air, waiting to be retrieved by the discerning touch of a Dream-librarian. Globes of soft, ambient light drifted lazily between the stacks, illuminating pathways and hidden alcoves. The air here was alive, not with the bustling energy of a human library, but with the quiet, potent hum of countless narratives held in suspension, each breath a silent story. 

“It is… spectacular, Lucienne,” Nora breathed, her voice filled with awe. She let go of Morpheus’s hand, taking a hesitant step forward, as if entering a sacred space. Matthew flew off her shoulder, circling above the endless shelves with a chirrup of pure delight. 

Lucienne’s expression softened into one of deep satisfaction. “It always is, Nora,” she replied, her gaze sweeping over the vast halls with great affection. “Every dream, every nightmare, every half-forgotten thought, every story ever told, or never told, resides within these walls.” 

Morpheus stepped past them, a silent monarch reclaiming his throne. He didn’t speak, but his presence filled the space, absorbing the vastness of the library into himself. Nora watched him, feeling the deep connection he had to this place, understanding that this was more than just his realm; it was his very essence. 

Then, he turned, his dark eyes falling on Nora, a flicker of something akin to pride, or perhaps a shared sense of wonder, passing between them. He offered her a hand, an unspoken invitation. 

“Come,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual amidst the hushed grandeur. “There are tales to be found.” 

Nora stepped through the colossal archway, her initial awe quickly morphing into a delightful frenzy. Her eyes darted from one towering shelf to the next, trying to take in the endless rows of volumes. The sheer scale was dizzying, a true testament to the infinite nature of dreams and stories. 

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, her voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might disrupt the quiet symphony of knowledge around them. She looked at Morpheus, her eyes wide. “Sandy, do you have… do you have, like, Austen? And the Brontës? Oh, and what about that obscure poet from the 17th century I could never find a complete collection of? Do they have all the different versions of Frankenstein? The really rare ones? What about ancient Sumerian epics? Or even, like, the lost plays of Aeschylus? The ones no one’s ever found?” 

Morpheus watched her, a rare, soft smile playing on his lips. His dark eyes, usually so solemn, held an unmistakable glint of amusement. Her boundless, almost frantic, enthusiasm was utterly charming, and he found a quiet pleasure in witnessing her delightful struggle to comprehend the true scope of his realm. It was as if her human mind, accustomed to the finite nature of earthly collections, simply couldn't process the concept of 'everything.' 

"My Star," he murmured, a low, melodic sound, his grip gentle as he guided her deeper into the labyrinth of books, "every story ever dreamed, every word ever written or imagined, every narrative conceived across all existence, resides here. There are no lost plays, no obscure poets whose complete works are beyond these shelves. If a tale has ever taken root in any mind, it is preserved within the Dreaming Library." 

Nora stopped, her mouth slightly agape. She looked around, then back at him, a sudden, sheepish grin spreading across her face. "Right," she said, a little laugh escaping her. "Everything. Of course. Silly me." She shook her head, still trying to wrap her mind around it. "It's just... it's a lot of everything." 

Lucienne, having acknowledged the importance of the moment for her Lord and Nora, had quietly excused herself to begin the immense task of re-cataloging and organizing the returned volumes, leaving them to explore. 

Nora, however, was already moving again, her initial shock giving way to renewed curiosity. She reached out, her fingers hovering over a shelf filled with books bound in what looked like solidified starlight. “So,” she began, a new question bubbling up, “if someone has a dream, does it just… appear here? Like, automatically cataloged?” 

Morpheus nodded, his gaze distant as he considered the vastness of his realm. “Indeed, My Star. Every dream, every nightmare, every fleeting image born in a sleeping mind, is a part of this place. It is not merely a record; it is the very fabric of The Dreaming. They are all accounted for, from the grandest epic to the most fleeting, half-remembered image.” 

Nora’s eyes widened, a slow, dawning horror spreading across her face. Her hand, previously hovering with curiosity, dropped to her side. Every dream. Even the ones she barely recalled upon waking, the ones that dissolved like mist but left a lingering warmth. The ones that, with growing frequency over the last century in that glass sphere, had featured a certain tall, brooding, impossibly elegant King of Dreams. Oh, God.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

A hot, undeniable flush spread from Nora’s neck, crawling up her cheeks and setting her ears aflame. She could feel it, a betraying heat, as the full, mortifying realization slammed into her. Every single one. The absurd, nonsensical ones she’d bravely recounted to break the silence, and the intensely private ones she’d only ever dared to glimpse in the deepest recesses of her own subconscious. The ones that involved longing glances, secret touches, and desires she hadn’t even consciously admitted to herself. They were all here. Cataloged. Available. Potentially accessible by the very subject of those dreams. 

Her brain, in a desperate attempt to short-circuit the utter humiliation, tried to conjure a mental image of Lucienne, spectacles perched on her nose, meticulously shelving a dream where Nora was attempting to teach Morpheus to tap dance, or a particularly vivid one involving him dramatically rescuing her from a mundane grocery store armed with only a baguette. And then, the other kind of dreams. The genuinely heated ones. The thought sent a fresh wave of agony through her. 

Nora squeezed her eyes shut, a tiny, strangled groan escaping her lips. She wanted the polished obsidian floor to open up and swallow her whole. The humiliation was absolute, cosmic in its scale. “Oh, that’s nice.” she muttered, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her. She began to subtly walk further into the library, putting more space between herself and Morpheus, as if she could outrun the mortification. 

Morpheus, his features still a mask of careful neutrality but his eyes glinting with barely suppressed amusement, watched her retreat. “Why the sudden interest in the finer details of the Dreaming’s cataloging system, Nora?” he asked, his voice a low, resonant murmur, casual yet undeniably knowing. “A moment ago, your inquiries were of ancient playwrights. Now, this… specific fascination with the inner workings of dream storage?” 

Nora stumbled slightly over an invisible seam in the floor, her cheeks burning hotter. “Oh, no reason!” she chirped, trying to sound nonchalant, her voice a frantic scramble. “Just… curious. You know, general intellectual curiosity about vast, cosmic libraries and their contents! Nothing specific at all!” She quickened her pace, her black boots silent on the gleaming floor, making a beeline for a distant shelf filled with particularly ornate, glowing volumes. I just needed to be anywhere else.  

Morpheus’s amusement intensified, a deep, silent chuckle that vibrated through the air, though only Nora truly heard its subtle nuance. He let her gain a few more paces, enjoying her flustered retreat. Then, with a speed that defied the elegance of his movements, he was suddenly in front of her, his dark form blocking her path. He reached out, his pale hands gently, but firmly, taking her shoulders, stopping her escape. 

Nora gasped, startled, her gaze immediately dropping from his starlit eyes to his hands. His hands. Even in her current state of utter mortification, her focus was drawn to them. She’d always found them impossibly beautiful, and her mind, unbidden, replayed fleeting images of them—the way they’d held her cardigan, the gentle, repetitive motion through her hair, the feather-light touch when he’d first reached for her elbow, the firm, grounding squeeze in London. Her thoughts, a chaotic mix of embarrassment and an utterly inconvenient admiration, tumbled over each other. His hands are so elegant. The way he holds things. They just look so… strong but soft.  

Morpheus’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, that familiar glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He slowly, deliberately, lowered his hands from her shoulders, his pale fingers lightly brushing hers as they came to rest. “It seems,” he began, his voice a silken thread of teasing that was utterly, devastatingly effective, “that my library is not the only thing that holds your… interest. You appear to have a rather particular fascination with my hands, My Star.” 

Nora’s eyes snapped up to his, her face now a vibrant, furious crimson. “I… I do not!” she stammered, her voice weak and entirely unconvincing. 

Morpheus’s smirk deepened. “Indeed?” he challenged, his voice warm with quiet laughter. “And yet, your attention seems to gravitate towards them with remarkable consistency. A most curious focus, given the myriad wonders of the Dreaming now laid before you. Perhaps a volume on the esoteric aesthetics of anatomical structures is in order for your next read?” 

Nora wanted to scream. Or perhaps melt into the polished floor. She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, willing the universe to un-exist her. When she opened them again, Morpheus was still there, his dark eyes brimming with that infuriating, affectionate amusement, his perfect, pale hands still tantalizingly close. 

“In fact,” Morpheus continued, his voice dropping to a low, silken purr that made Nora’s stomach do a nervous flutter, “if my memory recalls, you seem to…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her face as if searching for the precise word, drawing out the exquisite torture. “… think about them quite a bit too.” 

Nora’s breath hitched. Oh God. Please no…  

“Let’s see,” he mused, a phantom smile playing on his lips, his voice perfectly even, betraying no hint of the utter mortification he was about to inflict. “There was the time you thought, The way he moves… it’s like watching a statue come to life .” He took a deliberate step closer, narrowing the distance between them. “And, more recently, His hands are so elegant. The way he holds things. They just look so strong but soft. ” 

A wave of fresh, scalding heat washed over Nora, her face burning. Those were her internal thoughts, the ones she’d had in the quiet, isolated confines of their glass prison, the ones she’d dismissed as fleeting, private observations. He’d heard every single one. The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow, stunning her into silence. The century of shared imprisonment, the seemingly unbreakable mental link, had meant nothing was truly private. 

Morpheus took another step, closing the distance entirely until they were almost chest to chest. He raised a pale hand, his elegant fingers gently cupping her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark as the void and swirling with starlight, held hers captive. 

“You are quite correct, My Star,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate resonance that bypassed her ears and settled deep in her core. “They are strong. They are soft. And they are, quite deliberately, for you.” 

His thumb, still resting on her chin, began a slow, tender stroke, sending shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with fear. His gaze, unyielding and intense, held hers as he slowly lowered his head, his dark hair brushing her forehead. The air between them thrummed, thick with unspoken possibilities, with a century of silent longing finally given voice. 

Nora’s breath hitched, every nerve ending alive. His words, his presence, the sheer raw honesty of his gaze… it was everything she had secretly longed for, amplified beyond any mortal measure. Her own hand, almost unconsciously, reached up to cup his jaw, her thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. The soft brush of his hair against her forehead, the faint scent of rain and starlight that clung to him, filled her senses. It felt impossibly real, more solid and true than anything in the waking world. 

“For… for me?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath, filled with an awe that bordered on disbelief. The words, the feeling that resonated from him, were so utterly consuming, so beautifully overwhelming. 

Morpheus’s eyes, those endless pools of starlight, deepened, reflecting a tenderness she had only glimpsed in moments of crisis or shared vulnerability. “For you, My Star,” he affirmed, his voice a low, intimate murmur that seemed to wrap around her soul. “It always has been. Even when I could not, would not, acknowledge it.” His thumb continued its gentle stroke on her chin, an anchor in the dizzying intensity of the moment. “You brought light to my silence, color to my gloom. You saw me, not merely as a king, but as a being worthy of… something more.” 

He leaned in further, his dark eyes never leaving hers, the distance between their lips now agonizingly small. The air thrummed with unspoken desire, with a century of yearning finally on the precipice of release. This was it. The moment she had never dared to dream of, yet had lived for.  

Morpheus leaned closer, the last sliver of space between them dissolving. Nora's breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed as his lips finally met hers. It was not a gentle brush, but a kiss of deep, overwhelming intensity, a century of unspoken longing and unacknowledged desire finally erupting. It tasted of starlight and ozone, of ancient dreams and newly formed hope, a taste utterly unique to him. His hands, which had cupped her chin, now moved to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as the kiss deepened, pulling her into a vortex of sensation. 

Nora responded with equal fervor, her fingers tightening on his jaw, pulling him impossibly closer. The world, the vast library with its infinite stories, the very fabric of The Dreaming, seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in a singular, timeless moment. It was a kiss that promised forever, that healed old wounds, and ignited new, thrilling possibilities. 

When they finally broke apart, it was only for air, their foreheads resting against each other, breaths ragged and uneven. Morpheus's eyes, usually so composed, were alight with a raw, almost fierce emotion she had rarely seen. His lips, still close to hers, were parted slightly, a soft, satisfied sigh escaping him. 

Nora's own heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drumbeat of euphoria. Her cheeks were still flushed, her lips tingling. "Oh Morpheus," she breathed, the name a soft exhalation of wonder and disbelief. 

He tightened his grip on her face, his gaze searching hers. "Nora," he murmured, his voice husky, laden with a tenderness that stole her breath away. "My Nora." The way he spoke her name, imbued with such possessive warmth, sent a fresh wave of shivers through her. 

He pulled back just enough to look at her fully, his thumb still tracing the line of her cheekbone. "It seems," he said, a faint, contented smile gracing his lips, "my library is not the only place where dreams are given form." His eyes dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, a silent promise in their depths. "And I find, My Star, that your dreams... are quite beautiful." 

Nora didn’t need further prompting. The lingering warmth of his words, the heady intimacy of his gaze, propelled her. With a soft gasp, she tightened her grip on his jaw, pulling him back in. Her fingers threaded into the impossibly soft, raven black strands of his hair, a rebellious act that thrilled her to her core. She tugged, gently but insistently, drawing his head down as her lips met his once more. 

This kiss was a conflagration, an unleashing of all the restrained passion and desperate affection that had simmered between them for decades. Her fingers tangled deeper in his hair, pulling him closer still, and she felt a low, guttural groan vibrate from deep within his chest, a sound that sent a jolt of raw pleasure through her. Morpheus responded with equal, unbridled intensity, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, crushing her against his form, the familiar, comforting weight of his usual long wool coat pressing against her. The world, the vast library with its infinite stories, the very fabric of the Dreaming, seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in a singular, timeless moment. It was a kiss that promised forever, that healed old wounds, and ignited new, thrilling possibilities. 

Suddenly, Morpheus shifted, his hands leaving her waist to cup her thighs. With a surge of unexpected strength, he hoisted her up effortlessly, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as she found herself pressed against a towering bookshelf. The faint scent of aged paper and dream-dust filled her nostrils, a surreal backdrop to the escalating passion. His body, hard and warm, pressed against hers, the movement itself an intimate dance. 

Nora’s head fell back against the shelf with a soft thud, a breathless gasp escaping her lips. His lips, wet and demanding, left hers, trailing a burning path down her jawline to her throat. The sharp nip of his teeth, a light, teasing bite, sent shivers convulsing through her. 

Her fingers, still woven into his hair, tightened, pulling his head fractionally closer. “All this time,” she gasped out, the words catching in her throat as his kisses ignited a trail of fire down her neck, “all my thoughts… you’ve heard.” 

Morpheus gave her another soft, teasing nip, drawing a sharp intake of breath from her. Then, a low, rich chuckle rumbled up from his chest, and Nora felt his smile spread against the sensitive skin of her throat. 

“You never thought to share that?” she whispered, a desperate plea tinged with humor and lingering embarrassment. 

His voice, a low, utterly devilish murmur against her pulse point, sent goosebumps across her skin. “Why, My Star,” he purred, his smile deepening, “why would I not want to keep such delightful thoughts to myself? They were, after all, some of my most cherished entertainments during our… confinement.” He chuckled again, the sound vibrating through her, before resuming his slow, devastating exploration of her throat, each kiss a silent testament to the wealth of information he possessed, and his utterly charming, infuriating refusal to let her forget it. The library hummed around them, a silent, knowing witness to the newest story being written within its ancient walls. 

Nora’s mind, reeling from the sudden, delightful chaos, tried to find something, anything, to latch onto that wasn’t the sheer, overwhelming intimacy of the moment. Her brain, true to form, defaulted to frantic over-analysis. 

“You know,” she began, her voice a little breathless, her fingers still tangled in his hair, “this is a lot. Like, a lot a lot. First, the whole ‘you heard my thoughts’ thing, which, by the way, is a huge invasion of privacy, just saying. And now, you’re just, like, confirming you find my internal monologues about your hands ‘delightful’ and, honestly, that’s both incredibly flattering and also supremely terrifying because what else have you heard?” Oh God, what else? That time I thought he looked like a gothic statue carved by a Greek god when he was just sitting there, all pale skin and raven hair? Or when I wondered if his thighs were as impossibly firm as they looked, considering he never moved?  

