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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year ago

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Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

#morpheus x reader #fic: persephone's devotee #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc #dream of the endless x oc #fic: hello mr. monster

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lady-phasma · 1 year ago

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Morpheus Returns

Part 1 of 2 (so far) cross posted from AO3

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, general smut and pretty fluffy, p in v sex. Written in first person fem!reader.

Summary a/n: Morpheus returns to find a favorite acolyte has waited 100 years for him. Also a bit of headcanon: I know he doesn’t sleep but the poor entity needs a break from time to time. No beta. 2k words

He lay imperiously on the black sheets of the bed. Their blackness swallowed light, no sheen like satin or silk. Draped over his bone-white body they gave the illusion that any light in the room came from him. The sheet fell across his belly and one leg. His arms spread out to his sides. His shaggy black hair shone with flecks of light as he turned his head in his rest. The King of Dreams sighed deeply.

My every action was imbued with the deepest reverence for Lord Morpheus. Each of us in The Dreaming had our roles and responsibilities, purpose and function. We were each created for a particular role. Although things had changed since his return, I had not. I had waited for a century. As Lucienne had waited. I didn’t leave The Dreaming when others gave up. I had one purpose and my existence was devoted to it. Much like gods and goddesses, the Endless enjoyed worshipers, human or otherwise. I was created to resemble a female human. Lord Morpheus had sculpted me to be perfect for him. Without him I had no purpose. So I waited.

When he returned most of us were gone. Lucienne encouraged him to rest but he had guilt and anger to assuage. I was patient. He saw me once before leaving to find his tools. How I had missed his expressive eyes and perfect mouth. I slid my fingers down his cheek.

“You look tired, my Lord,” I whispered.

“I am, Asteria,” he glanced down at me. “But I will return and I will make good use of our bed.”

My heart ached for his return but I busied myself with helping restore The Dreaming. I especially focused on his quarters. His palace staff gradually returned, as did his dreams and nightmares, but among them all I was cherished. He had given me my own personality, interests, abilities, but I was his design. My very being was sculpted to be his own dream. Each dream or nightmare in The Dreaming was his creation but created for others, for humans. I alone was formed for him, the physical manifestation of his desires. My limbs were long, my skin nearly as pale as his, and my body blessed with ample curves. My breasts were firm and high above a small rounded belly. My hips weren’t narrow but neither were they broad. My entire body was inhumanly hairless like his, except for long chestnut locks that fell, curling down my back. We only possessed human form, we were far from human. He had even named me in honor of the Titaness Asteria, the goddess of falling stars and oneiromancy. She had once had the ability to call him to her at will, Endless or not, to divine meaning from dreams.

I only slightly regretted disturbing his repose. He had previously promised me an audience and given me express instructions when to rouse him. My audiences with Dream were entirely selfish on his part. However, since I was created as a devotee there was immense pleasure in it for me as well.

I stood at the foot of the bed and let my nightgown fall off my shoulders. I climbed onto the bed. My eyes ran up the length of his body, along his exposed leg, his flat stomach, his taught chest, and his perfect collar bones. I sat next to him, my legs curled beneath me. I cupped his cheek in my palm and pressed my lips against his. He moaned into my mouth. His eyes opened just a fraction and he wrapped his long arms around me. I let my body sink into his embrace. This was the first proper kiss we had shared since his return. I wanted to touch every part of him at once. My hands roamed over his shoulders and chest.

“Time to rise, my Lord,” I mumbled into our kiss.

“Yes I suppose it is,” he sighed as he laid back. He placed one hand behind his head and let the other rest on my thigh, his long fingers almost brushing against my sex. His every movement was calculated. It was evident in the twitch at the corners of his mouth that he was enjoying teasing me.

Morpheus sighed again. He briefly closed his eyes. His hand moved slightly on my thigh. It was my turn to sigh.

I propped myself up on one arm and reached to stroke his chest, his arm, anything I could reach. This slight, intentional movement of my hips pressed his fingertips just against my lips. I shivered. He very nearly smiled at my urgency.

I moved to lean above him and began to kiss every inch of him that I could find. I kissed his neck, his chest, his nipples, under his arms, down his ribs. I gradually straddled him as I moved down his body. In doing so I pulled the sheet off of him. He had begun to grow hard at my touches. Oh how I had missed him! But I wanted to draw out my worship as long as possible. And worship I did. I slid my hands over his smooth, marble-like skin. I mumbled praise against his body, whispers of longing and adoration.

He had moved his other hand to rest under his head and lay almost perfectly still. There was a tinge of smile on his pouted lips. He was extremely satisfied. Anyone other than the two of us couldn’t possibly know the praise that was in that close, tight near-smile. It spurred me on. I had waited so long for this and I loved that I pleased him. I trailed kisses down his stomach.

“My Lord,” I said between kisses. “Mmmm… shall I leave you… mmmm… to continue resting?” My eyes shot up to meet his, my lips still on his skin. My grin was obvious.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled. He reached down, placing a hand on either side of my face, and guided me up to kiss him. I spread my legs wider to press our bodies together and he raised his hips up to meet mine. His fingers wound into my hair eliciting a moan from me. His tongue pushed past my lips and teeth. Everything about him was long: legs, tongue, fingers. Another part of him that was quite long pressed against my backside. He had grown harder as I rubbed against him. I pressed my wetness against his belly to force a moan from him.

Morpheus withdrew his hands from my hair and rose up. He lifted me off him, onto my knees. With his hands cupping my ass, he kissed my breasts and my neck.

“You waited,” he murmured. “All these years… you waited.”

“Mmmhmm,” I responded. I buried my face in his hair and wrapped my arms around his neck. I held him close to my chest. I breathed in deeply. “Yes, my Lord. The thought of this moment and memories of the many before kept me warm while you were away. I only wish I could ease your suffering, your hurt.”