Morpheus gave her pulse point a little nip, a teasing spark that flared against her skin, and then began to lightly suck on that sweet, vulnerable spot just under her ear. Nora sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath, her head tilting back further, offering him more access. Okay, what about that time he was just unclothed and… and… oh, words… fumble… brain no work…  

Morpheus, who had been listening to her delightful, rambling internal panic with a growing, tender amusement that shimmered in the starlight of his eyes, decided she had rambled quite enough. Her verbal deluge, while undeniably endearing, was a distraction from the far more interesting, unspoken conversation their bodies were having. Without a word, without breaking the intoxicating rhythm of his kisses on her neck, he raised his head, cutting off her stream of anxious chatter with a deep, silencing kiss on her lips. 

It was fierce, possessive, and utterly effective. His mouth claimed hers, a hunger that brooked no argument. When Nora tightened her grip on his hair, her fingers tingling deeper in the dark strands, she felt the unmistakable tremor of his body, and Morpheus groaned into her mouth, a primal sound that dissolved into her, sending a jolt of pleasure through her that made her own body hum in response, vibrating with an almost painful urgency. 

Morpheus, whose hands were already on her thighs, gripped tighter, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor her. With a surge of raw, effortless strength, he lifted her slightly more against the towering bookshelf, their bodies aligning with a seamless precision that left no sliver of space between them. Her body was flush against his long, lean frame, the comforting, yet suddenly maddening, weight of his wool coat pressing between them. Then, with a fluid grace that was uniquely his, he moved one hand, trailing it up the side of her body, leaving a path of tingles and warmth in its wake. He then grasped the nape of her neck, his fingers strong and demanding, tangling in the hair at the base of her skull, and forcibly tilted her head to deepen the kiss further. Nora moaned deeply into his mouth, a raw, yearning sound of pure surrender that was both heard and felt, a guttural sound that thrilled him in return. 

One of Nora’s hands slipped from his hair, letting it slide down Morpheus’s back, over the smooth, rich wool of his long coat. The thick fabric, while luxurious, was a frustrating barrier, and an almost desperate need surged through her. Fuck, she just wanted to feel his skin. To feel the tautness of his muscles beneath her palm. Why did he have so many damn layers on? It was ridiculously, cruelly unfair. Her nails, almost unconsciously, scraped lightly against the wool, a silent plea for less cloth, more contact. 

Morpheus subtly ground his hips into hers, a slow, deliberate movement that made Nora gasp against his lips, her body arching involuntarily into his, a sudden, sharp ache blooming deep within her. He took advantage of her sharp intake of breath, deepening the kiss even more, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, caressing hers with a possessive, exquisite rhythm that stole what remained of her coherence. Every nerve ending screamed, every thought evaporated into a glorious, formless haze. 

After Morpheus had decided that Nora was thoroughly wrecked with that kiss, her brain a delightful, steaming pile of mush, he finally broke the contact of their lips. He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath coming in ragged whispers that mingled with her own, his dark eyes still closed for a moment. 

He then slowly, slowly lowered her legs back to the ground, her feet finding purchase on the polished floor, the slight tremble in her limbs a testament to the intensity of their embrace. He kept one hand wrapped firmly around her waist, keeping her stable, his touch a warm anchor. 

Soon, My Star , his thought resonated, a warm, overwhelming wave of passion, arousal, and deep, possessive affection flooding through their bond. As the initial thought settled, Morpheus opened his eyes, leaning back just slightly to appreciate Nora, her flushed face, her swollen lips, her eyes still hazy with lingering desire. He could almost see Nora’s brain kick-start, the words making their way through the blissful haze of the kiss’s aftermath, finally processing in her head. When the full weight of his words truly kicked in, Nora’s eyes fluttered open, looking up at him. She saw that Morpheus’s eyes were super dark, almost black, overcome with an undeniable, raw arousal. 

Then, his voice, deeper and more rumbly than she had ever heard it, echoed in her mind: Very soon, you will feel every part of me.  

Nora, who completely got the double meaning—the promise of his full presence, physically and emotionally—couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excited eagerness surge through her. Her own body, still pressed flush against his, throbbed in eager anticipation, every fiber of her being humming with a silent, fervent “Yes.”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The soft light of the Dreaming’s restored sun filtered through the palace’s newly mended windows, painting the grand library in hues of gentle gold. Nora stretched on the large, comfortable armchair, a soft, involuntary sigh escaping her lips. Even many hours after, a faint blush still dusted her cheeks, a lingering warmth that settled deep in her bones. The memory of Morpheus’s lips on hers, the dizzying intensity of their kiss in this very library, sent a thrilling shiver through her. Soon, My Star. Very soon, you will feel every part of me. His words, still echoing in her mind from last night, made her heart quicken with a dizzying anticipation. He had left shortly after, his duties calling him back to the monumental task of rebuilding the Dreaming. Before he departed, he had looked at her with a tender seriousness, gently encouraging her to stay in the quiet solace of the library for as long as she wished. She had agreed, knowing she needed the peaceful space to process the seismic shift in their relationship. 

She shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her, and pushed herself out of the armchair, determined to distract herself. 

The library hummed with a quiet energy, the scent of ancient paper and fresh ink filling the air. Lucienne, ever diligent, was gracefully moving between towering shelves, her hands deftly organizing scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Matthew, perched on a newly polished banister, occasionally chirped a comment, his bright eyes taking in the grand scale of the restored archive. 

Nora wandered through the endless aisles, her fingers trailing over the spines of books that hummed with forgotten stories. “Morning, Lucienne,” she greeted, her voice soft so as not to disturb the stillness of the knowledge contained within. 

Lucienne turned, her spectacles gleaming in the light. “Good morning, Nora. It is indeed a morning of great satisfaction. This archive, fully restored, brings a deep sense of peace.” 

“It must,” Nora agreed, moving closer. “It’s truly magnificent, Lucienne. So many stories, so many lives held within these pages. It must be a daunting task to keep it all in order, even without the destruction you faced.” She genuinely wanted to foster a deeper connection with the loyal librarian. 

Lucienne’s expression softened, a rare, gentle smile gracing her features. “It is a labor of love, Nora. Each volume, each scroll, a piece of the Dreaming’s soul. And it is in no small part thanks to your courage that it stands whole once more.” 

Matthew, ever the dramatic one, swooped down to land on Nora’s shoulder, ruffling his feathers with a flourish. “Don’t let her modesty fool you, Nora! She’s been practically humming with contentment all morning, trying to look all stoic and librarian-like. But I’ve seen the little jig she does when she finds a misplaced book!” 

Lucienne let out a small, huffing laugh, a sound of gentle exasperation. “Matthew, must you always be so… vivid in your descriptions?” 

“Only telling it like it is, Lucienne! It’s my job to observe, right? Keeps me sharp!” he chirped, bobbing his head. “So, what’s on the agenda today? More fascinating revelations from dusty old books? Or are we finally manifesting that cloud-sofa for Morpheus? I keep telling him, a man of his stature needs a proper cloud-sofa!” 

Nora chuckled, patting Matthew’s head. “Hey, I’m working on it, Matthew. Some things take time to manifest properly, you know.” 

“See, Lucienne? She’s on my side!” Matthew cawed triumphantly. 

“I merely acknowledge Nora’s efforts, Matthew. Your aspirations, while ambitious, must yield to the Lord Morpheus’s current priorities,” Lucienne said, her tone dry but with a hint of amusement. 

“Priorities? Right. Because being perpetually broody is a top priority!” Matthew squawked, flapping his wings for emphasis. 

“Order is paramount, Matthew. Something you, as a former human, might struggle to comprehend given your predilection for chaos,” Lucienne retorted, adjusting a stack of scrolls with meticulous precision. 

“Chaos? It’s called living , Lucienne! You wouldn’t know, stuck in here with your books all day!” 

Nora chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I will leave you two to your, “ she paused, a grin spreading across her face, “bickering. I’m going to go and peruse the shelves a bit.” She gave Matthew’s head a final pat and started to walk away. 

As Nora continued to browse, a particular title caught her eye on a low shelf – a slim, unadorned volume bound in dark, smooth leather. The Unforeseen Path . A shiver traced down her spine. The title resonated with a chilling familiarity, pulling her back to that desolate beach, to the moment the Fates had appeared and spoken directly into her mind, their voices echoing prophecies she had yet to fully grasp, prophecies she had, until now, deliberately pushed aside. 

She picked up the book, her fingers trembling slightly as the full weight of their words came flooding back. All they had been through since that moment – the journey to Hell, the duel with Lucifer, the perilous search for his tools, and finally, the tender, earth-shattering kiss in this very library. It all pointed to the undeniable truth of the Fates’ pronouncements. Their bond was not merely emotional; it was woven into the very essence of Morpheus, and by extension, hers. 

She opened her eyes, a new resolve hardening her gaze. She had kept this from him, knowing they had other, more pressing things to focus on with the restoration of his realm. But now, after everything they had faced, after the depths of vulnerability they had shared, and the promises whispered in kisses, she knew he deserved to know. He needed to know. Things were clearly changing between them, rapidly and irrevocably, and the unforeseen had indeed occurred. It was time for Morpheus, the King of Dreams, to face the reality of their interwoven destiny 

With a decisive nod, Nora returned The Unforeseen Path to its shelf. Her heart, which had been aflutter with the recent memory of the kiss, now beat with a different kind of urgency. She needed to find him. 

"Lucienne," Nora called, walking back towards the main thoroughfare of the library where the librarian was still meticulously arranging books. Matthew was now preening on a nearby bust of a forgotten Dream. "Do you know where Morpheus might be? I… I need to speak with him." 

Lucienne paused, her gaze keen as she assessed Nora’s determined expression. "He is likely in the central spire, overseeing the manifestation of the new districts, or perhaps consulting with Brute and Gloom on the reconstruction of the nightmare realm. He is consumed with the work of rebuilding, Nora." There was an unspoken warning in her tone, a gentle reminder of his Lord's focus. 

"I understand," Nora said, her voice firm. "But this is… important." 

Matthew, sensing the shift in Nora’s demeanor, flew from the bust and landed on her shoulder. "Ooh, sounds serious! Is it about the cloud-sofa? Did you figure out how to make it float and have back massage settings?" 

Nora gave him a fleeting, distracted smile. "Not exactly, Matthew. But thank you for the intel, Lucienne." 

Without another word, Nora hurried out of the library, the grand doors swinging shut behind her. The palace corridors, once crumbling and dim, now stretched before her, shining with the Dreaming's vibrant energy. The air thrummed with the sounds of creation – the distant chime of new structures coalescing, the murmur of nascent dreams taking form. 

She navigated the familiar, yet subtly altered, pathways of the palace, her steps quick and purposeful. She bypassed the Sunken Grotto, now shimmering with renewed light, and the Whispering Gardens, where new flora unfurled in impossible hues. Her intuition, honed by several days of exploring this impossible realm and by her deepening connection to its ruler, pulled her towards the highest points of the palace. 

She ascended a winding staircase, its marble gleaming, leading up towards the central spire that pierced the Dreaming’s sky. As she neared the summit, the sounds of activity grew clearer. The air here was charged with raw creation, the very fabric of reality being woven and rewoven by Morpheus’s will. 

She found him on a vast, open platform at the apex of the spire. He stood silhouetted against the brilliant, swirling tapestry of the sky, his back to her, overseeing the rapid emergence of a new city district far below. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture regal and absorbed. The very air around him seemed to hum with his power, a visible aura of concentration and quiet command. 

Nora stopped a few paces behind him, hesitant for a moment. He looked in his element, so utterly the King of Dreams. For a fleeting second, the old doubt whispered: Is this truly the right time? But then the weight of the Fates' words, the indelible mark they spoke of, resurfaced, pushing aside her hesitation. He deserved the truth. He needed the truth. 

Taking a steadying breath, Nora finally spoke, her voice cutting through the soft hum of creation, "Morpheus?" 

His shoulders remained still. He simply turned, a slow, deliberate movement that commanded attention. His eyes, dark as the deepest night, had been fixed on the immense task of overseeing his realm's rebirth, immersed in that cosmic work. But as they locked onto Nora, the distant focus softened, centering entirely on her, on his immediate surroundings, rather than the unfolding landscape of the Dreaming below. 

"Nora," he acknowledged, his voice a low, resonant rumble. As he spoke her name, he slowly extended a hand towards her, his palm open, a silent, powerful will for her to join him. 

Nora crossed the remaining distance of the platform, her steps quickening, and placed her hand in his. His touch was cool and smooth, yet firm, an anchor in the vastness of the Dreaming. For a moment, she didn't speak, her gaze sweeping over the breathtaking vista below them. From this height, the entire Dreaming sprawled out like an intricate, living tapestry, constantly shifting and remaking itself under his silent command. It was overwhelming, magnificent. 

After a moment, she looked back at Morpheus. He had been watching her the entire time, his dark eyes observing her reaction, patiently waiting for her to find her words. There was no impatience in his gaze, only a profound, silent expectation. 

"I... I need to tell you s-something," Nora began, a slight stutter in her voice, her thoughts still racing. She paused, searching for the right words, for a way to untangle the knot of information she held. "Something that happened... that at the time... it didn't seem as important to speak of. But now... now I really want to tell you." 

He simply nodded, a subtle tilt of his head, an encouraging gesture that silently urged her to continue. 

Taking a deeper breath, Nora pressed on, "Remember... when you spoke to the Fates?" 

Morpheus's dark eyes held hers. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.  

"Remember when the Fates spoke to me ?" Nora clarified, her voice gaining a little more strength, "But you couldn't hear what they said?" 

At that, something shifted in Morpheus's expression. His entire being seemed to sharpen, his gaze no longer merely patient but utterly, intensely focused. He had, in truth, almost forgotten that moment, internally dismissing it as a private encounter, respecting Nora’s earlier unspoken desire not to delve into it. But now, with her direct question, a deep, consuming curiosity bloomed within him. His grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly, his silent question resounding: What did they say?  

Nora met his gaze, her heart pounding with the weight of the revelation. “The Fates… they spoke of a bond,” Nora began, her voice gaining a quiet intensity as she recalled the ancient voices. “I can’t recall every single word, but the message, the core of it, is seared into me. They called me your ‘Anchor’.” 

Morpheus’s expression remained carefully neutral, but his eyes, fixed on hers, deepened in an unreadable way. 

“They said…” Nora continued, choosing her words carefully. “They said it wasn’t something either of us planned, but that it was forged during your captivity. That it happened over the decades, while we were in that glass prison. That my presence, my thoughts, became a sort of constant, a connection that deepened. They said it was born of shared hardship, and… and unguarded hearts.” She paused, remembering the chilling certainty in the Fates’ voices. “They were very clear, Morpheus, that this bond isn’t easily broken. They said we are ‘irrevocably woven, a tapestry of two,’ and that it will endure.” 

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the Dreaming's ongoing creation. Morpheus’s gaze had not left hers, but his eyes were wide, betraying a shock that was rarely seen on his visage. His grip on her hand was now unyielding, as if she were indeed the anchor they spoke of. 

“And then,” Nora whispered, “all three in unison, they said something about ‘the unforeseen’ happening. That ‘your very essence now bears the indelible mark of your interwoven spirit, a testament to a destiny unplanned, yet absolute.’” 

Morpheus’s breath hitched, a sound so faint Nora almost missed it. His eyes flickered down to their joined hands, then back to her face, a complex storm of emotions swirling within their dark depths: disbelief, understanding, and an almost primal realization. The very air around them seemed to vibrate with the force of his internal turmoil. 

“They also… warned me,” Nora added, her voice barely above a whisper, her gaze drifting over the sprawling, reforming landscape of the Dreaming below them, her eyes glazing over slightly as if recalling words burned into her very essence. “They said, ‘But heed us, mortal. The King of Dreams bears a history as ancient as time itself, and not all his tales are spun of gentle starlight. His pride is vast, his judgments can be terrible, and his realm is not for the faint of heart. Be aware of who stands beside you. And prepare yourself, Nora. For the road ahead will not be without its trials. A mortal heart, after all, is not impervious to the harsh winds of his world, or the shadows that still cling to him.’” 

He said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on her, absorbing the full weight of the revelation. The cosmic hum of the Dreaming faded into the background, all attention drawn to the silence between them. This was not a dream he could shape, but a truth that had woven itself into the very fabric of his existence. 

Morpheus slowly lifted their joined hands, turning her palm over with a deliberate movement. His thumb traced the faint lines on her skin, as if searching for the invisible threads the Fates had spoken of. The unreadable depths of his eyes were now clouded, not with confusion, but with an intense, inward reflection. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sounds of the Dreaming reforming. He was not merely hearing her words; he was feeling them, processing them on a cosmic scale, the implications rippling through his very being. 

Finally, he looked up, his gaze locking onto hers, intense and searching. “An indelible mark,” he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, tinged with a raw wonder. “Woven into my very essence. You speak of a connection… that transcends choice.” He squeezed her hand gently, bringing his attention back to her, a hint of concern entering his dark eyes. “Why did you keep this from me, Nora? You said it did not seem important then. Did you believe it would not affect me?” 

“No, of course not!” Nora insisted immediately, her voice soft but firm, a quick shake of her head. “I knew you needed to know, Morpheus. But at the time, other things were more important. You and the Dreaming were both so weak, so broken. You needed to get your strength back, to stabilize your realm. That was the priority.” She paused, letting her conviction sink in. “What the Fates had said… that was still going to be there afterwards. It could wait.” 

Her gaze met his, unwavering. "No matter what they said to me, no matter the warnings they spoke of, I’m not going anywhere. I made you that promise, Morpheus, and I meant it.” She paused, a small, knowing smirk touching her lips, and then added, her voice low and confident, “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Sandy.” 

He tightened his grip on her hand, a gesture of silent acknowledgment that was more eloquent than any spoken vow. For a long moment, he simply stared, processing her words not just with his mind, but with the very essence of his being. The weight of the Fates’ pronouncements, which had echoed like a distant, unsettling hum in his thoughts, now resonated with a sharper clarity. His very essence now bears the indelible mark of her interwoven spirit . Her presence, her unwavering loyalty, her startling insights – they were not merely pleasant diversions; they were, as the Fates had revealed, irrevocably woven into him. He felt the terrifying vulnerability of that truth, and yet, paradoxically, a strange sense of peace. 

Finally, a shadow of his usual solemnity returned, though softened around the edges by the tender exchange. His gaze drifted from Nora’s defiant eyes to some unseen point in the restored, shimmering expanse of his realm. “I believe,” Morpheus’s voice resonated, deeper than usual, tinged with a raw wonder that belied his ancient gravity, “I need to speak with my sister.” 

Nora, her heart still thrumming from the intensity of their connection and his unspoken reaction, tilted her head, her voice carrying a light inflection of surprise. “Which one?” she asked aloud, a faint curiosity mingling with the lingering emotion. 

Morpheus looked back at her, his expression settling into a familiar, quiet resolve, though a sliver of rare vulnerability shimmered in the depths of his eyes. “Death,” he stated, the name a soft, solemn pronouncement. “She might have some insight into this… into what the Fates foretold, and how it pertains to you. And,” he added, a flicker of something akin to a hopeful smile touching his lips, “I think she will like you, Nora.”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus and Nora walked side by side along the winding path of the waking world park, their hands casually intertwined. The sun, a warm benediction, dappled through the leaves overhead, painting shifting patterns on the ground. Nora hummed softly, her eyes closed for a moment as she tilted her face to the sky, savoring the gentle warmth on her skin. The air was alive with the cheerful chatter of birds and the distant, rhythmic thud of a soccer ball. Off to their left, a small fountain gurgled, its waters catching the light like scattered jewels. A group of adults, lost in the joyful chaos of their game, chased the ball across a grassy expanse, while other park-goers strolled by, their conversations a soft murmur in the background. 

They found an unoccupied bench beneath the generous shade of an old oak tree and settled down, their shoulders brushing. Small, comfortable talk flowed between them, the kind that required little thought but filled the space with shared presence. 

“Do you ever wonder what squirrels dream about?” Nora asked, breaking a comfortable silence as she watched a bushy-tailed creature scamper up a nearby tree. “Like, do they just have endless nightmares of dogs, or is it all just nuts and comfy nests?” 

Morpheus considered this for a moment, a faint, almost imperceptible curve touching his lips. “Their dreams are often reflections of their waking desires and fears, as are all creatures’ dreams. Though, for a squirrel, a dream of an endless bounty of nuts would likely be quite vivid.” 

Nora giggled. “See? I knew you’d have an answer! What about clouds? Do they dream?” 

“Clouds are formations of water vapor, Nora. They do not possess consciousness.” His tone was dry, but his gaze remained soft on her. 

“Right, right, silly me,” she mused, then leaned her head against his shoulder. “But if they did,” she persisted, “what kind of dreams would they have? Little fluffy sheep jumping over fences? Or maybe dramatic storm dreams with lots of lightning?” 

Morpheus’s silence stretched, and Nora thought he might dismiss the thought entirely. Then, he surprised her. “Would you rather,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “be able to understand and speak every language, living and dead, or be able to perfectly replicate any sound or piece of music you have ever heard?” 

Nora straightened, genuinely surprised. Her eyes, wide and sparkling, met his. Oh! A ‘would you rather’? From you? She thought, a thrill of delight running through her. It was such a human, whimsical thing for the Lord of Dreams to ask. She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “That’s a tough one. Every language… that’s incredible for understanding people, for history, for secrets. But replicating music… being able to just do that, perfectly, anything at all? That’s pure joy, isn’t it? Like having all the world’s beauty at your fingertips. I think… I think I’d choose the music. Languages are amazing, but music is a language everyone understands anyway, and to be able to just create it like that? Yes, definitely the music.” 

She had just finished her answer, a thoughtful pause preceding her playful retort about his choice, when a blur of white flashed directly towards them. Before she could even register the trajectory, Morpheus moved. With a grace that belied his stillness, he extended a hand, and the soccer ball, hurtling straight for Nora’s head, stopped dead in the air, perfectly cradled in his palm. It hung there, suspended and motionless, as if time itself had paused to acknowledge the impossibility of the feat. 

Nora’s eyes, wide with surprise, darted from the unmoving ball to Morpheus’s impassive face, then back to the ball. She was stunned silent, her breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced, Did I just see that? Was that… magic? Or just impossibly fast reflexes?  

A moment later, a young man, flushed and apologetic, jogged over. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry about that!” he called out, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. “Really good catch, by the way.” 

Morpheus offered no reply, his expression unreadable. He simply released the ball when the man tentatively reached for it, and the player, clearly bewildered but grateful, retreated back to his game. 

Nora let out a sudden, huffing laugh, as she leaned back against the bench. “Yeah,” she said, her voice laced with a newfound appreciation, her eyes appraising Morpheus, He’s full of surprises, isn’t he? “that was a good catch.” 

She continued to stare at him, a soft, admiring smile playing on her lips. Morpheus, who had returned to watching the various people enjoying the park, could feel the steady warmth of her gaze upon him. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. 

“What?” he muttered, his low voice laced with an unusual hint of bewilderment. 

Nora slowly shook her head, a small, private smile still gracing her features as she tilted her head to the side. Just… you , she thought. All of you . “Nothing,” she replied, her voice soft. 

Morpheus’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, a hint of adorable confusion flickering in his ancient eyes. He was about to press her for more when a presence materialized beside him. A woman in a black t-shirt and jeans, her hair a wild, dark halo, sat down on the bench on his other side. A wide, genuine smile lit up her face, a silver ankh glinting at her throat. 

Morpheus turned, his expression softening further. Nora leaned forward, peering around him with curiosity. 

“Hello, sister,” Morpheus said, his voice a quiet greeting. 

“Dream! Took you long enough to call,” Death replied, her smile widening as she playfully nudged his arm. Her eyes, bright and full of life, then shifted to Nora, who was still leaning forward, an intrigued expression on her face. “And who’s this delightful creature?” Death asked, her voice warm and welcoming, extending a hand to Nora. “I take it this is the one you wanted to introduce me to?” 

Nora looked at Death’s outstretched hand, then back to Death’s smiling face, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. Okay, so this is Death. The actual Death. And she’s… smiling? And offering her hand? Is this a trick? Am I about to spontaneously combust? She lifted her own hand tentatively, a small, half-joking smile playing on her lips. “Uh… if I touch you, that doesn’t mean I die or anything, right? Or, like, get spirited away to the afterlife?” 

Death threw her head back and let out a hearty laugh, a sound like wind chimes and sunshine. “No, darling, that’s not how it works! No worries, you’re perfectly safe!” 

Reassured, Nora didn’t hesitate. She firmly grasped Death’s hand, shaking it with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s really nice to meet you!” she exclaimed, then gestured her head towards Morpheus, who sat silently between them, looking distinctly awkward. Nora turned back to Death with a conspiratorial smile. “Morpheus has said so much about you.” 

Death’s eyebrows rose in playful surprise. “Oh, has he now? I can only imagine! He’s usually so tight-lipped about anything remotely personal.” She winked at Nora. 

Morpheus cleared his throat, a low, rumbling sound. “My sister,” he began, his voice a touch more formal than usual, “this is Nora.” 

Death then turned her head slightly to Nora, her voice brimming with cheerful curiosity. “So,” she began, her gaze sparkling, “how did you two meet? It must have been pretty special to capture his attention like this.” She gestured to Morpheus with a slight tilt of her head, a playful dig aimed squarely at her brother, who, despite his now slightly improved mood, remained impassive, almost imperceptibly sinking deeper into the bench cushions. 

Nora’s smile softened, a thoughtful expression replacing her earlier amusement. “Well,” she began, a faint sigh escaping her lips, “it was actually kind of a surprise meeting. I first met him by finding him, I guess, when he was trapped. The man who had trapped him… he locked me in with him as well. We were locked up together for ninety-six years.” 

Death’s bright eyes, which had been fixed on Nora, widened almost imperceptibly. A faint, almost imperceptible internal puzzle piece seemed to click into place, her cheerful demeanor giving way to a more focused intensity. Her grip on Nora’s hand tightened slightly. “That man wouldn’t have happened to be Roderick Burgess, would it?” she questioned Nora, her voice low, though it already held the quiet certainty of discovery. Her gaze flickered, a worried glance towards Morpheus, before settling back on Nora. 

“Yeah, that’s him,” Nora affirmed, a slight frown creasing her brow. “How did you know?” 

Death looked from Nora to Morpheus, then back to Nora, a deeper sigh escaping her lips. The playful air that usually surrounded her had completely dissipated, replaced by a profound gravity. “You were both in that glass sphere, weren’t you? In his manor? In that cellar with the elaborate runic circle?” She paused, her eyes locking with Morpheus’s, a question, a plea for confirmation in their depths. 

Morpheus nodded, a grim acknowledgement to his sister, his gaze distant, lost in the bitter memory. 

Death’s expression grew somber, a shadow passing over her usually vibrant face. “I was there,” she explained, her voice hushed, the words barely audible above the ambient sounds of the park. “To collect Roderick after he died. I remember the room vividly. I could see the glass sphere, shimmering faintly with residual power, and I could feel the incredible, complex power of the rune circle around it, binding whatever was inside. But…” she paused, her eyes, usually so keen, now seeming to look inward, recalling that impossible moment, “I couldn’t see anything past it. I couldn’t feel him inside.” Her gaze flickered to Morpheus, a profound sadness in their depths. “I couldn’t feel anything inside of that circle. No life, no presence, just… an impenetrable void. It was as if that space simply didn’t exist to me.” She then turned back to Nora, a touch of wonder and relief, tinged with a deep sympathy, now evident in her eyes. “It also makes sense why you’re still here, Nora. I wouldn’t have been able to reach you. My touch wouldn’t have been able to take you, not through that binding. You were as invisible to my function as he was.” 

“Yeah,” Nora said, a slight shiver going down her spine at the confirmation of such a terrifying, prolonged isolation. “That’s what Morpheus had figured out. But it’s… it’s nice to have that confirmation from you.” 

Death turned her head to Morpheus, her usually bright eyes filled with an unspoken regret. “Dream,” she began, her voice soft, laden with a gentle ache. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get you out.” 

Morpheus’s expression remained stoic, but a subtle tension in his shoulders suggested the depth of her words. “It was not your burden, sister,” he stated, his voice a low, steady rumble. 

Death suddenly stood up, hands on her hips, her expression firm and unwavering, though still with an undercurrent of deep affection. “Oh, none of that, Dream of the Endless!” she exclaimed, her voice taking on the familiar cadence of an older sister reprimanding a stubborn younger brother. “You are my family, my brother. You are my burden! Let me tell you something, Dream, and I’m only going to say this once so you better pay attention: you are utterly the stupidest, most self-centered, pathetic excuse of an anthropomorphic personification on this or any other plane!” 

Nora, sitting back against the bench, had a hand clamped over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. This is incredible! Absolutely priceless! She thought, trying desperately to contain the giggles that threatened to erupt. Watching Morpheus get thoroughly scolded by his older sibling was, for her, pure gold. 

Suddenly, they heard a shout of “Heads up!” and another soccer ball came hurtling directly at them, once again aimed for Nora’s head. This time, Death snatched out an arm, catching it with effortless grace before it could make contact. The young man from before jogged over, looking even more apologetic. “Wow,” he said, his eyes wide. “You’re as good as your friend here.” He nodded towards Morpheus. 

“He’s not my friend,” Death stated, her voice softening, eyes still on Morpheus . “He’s my brother. And he’s an idiot.” 

Just before the guy turned to walk back to his friends, Nora looked at him, a scolding tone in her voice. “You need to work on your damn aim,” she said, her hands on her hips, a genuine exasperation lacing her tone. “Do I have a fucking target on my head?” The young man’s head dropped, and he shuffled away, clearly abashed. 

Death laughed with Nora, a bright, chiming sound. They both turned to Morpheus, who was now definitely sulking, elbows on his knees, head down. Oh, poor Dream , Nora thought, a wave of affection washing over her, even as she struggled to suppress another giggle. He really is just like a moody teenager sometimes . Nora gently rubbed his lower back, and Death playfully tapped his knee. “Why don’t we go for a walk, then?” she said, standing up. She reached over and practically lifted Nora out of her seat, interlocking arms with her. “It’s a beautiful day, and unfortunately, I do still have some work to do, but I do have enough time for a chat.” She leaned in conspiratorially to Nora, though loud enough for Morpheus to hear, “Especially with my brother’s new lady.” 

Nora’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the “new lady” comment, a shy smile playing on her lips. Morpheus, silent and inscrutable, simply rose and stood a few paces behind them, his hands tucked into his pockets, observing the easy, immediate camaraderie between the two women. 

“Oh, you don’t have to stay with us,” Nora quickly interjected, already a few steps ahead with Death. She glanced back at Morpheus, a genuinely considerate look on her face. “I mean, if you two have stuff to catch up on, family stuff, I can just walk ahead. Seriously, no issues. You guys haven’t seen each other in ages, right? If your time is short, I can just...” she made a vague gesture down the path, “explore the fountain or something.” 

Death, however, wasn’t hearing any of that. Her bright eyes sparkled as she pulled Nora a little closer. “Nonsense, darling! You’re part of this now. Besides, Dream and I have plenty of time, don’t we, little brother?” Without breaking stride, she casually reached back with her free hand, her fingers finding Morpheus’s arm and expertly hooking it into her own. 

Morpheus’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. His expression, usually so composed, shifted into one of almost comical, put-out exasperation. He opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it, a deep furrow appearing between his elegant brows. He shot a glance at Death, a silent, long-suffering complaint, but he grudgingly accepted his fate. They began to stroll, a rather unusual trio, along the winding path, the afternoon light softening around them. 

Nora couldn’t help but feel a burst of delighted amusement. That’s such an older sister-younger brother thing to do , she thought, a silent chuckle bubbling up inside her at Morpheus’s expense. She imagined Death dragging him to a family picnic, a sulking, immortal goth teen. Morpheus, ever perceptive, sensed her amusement. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he sent a slight, withering glare her way. Unseen by Death, Nora sent a mental feeling of affection and a playfully ‘blown kiss’ his way. Morpheus’s glare softened, and a noticeable, though subtle, shift in his demeanor occurred. His shoulders seemed to relax, and the corner of his lips tilted upwards, as if some invisible weight had been lifted. He actually looked, to Nora’s secret delight, considerably cheered up. 

They had now rounded a bend in the path and found themselves drifting into a more bustling area, a small, vibrant street market. The air filled with the scent of fresh produce, baked goods, and blooming flowers. “But now that we’re out of the rune circle,” Nora clarified, a touch of hesitant concern in her voice, “that means… if I were to, say, get hit by a bus tomorrow, then that’s it? Lights out for me?” 

Morpheus, walking on Death’s other side, immediately started to disagree, a low sound of protest rumbling in his chest, a deep furrow appearing between his brows at the very idea. 

Death, however, casually interjected, her grip still light on both their arms. “Essentially, yes,” she confirmed, her gaze thoughtful. She paused, letting out a soft hum of consideration, her head tilting briefly as her eyes flickered towards Morpheus, a spark of an idea igniting within them.  

“Fresh apples! Sweet plums! Get your fruit here!” the vendor called out, his voice hearty. 

Death stopped abruptly, drawing both Nora and Morpheus to a halt with her. Her eyes lit up as she eyed a pyramid of glistening red apples. “Oh, they look delicious!” she exclaimed, turning to the vendor with her usual radiating warmth. “Could we have three, please?” 

Morpheus, from Death’s other side, immediately started to disagree, a low sound of protest rumbling in his chest. “None for me, thank you,” he stated, his voice firm, his gaze fixed on the fruit with polite disdain. 

His sister looked at him, her smile undeterred. “But it’s good for you, Dream,” she chided playfully. “Vitamin C and all that.” 

Morpheus just stared at her, an unspoken argument in his dark eyes that clearly conveyed his disinterest in mortal sustenance. 

Death tried again, her patience boundless. “You can just have it later! A little snack for the road.” 

Morpheus continued to stare, his silence a formidable barrier. Nora, seeing the familiar stalemate, couldn’t help but giggle, a soft, amused sound that drew a quick, almost imperceptible glance from Morpheus. 

Death simply rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her brother. “Two, please,” she amended to the vendor, a knowing twinkle in her eye. 

The vendor, captivated by Death’s charm, quickly cleaned off two glossy red apples and handed them over, a wide smile on his face. “Free of charge, ma’am! Enjoy the day!” 

Both women offered him warm, genuine smiles. Death took a large, satisfying bite of her apple, and Nora followed suit, the crisp sweetness a burst of flavor. “It’s delicious, thank you very much!” Nora said to the vendor, who nodded, beaming. 

The three of them started walking off again, the gentle crunch of apples accompanying them. Nora, remembering her earlier thought, purposely walked a little ahead, giving a subtle nod over her shoulder. “I’ll let you two talk and catch up,” she said, her voice light, and then purposefully shifted her attention, looking everywhere, taking in the vibrant colors of the different market stalls, enjoying the bustling atmosphere of the day. Morpheus and his sister now walked side by side, their arms still linked, the space between them filled with their long, shared history. 

Nora continued to walk ahead, a comfortable distance between her and the Endless siblings, her eyes alight with curious wonder as they scanned the vibrant tapestry of the market stalls. The air, thick with the scent of spices, freshly baked bread, and blooming flowers, invigorated her senses. She paused at a baker’s stall, her gaze lingering on a display of intricately braided loaves, their golden-brown crusts glistening invitingly.  

“These are absolutely beautiful,” she murmured to the stout, flour-dusted baker, a genuine admiration in her voice. “How long does something like this take to master?” The baker, a kindly man with laughter lines around his eyes, chuckled warmly and launched into a proud explanation of his craft, and Nora listened intently, her head tilted, a soft smile gracing her lips.  

Further on, she found herself at a flower vendor’s, where a particularly unruly bouquet of sunflowers seemed to be staging a joyful rebellion against its confines. “They have a mind of their own, don’t they?” she chuckled, reaching out to gently touch a drooping head. The vendor, a woman with earthy hands and a knowing smile, nodded in agreement. “They do, dearie. Just like some of us.” The gentle hum of the market, a symphony of bartering voices, children’s laughter, and the occasional clang of a vendor’s bell, enveloped her, a warm and comforting embrace. 

Behind her, Death and Morpheus walked at a languid pace, their arms still linked, a silent testament to their ancient bond. 

“You’re good with them,” Morpheus observed, his voice a low, resonant murmur, his gaze fixed on Nora’s receding form. 

Death, taking another deliberate bite of her crisp apple, a juicy crunch echoing softly in the bustling air, raised an eyebrow, a playful glint dancing in her perpetually kind eyes. “Apples?” she teased, a hint of mischief in her tone. 

Morpheus’s gaze was steady, unwavering, his dark eyes reflecting the lively market scene. “Humans,” he clarified, a faint curve to his lips. 

Death hummed, a soft, thoughtful sound that seemed to resonate with the very pulse of life around them. She then held up her half-eaten apple to him, its ruby skin gleaming. “Want a bite, brother mine?” 

“No, thank you,” Morpheus replied, his voice even, his gaze still on Nora, who was now examining a collection of brightly colored pottery. 

“Have you seen any of the others since you’ve been back?” Death asked, her head tilted slightly, her expression thoughtful. 

“Have you?” Morpheus countered, his dark eyes finally meeting hers. 

“We did have one family dinner when you were away, you know,” Death said, a small, nostalgic smile playing on her lips. “Quite the affair. The twins were in high spirits, as always, and… well, Desire was, anyways. Despair, less so, but that’s hardly surprising, is it?” 

“With me gone, I have no doubt Desire found ample opportunity for… creative engagement,” Morpheus remarked dryly, a flicker of something akin to amusement in his gaze. 

“I don’t know,” Death mused, her smile widening into a full, genuine grin. “I think Desire actually missed having their usual sparring partner across the dinner table. There’s only so much fun to be had tormenting Delirium, after all.” 

“Any word of the prodigal?” Morpheus inquired, his voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the vibrant air like a wisp of smoke. 

“No. Still missing,” Death replied, her tone softening, a hint of sadness touching her usually bright demeanor. After a second’s pause, her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his arm, and she added, her voice filled with a quiet sincerity, “You were both missed, Morpheus. More than you know.” Then, a mischievous gleam re-entered her eyes, and she turned her head slightly to address him, mimicking a high-pitched, overly sweet voice, laced with exaggerated concern. “Oh, how are you, sis? How have you been keeping? Oh, I’m well, Dream, thank you ever so much for asking!” 

Morpheus, a rare, almost imperceptible tremor of a smile gracing his lips, indulged her theatricality. He lowered his voice, echoing her affected tone, though with a deeper, more resonant timbre. “How are you, my sister? How have you been keeping?” 

“I’m worried about my brother, Dream,” Death said, her voice returning to its normal, comforting cadence, a genuine concern clouding her features for a moment. But then, her gaze subtly shifted to Nora, who was now kneeling by a small, overflowing stone fountain, her pockets apparently filled with breadcrumbs, as she was gently feeding tiny pieces to a bustling flock of pigeons. Death’s eyes held a knowing hint, and she continued, a softer, almost teasing note entering her voice, “Although, you seem to be doing rather well, considering everything. A significant improvement, wouldn’t you say?” She then gestured towards Nora with her free hand, a gesture of quiet approval. “She seems really good for you, Morpheus. Look at her. Not shy around you, that’s for sure. And that,” Death added, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more serious, "that's a rare quality. Not to be taken for granted.” Death smiled, a warm, genuine expression that seemed to radiate through the market. 

Just then, clear, melancholic strains of a violin, rich with emotion and history, drifted through the bustling market, rising above the cheerful din. Death’s head perked up, her eyes widening in recognition. “Can you hear it, Morpheus?” she whispered, a sense of quiet gravity in her voice. “That melody…” 

Morpheus’s head turned, his gaze lifting beyond the market stalls, fixing on the second story of a quaint, ivy-clad home where an open window seemed to exhale the music. “I know this piece,” he murmured, a distant, almost haunted look in his eyes, his voice barely audible above the music. “I haven’t heard it in two hundred years. Not since… not since the last time I walked among the living, in a certain forgotten Parisian alleyway.” 

Death tugged gently on his arm, her urgency palpable, a subtle shift in her bright demeanor. Her eyes, though still kind, held a somber reflection of duty. “Come on,” she urged, her voice low and tinged with a quiet necessity, “This is where I’m needed next.” She gestured for him to follow her into the very home from where the ethereal music was emanating. 

Morpheus’s gaze lingered for a moment on Nora, utterly absorbed in her task. He knew she would be safe, but a flicker of his ancient protectiveness stirred. “Nora,” he called out, his voice cutting through the market’s noise, clear and commanding yet tinged with a soft affection. “Wait here for us! We will return shortly.” At her quick nod of understanding, a small, reassuring smile on her face, he finally turned and followed Death, the haunting, beautiful melody of the violin growing clearer, drawing them into the silence of the house.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Left alone by the fountain, Nora continued to feed the pigeons, her fingers scattering crumbs on the worn cobblestones. The fountain, an ancient s tone basin adorned with moss-kissed cherubs, whispered with the ceaseless murmur of flowing water, a counterpoint to the distant hum of market chatter. The soft cooing of the birds, their iridescent feathers shimmering like scattered jewels in the golden sunlight, offered a gentle rhythm to her thoughts. But her mind wasn’t truly on the birds, nor the tantalizing scent of fresh bread and blooming jasmine that drifted from nearby stalls; it was on the man who had just disappeared Into the ivy-clad house, and the sister who accompanied him.  

A warm wave spread through her chest, a familiar, comforting presence that had become as natural as her own breath. Morpheus. Her Sandy. It felt surreal, this vibrant, ordinary world after a century of glass and gloom, each sensation amplified, almost painfully vivid. But even more surreal was the man who now walked freely within it, his presence a living testament to an impossible freedom. 

She remembered their first “meeting”. He, a gaunt statue of pale skin and raven hair, suspended in a glass sphere, radiating a silent, ancient fury. And she, a terrified mortal thrown into his cage, spewing curses and apologies in equal measure. Gods, had she really gone on about badgers and rusty nails to the King of Dreams? A faint, mortified smile touched her lips as a particularly bold pigeon pecked at her shoelaces. 

He had been so unreadable then, a being of cosmic power held captive, his eyes twin pools of midnight and starlight, blazing with cold fury. She had seen only his stoicism, his immense, contained grief, a sorrow so vast it seemed to consume the very air around him. But over the long, silent decades, as their minds became interwoven, a delicate, almost imperceptible process like two separate streams merging into one, she had seen so much more.  

She recalled the time she had described a particularly chaotic dream involving a flock of sentient teacups demanding to be served Earl Grey by a badger wearing a top hat; she’d felt the distinct flicker of amusement in the depths of his being, a ripple in the calm surface of his endless composure. Or the rare, soft chuckle that echoed not just in her mind, but seemed to vibrate through her very bones, a sound she cherished like a hidden treasure. When the phantom ache in her elbow from the glass sphere became too much, a gentle touch, cool yet comforting, would brush against it in their shared mental space, a wordless balm. He had listened to her fears of forgotten family, her mundane worries about the passage of time, and her deeply personal confessions about her own insignificance, offering insights in return that resonated with a quiet wisdom.  

He had shared his own ancient burdens, his regrets, the complex, often fraught relationships with his family, particularly the elusive siblings. He had grown… softer. Not weak, never weak, but capable of a tenderness, an unguarded affection she once would have thought impossible for a being of his stature. He was still the King of Dreams, formidable and ancient, but now, he was her King, and he bore the indelible mark of their shared existence, a brand of warmth she wouldn’t trade for anything. 

A plump pigeon landed on the edge of the fountain, cocking its head at her. Nora’s gaze drifted to the house where Death, Morpheus’s sister, had just entered. She remembered Morpheus’s description of her: gentle, not the harbinger of terror mortals imagined. And seeing her just now, amidst the vibrant life of the market, Nora felt a  rightness in his description. Death wore simple black jeans and a tank top, an ankh resting against her collarbone. Her eyes, bright and kind, held a wisdom, but none of the chilling finality Nora had once associated with her name. She was indeed soft, almost radiant in her presence. 

And duty bound, Death arrived for Roderick Burgess. But the rune circle, an unyielding void, shielded Nora and Morpheus, creating a blind spot in existence that even Death's gaze couldn't pierce. A genuine sorrow filled Death at her inability to free Morpheus, a regret that mirrored Nora's own heartache. 

Now, watching the house they had entered, Nora pictured them inside, not just the King of Dreams and Death, but a brother and sister. There was a quiet understanding between them, a shared history that transcended words. Morpheus, usually so reserved, seemed lighter in Death’s presence. A flicker of something akin to familial comfort, a rare glimpse into a bond that had existed for eons. He had mentioned Death’s insistence on family dinners, a detail that had softened his rigid demeanor even then. Family dinners. Even cosmic beings had those . The notion brought a gentle smile to her face. 

A warmth settled over Nora as the pigeons continued to flutter around her feet. This unlikely journey, born of fear and desperation, had led her to a place of belonging, a connection with beings she once could only dream of. And in the quiet understanding that passed between her and Morpheus, and in the gentle presence of his sister, Death, Nora realized she wouldn’t trade this strange, unpredictable life for anything. She smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile, as she scattered the last of the crumbs, waiting patiently for their return. 

A few minutes later, Morpheus and Death exited the house, stepping out into the late afternoon light. Death looked no different than when she had entered, her vibrant, cheerful presence unwavering. Morpheus, however, carried a slightly more contemplative look on his face, his gaze distant for a moment, as if still processing the echoes of their conversation inside. His eyes held a flicker of introspection, a quiet storm brewing behind them.  

Nora, who had instinctively turned to watch their emergence, offered him a soft, questioning smile, her eyebrows subtly arched. Morpheus met her gaze, and a confirming nod, almost imperceptible to anyone but her, was given. A soft thought, like a gentle caress, brushed against her mind: Yes, I’m okay. The unspoken exchange, a silent reassurance, settled between them. Nora then turned back, continuing on her path, a little ahead, allowing the siblings their private space. 

Morpheus walked beside his sister, his usual measured pace matching hers. The bustling market around them seemed to dim slightly as he spoke, his voice a low, resonant murmur, almost lost in the cheerful clamor. “When I was captured,” he began, his gaze fixed straight ahead, “it wasn’t me they were looking for.” 

Death slowed her steps imperceptibly, her bright eyes softening, the playful glint replaced by sorrow. She turned her head towards Morpheus, her expression etched with ancient pain. “Yeah, I know,” she breathed, her voice a fragile whisper. “I still regret that I could not reach you then, brother. It haunts me, the thought of your suffering, the years you spent in that wretched cage.” A deep sigh escaped her, a sound heavy with the weight of eons. She reached out, her hand hovering, then gently touched his arm, a gesture of empathy. “But know this, my dear brother,” she continued, her voice gaining a quiet intensity, “if it had been me they sought, if I had been the one ensnared… the consequences for the waking world would have been far, far worse.” Her gaze became distant, as if she were seeing the horrific panorama of what could have been. “Life would have choked on its own un-ending. There would have been no release, only an agonizing, eternal stasis, a horror beyond measure. The tapestry of existence would have unraveled in utter chaos, a slow, torturous decay where nothing truly died and nothing truly lived.” 

Morpheus, who had grown emotionally, especially since sharing a mind with Nora and gaining her perspective on a myriad of things, understood where she was coming from. The rigid adherence to cosmic law, the terrible necessity of their functions, resonated with him in a way it never had before. He saw the truth in her words, the grim reality of her burden. He surprised Death, truly surprised her, by saying, “I agree with you.” 

A beat of astonished silence passed between them. Death’s eyes, wide with disbelief and then a blossoming wonder, fixed on him. Her hand, still resting on his arm, trembled slightly. Morpheus, a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his dark eyes, continued, his voice softer now, imbued with an unexpected warmth. “My absence caused chaos, yes, and suffering, but humanity is resilient. They would, eventually, find a way to adapt, to recover, even if the dreams shifted and reshaped. But if you were gone, sister… there would be no recovery. Only that endless, suffocating existence you spoke of. The true end of all things, not just life, but the very concept of an ending.” He paused, his gaze meeting hers fully. “And if it wasn’t for that… I wouldn’t have met Nora.” 

The words hung in the air, a declaration of quiet gratitude that transcended the pain of his capture. Death’s face, already softened by surprise, suddenly broke into an incandescent, radiant smile. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated joy for her brother. Her eyes, so deep with the understanding of all life, sparkled with an almost childlike delight. With a happy gasp, she reached out, abandoning all decorum, and grabbed his hand. Her fingers laced with his, and then, with an exuberance that belied her ancient power, she began to swing their clasped hands gently, playfully, between them as they continued to walk, a silent testament to a bond renewed and a future brightened by an unexpected love. 

A low, resonant chuckle, rumbled in Morpheus’s chest at his sister’s uninhibited delight, a genuine amusement lighting his dark gaze. At the sound, Death’s already radiant smile widened impossibly, her eyes brimming with an almost tearful happiness. This was more than just amusement; this was genuine joy emanating from her brother, a flicker of true, unburdened delight. It was a sound she had longed to hear for eons, a testament to a thawing heart, and in that moment, she knew, with an absolute certainty, that Nora was the architect of this beautiful, impossible change. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Nora found a patch of soft, sun-dappled grass near the edge of a serene, gently rippling pond. She settled down, leaning back against the rough bark of a sturdy oak tree, its leaves a vibrant green against the brilliant sky. Before her, the scene was idyllic: children and adults alike splashed and shrieked with unbridled glee in the shallow water, their laughter echoing across the expanse. Further back, families spread across picnic tables, their voices a contented murmur as they shared food and stories, the aroma of grilled meat and fresh fruit drifting pleasantly on the breeze. It was a tableau of simple, mortal happiness. 

Her gaze drifted lazily over the shimmering surface of the water, a peaceful calm settling over her. Then, her eyes snagged on two figures slowly approaching from the far side, crossing a sturdy wooden bridge that arched gracefully over a narrow stream feeding into the pond. It was Morpheus and Death, their silhouettes distinct against the bright backdrop. As they drew closer, Nora’s lips twitched. Death, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, halted abruptly on the bridge’s edge. With a dramatic flourish, she began to peel off her leather boots, then her brightly striped socks, using Morpheus’s arm as an impromptu, unyielding balance. The King of Dreams, ever the epitome of stoic grace, stood perfectly still, a flicker of something akin to resigned exasperation crossing his face as Death leaned heavily on him, wobbling slightly to remove her footwear. 

A soft, delighted giggle escaped Nora, bubbling up from deep within her chest. The image of Morpheus, the Lord of the Dreaming, serving as a human (or rather, Endless) prop for his sister’s impromptu disrobing of foot attire, was simply too amusing. She sent a wave of warm affection his way, a silent chuckle echoing in his mind as well. And then, to her further amusement, she felt a subtle shift, a barely perceptible relaxation in his shoulders in response to her affectionate amusement. She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips, before looking back out at the tranquil water, her heart light. 

The sudden, piercing sound of a human scream shattered the peaceful afternoon. It was followed quickly by a chaotic commotion from the water’s edge. Splashing, erratic and desperate, ripped through the air, then shouts for help. Nora’s head snapped up, her senses instantly alert. People rushed forward, their cheerful picnic disrupted. Moments later, a man was being pulled from the water, limp and heavy, his body pale against the vibrant green of the grass. The crowd’s panicked murmurs confirmed her gut feeling: this was worse than just a simple drowning. There was a chilling finality to the scene, a stillness that settled over the crowd even before the paramedics arrived. 

A faint, almost ethereal flutter, like the ghost of wings in the background, caught Nora’s attention. Her eyes darted back to where Morpheus and Death had been. Morpheus now stood alone on the bridge, his posture unchanged, but the space beside him was empty. Death was gone. 

Nora stood up smoothly, the soft grass barely rustling beneath her. She moved quickly, purposefully, across the short distance separating them, her heart aching with a familiar empathy. As she approached, Morpheus extended a hand to her without looking, a silent invitation, and Nora immediately took it, her fingers intertwining with his cool, slender ones. She leaned slightly against his side, finding a quiet comfort in his solid presence, and tilted her head back towards the receding commotion by the water. 

“Your sister,” Nora murmured, her voice soft, a blend of statement and question, acknowledging the swift, silent departure she had witnessed. 

Morpheus simply nodded, a confirmation that required no further words. 

Nora looked up at him again, a genuine smile curving her lips. “She seems extremely nice,” she said, thinking of Death’s cheerful disposition, her easy laughter, and the gentle way she had teased her brother moments ago. 

Morpheus looked down at her, his dark eyes holding a rare, soft light. “She seems quite fond of you,” he responded, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. 

Nora chuckled, a mischievous glint in her own eyes. “Well, she is a lot of fun,” she teased, a playful squeeze to his hand. “And she certainly likes to tease you, doesn’t she? I’m starting to think it’s one of her favorite pastimes.” She gave him a sidelong glance, a grin spreading across her face. “Must be exhausting for you, having such a… lively sibling.” 

“She is the sibling I tolerate best.” His voice held a faint, dry amusement, a rare inflection that surprised Nora even as she found it endearing. 

Nora chuckled, a faint blush rising to her cheeks at his admission. “Well, that says something!” she teased. “Honestly, though, she gives off such strong older sister energy to everyone. It’s like… I just feel more comfortable in her presence, you know? Is that something that has to do with her being… well,” Nora paused, searching for the right word, her gaze drifting towards the empty space where Death had been, then back to Morpheus, “her?” 

Morpheus’s gaze softened, a deep, ancient understanding in his eyes. “Indeed. Death is the second eldest of us. Her purview encompasses all that begins and all that ends. Unlike the other Endless, her duty requires a direct, constant interaction with every living thing, at every stage of their existence, and at their final moment. It necessitates a compassion, a gentleness that eases the passage.” He paused, his voice taking on a more reflective tone. “She does not judge. She merely… guides. It is why she often appears as she does: approachable, comforting. It is necessary for her to be so, for all beings, from the most magnificent to the most minuscule, to feel at ease in her presence. She is the final solace.” 

Nora listened, her expression thoughtful. The weight of his words settled over her, providing a deeper understanding of the vibrant woman who had just vanished. “It makes sense,” Nora said softly, her gaze returning to the pond where the commotion had been, now thankfully quieting. “Before… before all of this,” she gestured vaguely, encompassing their improbable journey, “when I was… well, stuck in that glass sphere with you.” A wry, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. “I thought about death a lot then. Not in a panicked way, not usually. More like… it was always kind of a background thought, an underlying hum. A quiet question of if, or when, it would happen for me. And what it would be like.” She looked up at Morpheus, her eyes reflecting a newfound peace. “It wasn’t a fear, not really. Just… a contemplation. And now, seeing her, knowing her… it’s less about the fear of the unknown, and more about the acceptance of a gentle hand guiding you home.” 

Morpheus looked down at her, his dark eyes holding a tender light. He said nothing, but instead, gently released her hand and wrapped his arms around her from behind. Her back immediately pressed against his chest, the solid warmth of him a comforting anchor. He gave a slight squeeze, a silent acknowledgment of her words, of her vulnerability, and of the bond that had formed between them. Nora leaned back further into his embrace, her head resting against his shoulder, content in the shared silence, a testament to their growing affection.  

Death materialized directly in front of them, arms already crossed over her chest, a wide, impish grin stretching her lips. There was no grand entrance, no dramatic swoosh; just her, suddenly present, radiating a mischievous energy. 

“Well, well, well,” Death chirped, her voice bright and far too cheerful, her eyes twinkling between them as she took in their intertwined forms. “Look at you two, snuggling! Honestly, brother, you’d think you hadn’t seen each other in a century.” She gave Morpheus a quick, conspiratorial wink, her grin widening. “Anyways, I’m stealing her. Too bad.” 

Before Morpheus could even formulate a thought, let alone a dignified protest, Death reached out with surprising swiftness. Her fingers, cool and light, wrapped around one of Nora’s hands and, with a gentle but firm tug, pulled her cleanly out of Morpheus’s embrace. 

Nora stumbled forward a step, a surprised “But—but—” escaping her lips as she was dislodged. Behind her, she could practically feel Morpheus’s perfectly composed façade crumble. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder and stifled another giggle. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his dark eyes held a distinct, undeniable, truly gigantic pout. The Lord of Dreams, King of Nightmares, was visibly sulking, his arms now hanging loosely at his sides, looking utterly bereft. The sight sent another wave of warm amusement through Nora, and she quickly averted her gaze, lest she break into outright laughter. 

Death, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring her brother’s plight, squeezed Nora’s hand playfully. “No, no, it’s our time now,” she declared, already leading Nora a few steps away, leaving Morpheus standing alone on the bridge. 

Death then turned to Nora, her bright eyes suddenly piercing, but still warm with genuine curiosity. “So,” she began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though Morpheus, Nora knew, would hear every syllable, “my brother. What exactly are your intentions with him, hmm? What do you expect from this… arrangement?” She gestured between Nora and the distant, pouting Dream Lord. It was the classic, protective older sister interrogation, thinly veiled by Death’s cheerfulness. 

Nora felt a blush creep up her neck, her cheeks warming with unexpected heat. This was truly embarrassing. Being grilled by the personification of Death about her relationship with the personification of Dream? Truly, her life had taken the most bizarre turns. But as she looked at Death’s genuine, caring gaze, the embarrassment receded, replaced by a deep, heartfelt certainty. 

“My intentions?” Nora repeated softly, her gaze flicking towards Morpheus, then back to Death. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, mingled with a faint shyness. “Well, I… I don’t think I have ‘intentions’ in the way you might mean. It’s more like… a fundamental shift. I don’t expect anything, really, beyond… well, beyond what we already have.” She took a breath, gathering her thoughts, her voice gaining strength as her conviction solidified. “He was the one who listened to my ridiculous ramblings, who shared his own burdens, who made the unbearable not just bearable, but… meaningful.” Her eyes softened, a deep tenderness shining within them. “He saw me, truly saw me, when no one else ever really had. And now, honestly, with basically everything that I am, everything I feel… it’s his. It’s so entwined with him, there is no ‘me’ without him anymore. And I don’t want there to be.” She finished, her voice thick with emotion, a heartfelt confession laid bare under the afternoon sun. 

Behind them, Morpheus, who had slowly followed, his hands now casually tucked into his pockets, heard every word. A subtle smirk, slow and proud, touched his lips. It wasn’t merely pride, but a deep, resonant warmth that settled in the core of his being, fulfilling a need he hadn’t known he harbored. Her words resonated with a truth he had come to understand about himself, too. 

Death’s smile, already wide, somehow broadened even further. She gave Nora’s shoulder a warm, approving nudge. “I’ve never seen Morpheus like this,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. “Not in… oh, in a very, very long time. He’s usually so incredibly… himself . So obviously, this is going well.” She smiled at Nora very warmly, a silent acknowledgment of the rare connection she saw blooming between her brother and this mortal woman. 

Nora, feeling a surge of courage and remembering the true purpose of their meeting, cleared her throat. “Well, actually,” she began, glancing over her shoulder at Morpheus, then back to Death, her expression turning serious, “there’s a thing that we wanted to ask you about.” She waited until Morpheus had caught up, now standing just behind her, his hand lightly resting on her back. “When Morpheus asked the Fates for help,” Nora continued, her voice softer now, reflecting the weight of the prophecy, “they also spoke to me.” 

Death’s gaze moved between Morpheus and Nora, her cheerful demeanor replaced by a look of contemplation, her curiosity piqued. 

Nora continued, choosing her words carefully, “They said that I'm his Anchor, and that Morpheus’s essence is now forever intertwined with mine. That we are linked, in some fundamental way. They said we are ‘irrevocably woven, a tapestry of two,’ and that it will endure.” She remembered the Fates’ chilling, yet strangely comforting, pronouncements. 

Death nodded slowly, her eyes distant, as if sifting through countless threads of history. “A resonance between two souls that have faced and overcome impossible odds together. It is very rare, but not unheard of, for such a bond to form. The Fates rarely speak idly.” She looked between Nora and Morpheus, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “The connection forged in suffering is often the most unbreakable.” 

Nora pressed her lips together, then looked down at the grass, her brow furrowed. “But one thing I don’t understand, though,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper, a thread of vulnerability weaving through her words. “Now that I’m out of that circle, I… I eat, I drink, I sleep. Everything like that. But now I also age.” Her gaze lifted, meeting Death’s eyes, and the unspoken fear was palpable. “If my soul, my being, is forever intertwined with his, if I'm this ‘anchor’ they spoke of… I don’t understand how. Because I still technically have a shelf life. I… I will die long before Morpheus ever does.” The heartbreak was stark in Nora’s eyes, a raw, undeniable pain. The thought of Morpheus, the one she loved so fiercely, having to endure her eventual departure, seeing him grieve again for another loved one, was a torment she couldn’t bear to inflict upon him. Her very purpose seemed to be to bring him comfort, not further sorrow. 

Death gained a deeply contemplative look, an understanding of Nora’s silent plea. She considered Nora for a long moment, then her gaze flickered to Morpheus, a faint, almost imperceptible mirth entering her eyes, a knowing glint only he would recognize. 

“That reminds me of ongoing projects,” Death mused, her voice suddenly casual, yet laced with a subtle hint of a challenge for her brother, “How’s he faring after all this time, brother dear? Your… particular wager?” 

Morpheus, who had been listening intently, his own expression shadowed, blinked. He seemed momentarily confused, the question seemingly coming from left field. Then, a slow, dawning comprehension spread across his face, a flicker of something akin to surprise, and then, perhaps, a rare spark of… hope. 

“Hob Gadling?” Morpheus questioned, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if speaking the name conjured him from the air itself. 

Nora looked between them, her head swiveling back and forth, utterly bewildered. “ Hob ?” she repeated, the single syllable filled with confusion. Who’s Hob? And what does he have to do with any of this? Her mind screamed. 

Death turned back to Nora, a warm, reassuring smile blooming on her face. “Hob is a man we met in 1389,” she explained, her voice as smooth as flowing water, effortlessly bridging centuries. “He stated quite adamantly that he wasn’t going to die. That he would just choose not to. So Morpheus and I made a little bet to see how long it would take him to want to die.” She gestured grandly to Morpheus. “They met every hundred years, so Dream could see how he was faring. Unfortunately, they missed their last meeting.” 

Nora’s eyes widened, her jaw slacked slightly in disbelief. She looked from Death to Morpheus, then back again. “Wait. This guy’s over 600 years old… and he’s human ?” she questioned, her voice incredulous, unable to grasp the enormity of what Death was implying. A human… living that long? That’s impossible. Is she actually serious? This isn’t one of her jokes, is it?  

Death just nodded, her smile deepening, then she looked pointedly at Morpheus, a silent message passing between the siblings. “So,” Death said, her gaze returning to Nora, her voice laced with a subtle, yet powerful emphasis on the next word, “ that could be an option for the not-dying part of it.” She met Nora’s stunned gaze, her eyes unwavering. “I just won’t ever guide you to the Sunless Lands, Nora.” 

Nora stared at her, completely gobsmacked. Her brain short-circuited. Death. The very embodiment of cessation. The one who always comes. Just… offered her immortality. So casually. So simply. Death just really said that? Damn. She just… offered? Like it’s nothing? My God, my mind is completely blown. The unspoken words echoed in her internal monologue, a mixture of shock, a dizzying surge of impossible hope, and an almost absurd sense of gratitude. She found herself speechless, the weight of the offer settling over her like a warm, impossible blanket. 

Morpheus, his dark eyes fixed on Nora, watched her processing the impossible truth. He could feel, through their shared bond, the tumultuous storm of emotions within her – the disbelief, the dawning hope, the overwhelming relief. An almost imperceptible curve touched his lips as he looked at his sister. “My dear sister,” he said, his voice carrying a slight, almost teasing mirth, “I do believe you’ve broken her.” 

Death’s eyebrows shot up, a surprised smile spreading across her face. “Are you teasing now, Dream?” she asked, a genuine shock in her tone, as if Morpheus’s playful jab was a far more astonishing feat than granting a mortal endless life. 

After a moment, Death’s gaze drifted off to the side, a familiar, knowing look entering her eyes, indicating a new appointment, a new life reaching its end. She looked back at them, a bittersweet warmth in her expression. “I have to go,” she said, her voice softer now, tinged with farewell. “But it was so nice to see you again, Dream.” 

Nora, slowly snapping out of her stunned immobility, looked towards Death, her eyes still wide with disbelief and gratitude. Death, seeing the shift, stepped towards Nora and enveloped her in a surprisingly warm, firm hug. “And it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Nora,” she murmured into Nora’s hair. “I look forward to all the future times we meet as well, of which I assume,” she pulled back slightly, her eyes twinkling as they darted quickly between Nora and Morpheus, then settled back on Nora, “that there will be many.” She gave Nora a conspiratorial wink, then, with that familiar, ethereal flutter of wings, she simply vanished, leaving behind only the lingering scent of autumn and a profound silence. 

Nora stood there for a moment, still reeling, the ghost of Death’s hug lingering. Then, her gaze snapped back to Morpheus, a spark of indignation lighting her eyes. “You have a 600-year-old friend and you never told me?!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in a mock-admonishment. “ Sandy !” she added, her tone laced with playful accusation. “We’ve been talking for how long now? And you never once mentioned a human who just… doesn’t die?” With a light, teasing motion, she playfully slapped his chest. 

Morpheus’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smile playing across his mouth. As Nora’s hand made contact with his chest, he reacted with lightning speed, his pale fingers instantly wrapping around her hand, holding it firm against him. With his other arm, he swiftly wrapped it around her waist, pulling her flush against his solid form. Nora’s free hand, finding nowhere else to go, settled naturally on his chest, next to the one he held captive. 

“You must have made quite an impression on my sister,” Morpheus said, his deep voice a soft rumble against her ear, ignoring her playful accusation, his eyes holding hers with an unreadable depth. “Death does not offer that gift ever… except once.” 

Nora, utterly captivated by his gaze, felt the full weight of the truth truly sinking in now. A giddy rush of emotion, pure and overwhelming, flooded her. More time. So much more time. An eternity. With him . All of the gratitude, the hope, the dizzying joy, and the boundless love she felt for him surged through their bond, a silent torrent of emotion so potent it vibrated through every fiber of her being. She couldn’t help herself. Raising her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears and impossible joy, she pulled him down to her, uncaring of their public setting in the park, and kissed him. 

Her lips met his, soft and giving, a touch brimming with all the tenderness and happiness that overflowed within her. She felt the subtle mint of his breath as she deepened the kiss, a whisper of a sigh escaping her. 

Morpheus felt the sudden pressure of her lips, a jolt of pure warmth that coursed through him, echoing the tumultuous surge he felt through their bond. He had not anticipated this, not here, not now, but the sheer force of her joy, her love, was an irresistible current. His mind, so meticulously ordered, became a whirlwind. She is so bright, so open, he thought, a sense of wonder blooming in his chest. And this… this is what it feels like to truly be desired, to be loved without expectation. His arms, almost of their own accord, shot around her waist, pulling her fiercely, possessively against him. He couldn’t help himself. It was a kiss that tasted of forever, of promised futures and the boundless relief of shared time, a silent promise exchanged between their souls. 

Breathless, with flushed cheeks and tingling lips, Nora finally pulled back. He looked down at her, a soft smile on his lips, his dark eyes blazing with unguarded love. 

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice husky, “let me introduce you to Hob.”

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

Morpheus and Nora stood together on the cracked, uneven pavement, the gritty urban air carrying faint echoes of distant traffic. Before them loomed the skeletal remains of what was once the “The White Horse,” a beloved, albeit mundane, Tavern. Its façade was a patchwork of exposed brick and splintered timbers, a gaping hole where the main entrance used to be, revealing a cavernous, empty shell within. It was a ghost of a building, a testament to time’s relentless march. 

Nora glanced at Morpheus. His usually impassive features were subtly etched with disappointment, almost a weary sorrow. His gaze was fixed on the dilapidated structure, his lips pressed into a thin, troubled line. Nora felt the familiar ache of his unspoken distress through their bond; he truly had no other reliable way to find his centuries-old companion, Hob Gadling. His friend , Nora thought, a small, knowing smile touching her lips, even though Morpheus would, of course, deny such a mortal sentiment. 

Her eyes, ever observant, swept across the grimy streetscape. Her gaze snagged on a weather-beaten wooden fence off to the side, its peeling paint barely clinging to the warped planks. There, in bold, hastily applied spray paint, were the words: “The New Inn” followed by a crudely drawn arrow pointing off to the right. The arrow, a streak of bright red, stretched improbably far down the length of the fence, snaking around the distant corner. 

A spark of hope ignited within Nora. She nudged Morpheus gently on his side, her touch a silent invitation. “Look,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm, as she pointed towards the sign. Morpheus’s head slowly turned, his dark, ancient eyes following the direction of her finger. As he recognized the familiar name, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of light seemed to return to their depths, chasing away some of the despair. Without a word, a renewed purpose settling in their steps, they both began to walk down the street, their gazes fixed on the painted arrow, following its improbable path around the corner, a shared journey towards an unknown, hopeful destination. 

The arrow, as Nora would later muse, was a testament to sheer, unyielding determination. It led them not just around the immediate corner, but through several bustling streets, across a chaotic construction site echoing with the clang of machinery and the shouts of workers, and then, surprisingly, veered off into what appeared to be an abandoned field. Morpheus, ever stoic, simply followed, his long strides undisturbed by the change in terrain. Nora, however, found herself picking her way carefully, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth of the overgrown grass field, tall weeds tickling her shins. Beyond the field, a dense copse of trees loomed, their branches interwoven, casting deep shadows. They had to push through the resistant foliage, the leaves brushing against their faces, the earthy scent of damp soil and growing things filling the air. It felt less like a stroll and more like a miniature quest. 

Finally, after what felt like a small eternity of navigating urban detritus, rural overgrowth, and unexpected detours, the trees parted. Before them stood a pub, and Nora had to admit, it was a very nice-looking one. Its façade was a charming blend of traditional brickwork and polished wood, with flower boxes spilling vibrant blooms from beneath cheerful bay windows. A freshly painted sign swung gently above the entrance, proclaiming its name in elegant script: “The New Inn.” 

Nora turned to Morpheus, a warm smile playing on her lips, her eyes twinkling with a gentle, teasing light. “I think your friend really wanted you to find this place,” she said, with just enough emphasis to convey her amusement. Morpheus merely offered her a light glare, a flicker of his usual disdain for such mundane labels. Yet, even as he looked away, Nora could feel the subtle shift in their bond, a silent acknowledgment from him that, despite his outward denial, he agreed with her assessment. His friend, indeed. 

Nora lightly tugged Morpheus behind her, a fresh purpose now guiding her steps as she walked into the inviting warmth of the pub. The air inside was a comforting balm after their arduous journey, filled with the mellow glow of warm lighting and the gentle, murmurous chatter of other patrons. This is quite a nice place, Nora thought, though she quickly qualified it internally, though my experience is severely lacking, so I don’t really have much of a say.  

She looked to Morpheus, who, despite being physically pulled by her, was already scanning the room, his gaze sweeping over faces and tables, searching for one specific person. Nora could feel the exact moment he found him, a subtle but clear shift in his posture; his shoulders lightened imperceptibly, and a fragile flicker of hope, tinged with a slight undercurrent of guilt, radiated from him through their bond. 

Morpheus then turned, a new resolve in his movements, and began to weave through the tables towards a quieter side of the pub, pulling Nora along behind him. Their hands remained intertwined as they navigated the cheerful bustle. He stopped finally, before a small, sturdy table tucked against the far wall. A man sat there, seemingly oblivious to their approach, a scattering of papers spread out before him. 

The man, who appeared to be in his middle years, possessed rich brown hair that softly brushed his shoulders, framing a face that was both kind and intelligent. He slowly tilted his head up, his eyes meeting Morpheus’s. A radiant, almost blinding smile broke across his face, and he let out a soft, relieved breath. Nora found herself looking between the two of them, a burgeoning excitement bubbling within her. 

Morpheus, with a smug, almost imperceptible upturn of his head, spoke, his voice carrying just a hint of triumph. “It appears I owe you an apology.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, before continuing. “I’ve always heard it’s impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.” 

Nora sent a feeling of pure smug satisfaction through their bond to Morpheus: I was right. He’s your friend.  

The man at the table, now undeniably Hob Gadling, let out a large, contented sigh. His radiant smile, however, did not waver as he looked at Morpheus. “You’re late,” he said, his voice laced with deep relief and contentment. 

Nora looked at Hob, a bright smile mirroring his own. It was as if he’d seen Morpheus just yesterday, not over a century ago, and the sheer normalcy of their reunion warmed Nora to her core. Her gaze then drifted to the table; there was only one other chair. With a subtle nudge to Morpheus, she said, “Here, you sit and catch up. I’ll go for a walk and come back later.” She began to pull her hand away, intending to give them privacy, but Morpheus, who was apparently in an uncharacteristically mischievous mood—a rare sight that made Nora’s heart skip—didn’t release her. Instead, his grip tightened, and with his free hand, he subtly pulled out the lone chair a fraction of an inch. He then sat down, and with a gentle, almost imperceptible tug, pulled Nora down so she was sitting firmly on one of his legs. Before she could fully register what was happening, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close. Nora let out a little squeak, a surprised sound caught in her throat. She certainly hadn’t expected Morpheus, the King of Dreams, to pull such a move. 

The corners of Hob's eyes crinkled as he watched their silent exchange, his initial shock quickly giving way to a rich, booming laugh that filled their corner of the pub. “Well, it appears we have some catching up to do,” Hob said, his gaze fixed on Morpheus, a lingering smile on his face. “You seem to have changed quite a bit since we last met,” he added, his tone curious, a hint of genuine inquiry in his voice despite the playful accusation. “I mean, I called you a friend and you stormed out!” 

Nora, now having fully processed the situation and settled comfortably on Morpheus’s lap, couldn’t resist joining in. She laid her one hand over Morpheus’s and her other hand rested on her own leg. She leaned her head slightly to the side. “I mean, yeah, I could definitely see him doing that. He was quite grouchy back then, wasn’t he?” Nora said conspiratorially to Hob, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Morpheus stirred slightly beneath her, a subtle wave of embarrassment washing over him that Nora felt clearly through their bond. She subtly rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb, a comforting gesture. 

Hob chuckled, a sound full of warmth. “Grouchy is an understatement, lass. Proper thundercloud, he was. Always talking in riddles and looking like someone had just told him the sky was falling.” 

“And the drama!” Nora added, shaking her head playfully. “Everything was a profound statement, even just ordering a drink.” 

“Ah, but that was part of his charm, wasn’t it?” Hob countered, a twinkle in his own eye. “Never a dull moment, even if those moments were mostly him brooding.” He paused, taking a sip from a mug on his table. “So, you finally decided to grace me with your presence. What’s new in… well, whatever it is you do, since I still don’t actually know.” Hob paused again, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow for a moment before his face cleared, a new, mock-accusatory glint entering his eyes. “You know what? On second thought, I still don’t even know your name!” 

Nora’s jaw dropped. She stared at Hob, her eyes wide with disbelief, scanning his face for any hint of a jest. But Hob’s smile, while still present, held no trace of humor; he was utterly, genuinely serious. Her head whipped over her shoulder, her gaze fixing on Morpheus, her eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. “You’re… you’re not serious,” she began, the incredulity thick in her voice, a significant pause hanging in the air. “You haven’t told him your name?” Her voice rose slightly with each word, tinged with a growing exasperation. “You… you’ve been meeting for how many years and you haven't shared anything about yourself?” Another pause, this one heavy with her disbelief. “Anything at all?” The last words were almost a scolding, a silent accusation of his absolute reticence. You can’t be serious, she thought, but the knowledge hit her with a resigned thud: No, she could totally see Morpheus doing that.  

She didn’t even wait for him to answer, simply shaking her head in bewildered amusement before turning back to Hob. “Has he told you anything about him at all?” 

Hob chuckled, a soft, fond sound, his eyes twinkling as he watched the exchange between the two of them, thoroughly enjoying Morpheus’s discomfort. He slowly shook his head. “Nope. Honestly, every time we’ve met, he just kind of sat there and listened to what I was up to for to. Only really adding comments here and there, but never really shared much about himself. Bit of a closed book, our friend here.” He winked at Nora. “More like a sealed vault, actually.” 

Nora absorbed that, her expression a mix of mock disappointment and affectionate exasperation. She looked back at Morpheus, giving him a knowing, slightly chiding look. “Sandy.” 

Morpheus’s lips curved into a genuine smile, full of warmth and affection as he met Nora’s gaze. He then turned his attention back to Hob, his dark eyes sparkling with something akin to tender amusement. “Hello, Hob. I am Morpheus.” 

Another couple of seconds of dead silence stretched, thick with unspoken anticipation. Then, Nora’s elbow connected with Morpheus’s stomach, a sharp but not painful jab, a silent cue for him to continue. Morpheus let out a slight “Oof,” a surprised exhale that was more a huff of air than a sound of pain. 

He recovered quickly, a new gleam in his eye, and continued, his voice deepening with ancient authority, the air around them seeming to subtly shift, taking on a heavier, more resonant quality. “I am Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares.” 

Hob Gadling, who had faced death, plague, and countless historical upheavals with an unshakeable spirit, was utterly gobsmacked. His radiant smile slowly faded, replaced by a look of almost comical shock. His mouth opened and closed a few times, soundlessly. After a long, stunned silence, he finally managed a weak, almost breathless whisper. “You’re what ?” It was as if this revelation, more than immortality, was the one thing that truly threatened to shatter his remarkable sanity. "I’ve been alive for over 600 years, I’ve seen empires rise and fall, but that’s what gets me?!” His voice was a disbelieving squeak, eyes wide, staring at Morpheus as if seeing him, truly seeing him, for the very first time. 

Nora, her amusement now thoroughly engaged, just watched Hob with a delighted smile, a silent witness to the unfolding chaos. She met Morpheus’s gaze, a shared spark of mischief passing between them. Hob, meanwhile, seemed to finally register the crucial detail he’d let slip in his shock. His eyes darted wildly, first to Nora, then to Morpheus, then back to Nora, a hand clapping over his mouth as if to staunch the flow of damning truths. 

“I… I mean, I… I,” he stammered, his words tripping over each other, trying desperately to construct some plausible lie, some mundane explanation for his six centuries of existence. His mind clearly drew a blank, the sudden terror of exposure written plainly on his face. 

Nora, seeing his panic, laughed. A soft, clear sound that was both sympathetic and utterly amused, cutting through the tension. “Don’t worry, Hob,” she said, her voice gentle, “I… I know how old you are.” 

Pure, unadulterated relief washed over Hob’s face. It was almost physically palpable, like a wave breaking. His shoulders slumped in sudden gratitude. “Well, thank God!” he exhaled, leaning back in his chair, a wry grin returning. “Right. Well, that cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?” He ran a hand through his rich brown hair, a slightly dazed look in his eyes. He then looked between Morpheus and Nora, his gaze lingering on Nora, still perched comfortably on Morpheus’s lap, before settling on both of them. A new, more contemplative look, laced with a fresh spark of curiosity, came into his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, a playful glint dancing there. “So, then,” he began, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was entirely too loud for the intimacy he was trying to imply. “How long have you two known each other? You look mighty cozy.” His grin widened, clearly anticipating a good story. 

Nora looked at Morpheus, a silent question passing between them, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She sent him her plan mentally: I’m going to sum it all up for him. The highlights. Prepare for a summary of epic proportions. Morpheus took a moment, his gaze deep and unreadable, before a subtle, almost imperceptible nod passed between them. A silent accord, a tiny corner of his lips twitching upward in a private acknowledgment of her impending performance. 

Nora turned back to Hob, her smile broadening, her eyes twinkling with pure, unadulterated delight. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that somehow carried perfectly in the pub’s gentle hum. “Oh, you know, just a bit of a whirlwind, really. I met him when his captor tried to use me as a bargaining chip, but I just promptly pissed him off. Then we spent a century together in a giant fishbowl, but thankfully, there wasn’t any actual fish.” She paused for comedic effect, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Then we finally escaped and found his fairy dust, went to hell—which, fun fact, isn’t hot, it’s actually quite cold—and then we basically kicked Lucifer’s ass and got his helmet back. After that, I had to yell at an old guy and ate his ice cream, but Sandy got his jewelry back.” She patted Morpheus’s hand affectionately. “Oh, and somewhere in there, I had one too many arguments with a certain bird who has absolutely no sense of timing, got told we were forever linked by some genuinely scary ladies, met his older sister, Death, who is actually quite lively, and then I got surprise immortality.” Another dramatic pause, just long enough to let the monumental nature of her words sink in. She concluded with a shrug, her voice reverting to total casualness. “And then we went looking for you. Just the usual.” 

The sheer, audacious casualness of her delivery was a masterpiece of comedic timing. Hob’s jaw went slack again, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on Nora as if she’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. His mouth opened and closed a few times, soundlessly, utterly bewildered. The utter stunned silence that followed was a symphony to Nora’s ears, and she enjoyed every single second of his expression. She burst into genuine laughter, a bright, clear sound that filled the small space around their table. Morpheus, who had indeed been thoroughly enjoying the entire spectacle, the subtle flickers of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, removed one hand from her waist and gently placed it over Nora’s hand that rested on her lap, slowly, deliberately interlocking their fingers together. 

Hob’s eyes slowly, slowly blinked. A low, almost guttural sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a choked laugh. He reached for his pint, which had been left abandoned up until this point, grabbed it, and without a second thought, chugged everything remaining in the glass, letting out a satisfied, albeit bewildered, “Aah!” as he set the empty glass down on the table with a soft thud. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands, completely lost in contemplation. He mumbled, the words muffled by his palms, “Hell is cold… scary ladies… you stole someone’s ice cream… a talking bird… there’s jewelry … and Death is lively… wait, wait, also your sister ?!” He rubbed his temples vigorously, as if trying to massage the absurdity out of his brain. Then, a bewildered laugh bubbled up, laced with genuine awe and a good deal of amusement. “You guys definitely keep busy, huh? Nora, lass, you’re a force of nature!” He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “I thought I had a lively existence!” He then straightened up, a sharp, sudden thought striking him. His eyes, still wide with wonder, fixed on Nora. “Wait,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you said… you got immortality?” His gaze flicked to Morpheus, then back to Nora. “The same thing as me?” 

Morpheus gave a slow, deliberate nod, a faint hint of pride in his usually impassive expression. “It was the doing of my elder sister.” 

Nora’s face lit up, eyes shining. She practically bounced on Morpheus’s lap. “Oh, Death! She’s amazing, Hob! She’s so funny and kind, and she loves to tease him.” She nudged Morpheus playfully with her head. “She’s absolutely hilarious, just the older sister I never knew I wanted!”  

Hob just sat there, trying to absorb this latest piece of information, his mind visibly reeling. He ran his hands over his face again, then down his jaw. “Wow,” he exhaled weakly, shaking his head. “I didn’t think I’d have my entire mind blown today.” He looked at his now empty pint glass with a mournful sigh. “I need another beer for that story.” 

Morpheus, meanwhile, was experiencing an internal struggle. From the moment Nora had settled into his lap, a subtle current had begun to hum beneath his usual composure. It started as a faint awareness of her warmth, the gentle pressure of her body, and the way her hair brushed his chin when she looked back at him. But then, as her excitement mounted and she practically bounced and wiggled in his lap, a new, more insistent sensation bloomed. It was a slow, unfamiliar warmth, spreading from where her body pressed against his, a feeling completely at odds with his usually unshakeable demeanor. He concentrated, pouring every ounce of his vast, ancient will into not letting his body react to the escalating pressure and movement. Nora, however, was blissfully oblivious, too caught up in her excited gushing about Death to notice the monumental effort her King of Dreams was making. She just squeezed his interlocked hand, the one resting on her lap. Morpheus could now only think about how his hand was practically sitting on her upper thigh, and how utterly, adorably unaware Nora was of his predicament, and how very, very much he was struggling. 

While Nora and Hob continued talking about random things – Hob, now slightly recovered, launching into a tangent about one of his exploits fighting in a long-forgotten war, complete with dramatic gestures and booming sound effects – Nora remained completely engaged, her eyes wide with amusement and fascination. Morpheus, however, was totally unaware of whatever Hob was saying. All he could think about was Nora, the feel of her warm weight in his lap, his arms wrapped securely around her, and the way her every small movement sent an unexpected tremor through him. He was entirely, gloriously distracted by her presence. 

Taking a lull in their conversation, as Hob paused dramatically to recount a particularly gruesome detail of historical warfare, Morpheus sent a mental thought to Nora, a subtle current in their shared bond . My Star, you need to be more careful with how much wiggling you do when sitting in one's lap.  

Nora, mid-chuckle, furrowed her brow in confusion. Wiggling? What wiggling? she mentally questioned, completely oblivious. 

A wave of exasperated amusement, tinged with a very potent and unwelcome physical sensation, emanated from Morpheus. He then sent the feeling he was experiencing – the growing arousal, the frustrating battle to contain it, the sheer discomfort of his current state – directly to Nora's mind. Nora's eyes widened, a hot flush began spreading across her cheeks. Her breath hitched and though she tried to remain still, she found she couldn't prevent her own arousal from building as well, causing her to shift just slightly in Morpheus's lap. This, of course, did absolutely nothing to help his predicament. Morpheus let out a desperate, internal groan. That absolutely did not help, he thought, watching her blush deepen, it actually made it worse . Hob, meanwhile, was completely oblivious, gesturing wildly as he finished his story. "...and then, I swear, the fellow's head just popped off like a champagne cork!" 

Nora, now struggling to focus on anything other than the intense sensations Morpheus had just flooded her mind with, and the equally intense embarrassment, managed to pull herself together just enough to address Hob. "Well, Hob," she said, her voice a little breathless, her eyes darting between him and the door, "it was an absolute pleasure meeting you. And we will definitely see you again before another hundred years!" She lightly elbowed Morpheus, who was still subtly rigid beneath her, "I'd love to exchange more stories." 

Morpheus squeezed Nora's waist just a bit tighter, his other hand, still interlocked with hers on her lap and blessedly out of Hob's sight beneath the table, unlinked their fingers. With a deliberate, possessive motion, he wrapped his hand firmly around Nora's upper thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

Nora jumped slightly, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. "So anyway!" she blurted out, her voice a touch too loud. "We'll be... we'll be leaving now! There's... there's lots of work to do in the Dreaming, you know, building things, and sweeping, and books and things!" Her brain seemed to slowly start to lose a bit of its function, the words tumbling out nonsensically. 

Sweet, oblivious Hob was just nodding and agreeing, his face beaming with joy at seeing them again, and the immense satisfaction of finally calling Morpheus a friend without the Lord of Dreams storming out. "Of course, of course!" he boomed, pulling a pen and a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "Mostly spend my time here in the Inn, but if not, you can always reach me." He scribbled his phone number quickly. "Here, whenever – if ever – you two get a phone, here's my number!" He handed it over with a flourish. 

Nora snatched the paper, shoved it into her pocket, and then, standing up almost too quickly, gave Hob a swift, somewhat frantic hug. "Bye!" she chirped, before practically dragging Morpheus out of the pub, his cloak swirling behind them. Morpheus, with a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips, managed a low, resonant "Goodbye, Hob," on their way out, his dark eyes still locked on Nora's flushed face. 

Once they were both out of the pub, Nora walked briskly, almost power-walking, down the street and around a corner, putting them out of sight. All the while, she was muttering furiously under her breath. "Sending me feelings… distracting me… how utterly mean and rude and presumptuous and just… UGH !”  

Morpheus simply smirked at her, his internal struggle still very much present, and certainly not abating. Seeing the fire in Nora’s eyes, the indignation, the vibrant energy, was definitely not reducing his attraction to her. In fact, it was quite the opposite; it only intensified it. When they finally got to a spot completely out of sight, tucked away in a shadowed alcove between two buildings, Morpheus grabbed her, pulled her in close against him, crushing her to his body, and kissed her extremely deeply, a hungry, possessive kiss that left her utterly breathless. When she finally gasped for air, pulling back slightly, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desire, she managed, “Bring us back. Now.” Morpheus, for all his ancient power and stoic demeanor, could not help but give in to her demand.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!

Chapter Text

The bright sun of the afternoon, the distant rumble of London traffic, and the grimy brick of the alleyway vanished in a swirl of shimmering sand. One moment, Nora was pressed against Morpheus in a shadowed alcove, her body still humming from his kiss. The next, a stillness enveloped them, soft and warm. 

Nora stumbled slightly, her hand still clutched in Morpheus’s, as they materialized within what was undeniably a bedroom. And not just any bedroom. It was vast, with a vaulted ceiling that soared into impossible heights, painted with frescoes of nebulae and swirling galaxies that pulsed with a faint, inner light. Heavy, dark drapes, rich as twilight, hung from tall, arched windows, currently drawn tight against any external view. The bed, an enormous four-poster affair carved from dark, polished wood, dominated the center of the room, draped in layers of deep blue and silver fabrics that shimmered like moonlight on still water. An ornate, silver-backed mirror, impossibly tall, stood in one corner, reflecting the celestial ceiling. Lamps of luminous, crystalline glass cast a soft, ambient glow, making the air feel thick and dreamlike. 

“Oh,” Nora breathed, her voice a surprised whisper, her eyes sweeping over the opulent space. “Well, this is certainly… lavish.” Her gaze landed back on the towering bed. “Is this yours?” The question, laced with a familiar teasing disbelief, was more a statement. Of course, it was his. The sheer, overwhelming grandeur of it practically screamed ‘King of Dreams’. 

Morpheus simply offered a faint, amused smirk, a silent acknowledgment that she had guessed correctly. His hand, which had been holding hers, tightened almost imperceptibly, and before Nora could fully process the shift in their surroundings, he pulled her in. 

The kiss was sudden, fierce, and utterly consuming, a desperate, hungry press of his lips against hers that stole the breath from her lungs. She gasped, a soft, shocked sound that was swallowed by his mouth. Her hands flew up, tangling in the impossibly soft, raven strands of his hair, pulling him closer. The fury that had simmered within her, a delightful retaliation to his unexpected emotional assault in the tavern, mingled now with a raw, desperate desire, exploding into a conflagration. 

She kissed him back with equal intensity, her lips parting under his. In between fervent presses, she mumbled against his mouth, “You’re completely…unfair.” Kiss. “Sending me feelings…” Kiss . “So…so rude!” Kiss . 

Morpheus chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated against her lips, against her very soul. He pulled back just a millimeter, his breath ragged against her mouth. His dark eyes blazed with an untamed, primal amusement, mirroring the fire in hers. “Why would I not,” he murmured, his voice a silken rasp, a subtle vibration that seemed to penetrate her very core, “use the tools at my disposal, My Star?” 

Nora’s eyes, still blazing with a mix of fury and desire, narrowed. A low, throaty purr, thick with challenge and burgeoning want, rumbled from her chest. She leaned in, her voice a husky whisper against his lips, “Oh, you want to play it like that, do you?” Before he could react, she lightly nipped his bottom lip, a sharp, playful tug, then pulled back just enough to look up into his eyes, her own alight with mischief and retribution. “Fine.” 

And then, with a fierce, almost vengeful delight, she unleashed it. Through the invisible, unbreakable thread of their bond, the very same connection he had used to send his overwhelming emotions into her mere moments ago, Nora sent a torrent of her own. She poured every ounce of the burgeoning arousal that pulsed through her body into him—all the swirling heat in her veins, the sudden, delightful clench of her core, the electric awareness of his hard body pressed against hers, and the almost zing she feels from running her fingers through his impossibly soft hair. All of it, every single detail, unfiltered and potent, a wave of sensation slamming into him. 

Morpheus stiffened, his entire form rigid beneath her hands. His eyes, already dark with desire, widened fractionally with a flicker of genuine shock. A low, guttural groan erupted from him, a sound ripped from the depths of his being that Nora felt reverberate through her very bones, echoing the very essence of pleasure and overwhelming surrender. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his lips hot against her skin, breathing in her scent with a desperate, shuddering intake of air. His hands dropped, landing possessively on her ass, grabbing fistfuls of her flesh, and pulling her hard into him. Nora gasped, a sharp intake of breath as he squeezed. 

“That was a dangerous move,” Morpheus mumbled against her neck, his voice a low, rough growl. He didn’t give her time to react, his movements swift and decisive. One hand slipped to her lower back, the other gripping her leg just behind the knee. With a powerful, effortless motion, he lifted her, prompting Nora to wrap her legs around his waist, holding on tightly as he began to move. He didn’t break stride, his grace a predator’s silent glide across the vast room, carrying them swiftly to the grand four-poster bed. With a soft grunt, he tossed her lightly onto the mattress. She bounced once, a soft, yielding give of the expensive bedding, before the undeniable, thrilling weight of Morpheus covered her, pressing her into the plush softness. The air in the opulent room crackled with anticipation, thick with their mingled scents and desires. 

Morpheus braced himself above her, his arms on either side of her head, his weight heavy and grounding. His dark hair, mussed from her fingers, framed a face still contorted with a mixture of raw desire and a hint of the surprise she had so deliberately inflicted upon him. His eyes were now burning, molten gold reflecting in their depths. 

“You truly are a dangerous creature, My Star,” he rasped, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, his gaze locked onto hers. Nora could feel the hard line of his arousal through their clothing, a taut, insistent pressure against her core that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. 

Nora, still breathless but emboldened, allowed a triumphant, mischievous smirk to curve her lips. “And you, my Dream Lord,” she purred, her voice a husky whisper. One hand, which had been in his hair, slid down to trace the sharp, elegant line of his jaw. The other hand, however, was more audacious. It snaked beneath the hem of his shorter black wool coat, then slipped further, beneath the soft fabric of his black shirt, finding the warm, smooth skin of his back. Her nails, just barely, almost imperceptibly, scratched lightly against his skin as her fingers began to trail upwards, sending an electric shock through his powerful frame. “You are far too easy to provoke.” 

Morpheus lowered his head, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps that fanned across her face. “You tested the limits of our bond,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, a sound that was both warning and undeniable pleasure. “And I find that… intoxicating.” 

“Indeed,” Nora agreed, her own voice trembling now, the playful defiance giving way to an overwhelming tide of desire that swirled and pooled low in her belly. Her hand, which had been trailing up his back, now moved, slowly, deliberately, around to the front of his chest. Her fingers, feather-light, barely grazing the warmth of his skin, began to work their way downwards, tracing a tantalizing path over the firm planes of his abdomen. She watched, mesmerized, as the dark intensity in his eyes deepened, tracking her every movement. 

“You started it, you know,” she whispered, her fingers still feather-light against his skin, descending inch by tantalizing inch. She let out a soft, exasperated ‘tsk’ sound, a playful chide, “All those feelings… completely unfair.” 

Morpheus raised his gaze just enough, his eyes piercing through her, full of an ancient hunger that made her heart pound a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his voice a low. “But you are magnificent in your retaliation.” 

With that, he lowered his head further. He bypassed her lips, leaving them aching and wanting, and claimed her neck. His mouth, hot and hungry, began placing open, devouring kisses along her jawline, down the sensitive curve of her throat. He sought out that sweet, vulnerable spot just beneath her ear, his lips pressing, his teeth grazing lightly, sending exquisite jolts of sensation through her, making her shiver. 

His hand that had been braced by her head moved, slipping down her side to her thigh, just above her knee. With a firm, decisive grip, he hiked her leg up higher onto his hip, pulling her even closer, molding her lower body against his. He shifted his weight, pressing her deeper into the mattress, every curve of her body aligning with his. His hips began to grind, a slow, deliberate, intensely arousing motion that made her arch into him instinctively, a desperate, silent plea. A soft moan, thick with pleasure and surrender, escaped her lips as his mouth found the hollow of her throat, his tongue tracing the pulse there. 

“Mine,” Morpheus whispered, a possessive growl rumbling against her skin, a declaration that branded her deeper than any mark. The opulent bedroom, with its celestial ceiling, seemed to spin, becoming a swirling vortex of touch and sensation, of ancient power and vibrant will, both bodies now wholly consumed by the tempest they had unleashed. 

Nora’s fingers moved with a renewed purpose to cup his face once more. Her thumbs brushed against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, his skin feeling like warm marble, impossibly smooth and cool beneath her touch. 

Morpheus’s mouth moved from the hollow of her throat, trailing a path of fire back up to her jawline, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His earlier declaration of “Mine” still throbbed against her skin, a possessive hum that resonated deep within her, a thrilling affirmation of their undeniable connection. She tilted her head down, a silent invitation he was swift to accept. His mouth descended, finally claiming hers again, but this kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, a deliberate exploration. 

Nora responded with equal fervor, her lips parting, allowing his tongue to sweep inside, tangling with hers in a dance that was perfectly synchronized, each movement a mirror of the other’s desire. They kissed for what felt like an eternity, a breathless, consuming exchange of fire and need. Her fingers now ran up over the nape of his neck, gripping the soft, thick strands there. She held his head steady as she pulled back slightly, just a fraction of an inch, her eyes blazing into his. “And you’re mine,” she breathed, her voice low and husky, a challenge and a claim all rolled into one. 

Morpheus paused, the slightest hesitation, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as her words echoed through their bond. Then, as if a dam had broken, he attacked her lips again, his kiss even more savage, more passionate than anything she had known was possible. It was a hungry, consuming force, demanding and all-encompassing, pulling her deeper into the maelstrom of sensation. 

Nora felt the wool of his coat between them, a barrier to the skin she craved. Her hands moved, pushing against the thick fabric, her words muffled against his lips as she continued to kiss him. “Get this… damn thing… off,” she mumbled, her voice rough with impatience and building urgency. As if in answer to her unspoken wish, a faint shimmer passed over him, and then, it seemed to simply disintegrate into nothingness, vanishing as if it had never been there at all. 

Nora gasped against his mouth, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and amusement. “Well,” she said, a breathless laugh escaping her, “that’s a handy trick.” 

Morpheus’s lips, curved in a dark, satisfied smirk, moved from her mouth, tracing a hot path down her jaw, across her throat, and into the sensitive expanse of her chest. His kisses were open-mouthed, wet, and utterly devastating. 

“Can you,” Nora gasped out, her voice ragged and breathless as his mouth worked its magic on her skin, “can you do that with all of our clothes?” 

Morpheus chuckled, the sound a low vibration against her skin. “Technically, yes,” he murmured, his voice a dark, sensual rasp that sent shivers through her entire body. He paused, lifting his head just enough for his gaze to meet hers, his eyes smoldering with a possessive fire. “But why would I deny myself the pleasure of unveiling you, piece by exquisite piece?” 

A solid, undeniable clench of desire tightened in Nora’s lower stomach, so potent it made her groan. “Oh, God,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed, completely overwhelmed by the raw sensuality of his words and actions. 

“Now, My Star,” Morpheus purred, his voice deepening with a playful reprimand, “you know better. I am much more than a mere God.” 

Nora huffed out a laugh that quickly turned into a long, drawn-out moan as Morpheus, with a subtle movement she didn’t even register, had now removed her shirt and bra. The cool air of the dream-chamber brushed against her bare skin for a fleeting moment before his head lowered. He began to lick, suck, and nibble on her nipples, alternating between them, ensuring each received equal, fervent attention. While his mouth devoured one, his free hand, warm and firm, rested on the other, his fingers lightly tweaking and rolling the nipple, sending twin currents of pleasure through her. 

Nora was completely overcome, her mind dissolving. Her hands, unable to settle, kept switching between gripping the luxurious bedsheets beside her, scrunching the rich fabric in her fists, and then reaching up, tangling in Morpheus’s dark hair. She gripped his head with frantic urgency, pulling him closer, deeper into the intoxicating pleasure he was so expertly inflicting. 

With a soft, almost audible pop, Morpheus released her nipple from his torment, leaving it throbbing and wet. “You have no idea,” he whispered, his voice still rough with passion, his gaze burning into hers, “the extent of your power over me, My Star.” 

Nora, her chest heaving, her body a trembling mess of exquisite sensation, reached down and pulled at the hem of his black shirt, her fingers fumbling slightly in her urgency. She pulled the shirt up and over his head, exposing the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen. “Oh, I think I have some idea, My Dream Lord,” she breathed, her voice thick with desire and unyielding determination. “And I intend to explore every single limit.” 

A smirk crossed Morpheus’s lips, reflecting the triumphant glint in his eyes. “What a delightful concept,” he whispered. He gave her one last searing kiss before moving down. He placed several open-mouthed kisses on her chest, then trailed a path of fire down her stomach, his breath hot against her skin. Nora gasped, her belly fluttering under his touch.  

The slow, deliberate pace of Morpheus’s fingers on her jeans was driving Nora absolutely wild. Each brush, each agonizingly slow movement of the zipper, felt like a deliberate torment designed to push her to the absolute brink. Her hips squirmed, a silent, frantic plea for him to just get on with it, but he seemed to revel in her impatience, his dark eyes watching her every reaction with a smoldering intensity that promised both satisfaction and more delicious frustration. 

Finally, with a soft sigh of triumph from him and a frustrated whimper from her, the jeans were fully unzipped. Morpheus’s hands slid inside the waistband, his thumbs brushing against the delicate skin of her hips, sending shivers through her already sensitive body. He tugged, pulling the denim down over her hips, then her thighs, revealing the simple lace of her panties. As the jeans began to bunch around her ankles, Nora felt a faint shimmer of magic, and her boots, which she hadn’t even consciously registered, simply vanished. The jeans were quickly pulled free by Morpheus, tossed to the floor with a soft rustle. 

Now, all that remained was the thin barrier of her lace panties, and Morpheus’s eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, traced the curve of her body, lingering on the delicate fabric. He leaned down, his breath warm against her hip, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across her skin. 

“Patience, My Star,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble, his thumb lightly grazing the elastic of her panties, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. 

“Patience?” she choked out, her voice ragged. The word felt like a taunt. “No… Morpheus,” she whimpered, arching into his hand. “Just… please . Touch me. We’ve waited. For so long.” The heat in her core intensified, a sudden, delicious clench. “I can’t… I can’t wait anymore .” 

Morpheus let out a deep groan against her hip, a guttural sound that echoed the depths of his own barely contained desire. “As you wish,” he rasped, and without a moment’s hesitation, his fingers hooked into the lace. With a single, swift motion, he pulled the delicate fabric down and off, tossing it aside to join the discarded jeans. Nora had no chance to register a flicker of embarrassment or shyness; the burning heat of Morpheus’s touch immediately replaced any fleeting thought as he pushed her legs further up and apart, bearing her completely to him. 

He didn't claim her yet, choosing instead to prolong the exquisite torment. He leaned down, his mouth began to tease, placing open kisses up and down the length of one thigh, then moving to the other, exploring the sensitive skin of her inner leg, deliberately avoiding the very area she craved his touch. Nora let out a frustrated whine, a desperate, animalistic sound. “Morpheus!” she pleaded, her voice a ragged gasp. 

He chuckled, the sound a low, satisfied vibration against her skin that only fueled her impatience. Then, finally, mercifully, he settled, his mouth finding its mark exactly where Nora had been silently begging him to go. He licked and sucked, a potent, mesmerizing rhythm that sent Nora’s world spiraling into unadulterated sensation. She was having a hard time getting air, her breath coming in short, choked gasps. One hand clenched into the sheets beside her, knuckles white, while the other flew up, her fingers burying themselves in her own hair, gripping it tightly as she arched her back into his ministrations. Her face was buried into the crook of her arm, mumbling incoherent pleas and low moans that were a symphony to Morpheus’s ears.  

The deep, rhythmic suckling and the flick of Morpheus’s tongue against her clit sent Nora spiraling. Her hips bucked, an involuntary arch that pulled her impossibly tighter against his mouth. A long, guttural moan tore from her throat, a sound she barely recognized as her own. “Oh, God … Morpheus… yes!” she gasped, the words barely coherent through the haze of pleasure. Her fingers, tangled in her own hair, pulled tighter, her nails digging into her scalp as she tried to anchor herself to something, anything, in the swirling vortex of sensation. 

Morpheus subtly shifted, his head moving back to her thigh, where he nipped her leg lightly in reprimand. Nora's only response was a huffed, "Oh, shut it." With firm, decisive pressure, Morpheus pushed her legs further out and apart, subtly ensuring she had no choice but to take the pleasure he was giving. He savored the sounds she made, drawing them in like the most exquisite nectar, each one fueling his own burgeoning desire. His tongue quickened its pace, growing more insistent, more demanding. He licked and sucked and pleasured with a ferocious intensity, his intent clear: to possess every inch of her awareness. He ensured she was utterly consumed, her mind cleared of all but the endless reality of him.  

“Please… Morpheus … please!” Nora whimpered, her voice cracking slightly, a raw beg. “Don’t stop… oh, never stop!” Morpheus kept one hand on her thigh, and with his other hand, he slid a single finger into her, gently but deeply, then quickly followed with a second, teasing her for only a moment before searching for that soft, spongy part. He knew he'd found it when Nora squeezed around his fingers and let out a choked moan. The combined assault of his tongue and fingers was overwhelming, sending fire through every nerve ending. 

A sudden need to see him, to watch the Dream Lord himself consumed in the act of giving her pleasure, surged through Nora. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her eyes, hazy with desire, looked down. 

And there he was. Morpheus, King of Dreams, his face buried between her legs, dark hair fanned out against her thighs. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in a look of concentration and what looked undeniably like bliss. His mouth was still firmly attached to her, his tongue working its magic, his fingers expertly delving within. It was an incredibly intimate, powerful sight. 

As if sensing her gaze, his eyes, those dark, fathomless pools, slowly opened. And Nora’s breath caught in her throat. They weren’t just dark. They were swirling galaxies, deep and complex, mirroring the cosmic frescoes above, alive with swirling nebulae and distant starlight. They locked onto hers, an ancient, primal hunger blazing within them, yet softened by an undeniable current of intense pleasure. He wasn’t merely performing; he was feeling it, deeply, drawing satisfaction from her burgeoning climax. 

A low, throaty growl, thick with his own pleasure, resonated inside her mind. " Yes, My Star, " he thought, his mental voice rough with delight. It was then Nora realized that his pleasure was intertwined with hers, an unending loop of shared sensation. 

Seeing him so utterly consumed by her, getting so much pleasure from giving her pleasure, a new demand entered her mind, direct from his: " Now, come for me. " That thought, that command, pushed Nora over the edge. 

Her body seized, a violent tremor racking her from head to toe as the pleasure culminated in a blinding flash. A cry ripped from her throat, a high, keening sound that was lost in the luxurious bedding. Her hips bucked violently, an uncontrollable spasm as wave after wave of pure ecstasy crashed over her. 

Even as her orgasm crested, utterly consuming her, Morpheus did not relent. His tongue continued to flick, to suck, to lap at her clit, and his fingers, still curled inside, continued their relentless rhythm. The intensity was overwhelming, pushing her beyond pleasure into something almost painful, too much, too soon, too deep. Nora whimpered, trying instinctively to move away, to twist her hips, to escape the shattering bliss. 

But Morpheus was a force of nature, unwavering. His one arm, which had been braced against her thigh, now wrapped around her leg, pushing down, pressing it firmly against her abdomen. This subtle yet powerful restraint meant she had nowhere to go, no choice but to ride out the relentless storm he was orchestrating. She gasped, fighting for air, her body convulsing, until she was utterly and completely breathless, her muscles trembling, her mind a blank slate of post-orgasmic haze. 

Finally, with a soft, satisfied groan that rippled through her still-quivering body, Morpheus delivered one final, lingering lick, drawing out the last vestiges of sensation. He then placed a warm, wet kiss directly onto her clit, a tender, possessive mark that sent a final, exquisite jolt through her. 

With a fluid grace, Morpheus pushed off her, rising to sit back on his heels, his black jeans still molding to him. Nora, deliciously heavy and gloriously sated, watched him through half-lidded eyes, the irresistible tableau of him consuming her. His gaze never broke from hers as he brought his glistening, wet fingers—the very ones that had just pleasured her—to his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he licked them clean, a searing, silent claiming that left no doubt of his intent.  

It was an act so primal, so utterly uninhibited, that it struck a chord deep within her. Fuck, that was hot , she thought, the unfiltered sentiment blazing through their shared bond. A knowing smirk, almost predatory, ghosted across Morpheus’s lips, a silent acknowledgment that he’d heard and appreciated her thought. 

That flicker imbued Nora with a new wave of energy. She sat up abruptly and reached forward. Her fingers, trembling slightly, looped into the belt loops of his black jeans, and with a decisive tug, she pulled him forward. Morpheus, caught off guard in his seated position, tumbled, falling down over her with a soft grunt of surprise, his dark hair brushing her naked chest. 

Before he could fully register the shift, Nora flipped them. One moment he was above her, the next, she was straddling him, her bare hips settling over his clothed ones. She wasted no time in leaning down and kissing him deeply, hungrily, tasting herself on his lips. 

Morpheus responded instantly, his hands shooting up to grip her waist tightly, anchoring her against him, his fingers digging into her flesh. Nora balanced herself with one hand planted firmly on his chest, feeling the hard thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Her other hand, free and bold, stroked lightly down his chest, then across his abdomen, stopping at the edge of his jeans. There, she ran a finger along the denim, from the middle over to his hip bone and back again, a caress that promised retribution. She pulled back slightly from the kiss, meeting his gaze, and in a low, husky whisper against his mouth, she declared, "My turn."

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!