He turned his face up to mine and I kissed him, deep and hard. He kissed me back. He maneuvered my hips so that he could guide me down onto his lap. His hardness pressed into me. No hesitation, no resistance, a perfect fit. I gripped and pulled at his hair as the pleasure swept over me. He guided and moved me where and how he wanted. I was attuned to the movement of each of his muscles. His skin against mine felt perfect.

With no warning he flipped us over. He let me down on my back gently but that was all that was gentle. I could tell how badly he had missed me. He never needed excess words or expressions of sentiment with me. Allowing me to touch him, to pull him into myself, to hold him, was evidence enough. As emotionless as Dream wished for others to think him he was in fact often brimming with emotion. He buried his face in my neck and breathed deeply. He pushed himself further into me. I gasped and threw my head back, clutching at his shoulders. I felt warmth and wetness on my neck. I stroked his hair. His rhythm slowed. He made no sound but I knew, I could feel the silent tears. His embrace tightened around me, crushing me into him.

I resisted the urge to shush and console him. For far too long his actions had been governed by others. I was created to be the sole entity in his existence that didn’t require anything of him. I loved it. I cherished that he could let his guard down with me, shed all pretense. His muscles flexed within the circle of my arms. His tears stopped as abruptly as they had begun, short lived and rare.

He raised his head to look at me. He cradled the back of my head in his giant hand and studied my face. His expressive, red-rimmed eyes searched my expression for judgement and finding none he kissed me.

He ran his other hand down the length of my body, down the side of my thigh, guiding my leg over his hip. I pressed my heel into the small of his back, taking him deeper. I purred and arched my back. My hard nipples brushed against his chest. With his elbow bearing his weight, one hand behind my head, the other kneading my ass, I was enveloped by love. I was safe, my Dream had returned.

“Oh Morpheus,” I moaned. I stroked his face, his jaw, his ears and neck. I drew my fingertips across his perfect bottom lip. He kissed them as they passed. He held my gaze with his dark eyes. I saw the universe flash in them. That energy, that power, loved me. His rhythm had never faltered. His strokes were small and intimate. He was savoring our time. That connection was secondary to the reunion he so deeply desired.

But the moment passed and his expression became impassive once again. His stern jaw and pursed lips drove me wild. My breathing was shallow and hot against his neck. My hands had found their way back to his shoulders. I moved my other leg to encircle him. His pace quickened. I clung to him as if even momentarily losing my hold would allow him to disappear again.

Dream felt my need.

His fingers twisted and pulled at my hair. He slid his other hand between us to my breast, kneading, and caused me to arch against him. I was breathless, the entirety of my senses were filled with Morpheus. I kissed his shoulders, his neck. I squeezed, tight, around him as he thrust into me. The blunt exhalations he made as I did this sent electricity through me.

I felt his resolve melting. His rested his head beside mine, his shallow breath hot against my ear. I thought I heard him whisper my name. I moved my hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. I tugged slightly. He groaned. His hand slid from my breast to rub circles around my clit as he pushed deep into me, synchronizing his rhythms. My grasp on his hair tightened.

He pressed his entire body against mine, nothing save his arm between us. The pressure on my clit increased. I dug my heels into his ass, demanding he go as deep as possible. I realized I had been holding my breath and as I exhaled, my face still pressed against his, I moaned his name in half a dozen languages. And came hard and wet around him.

“My Asteria,” he breathed against me. “My love, how I missed you.” So quietly a mortal may not have been able to hear him.

A shiver ran over him, beginning at his shoulders and radiating outward. He exhaled sharply and I felt his final thrust deep into me. His cum was warm and slick between us. Though I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew from experience that they wouldn’t show me the universe at this moment. They would be as black as a void. He almost purred into my neck as his body relaxed.

He slipped his arm from between us and let his full weight rest on me. I slid my legs down, still embracing my Lord. His hand in my hair loosened and rested on the bed beside us. He kissed my ear and began to raise his head.

“Please not yet, Morpheus,” I whispered. “We have spent so long apart.”

He raised his head to look at me and truly smiled.

“I will not leave you just yet,” he stroked my cheek and kissed me gently on the forehead. “I would imagine we need to do that a few more times before I do.”

Part 2

#dream of the endless #the sandman #the sandman netflix #sandman fanfiction #morpheus #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus x ofc reader #morpheus smut #fem!reader #morpheus x reader

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stalkerofthegods · 1 year ago

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Lord Morpheus/Somnina deep dive info

Lord Morpheus is active in lives, he is a kind and gentle god, always having his worshipers/devotees in his mind, he is amazing.

Herbs • Poppy, Poppy trees, poppy seeds, ivory, Dandelion seed, Chamomile, mugwort, lavender, jasmine, passionflower, basil

Animals• Bats, Nocturnal animals, Cats, Fireflies, Moths, Butterfly, Racoons, Wolves, Crows, Halcyon birds, sheep “counting sheep” (my personal thinking)

Zodiac • None, I couldn't find any evidence, perhaps Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, or Pisces because they were born in the winter.

Colors • Black, Blue, Gold, Purple, Silver, Red, some folks like associating neon colors and grey. I also think white.

Crystal• Amethyst, Herkimer Diamond, Scolecite, Hematite, Lapis Lazuli, and gemstones associated with dream magick

Symbols• Horns (he passes through a horn gate each night), Portals, gates, feathers, wings, skeleton keys, stars, night, ivory, tea, baths, sweet coffee

wear in their honor • sleep masks, PJs, slippers.

Diety of• of dreams, of sleep

Patron of• from/shape (his name translates to that, and shapeshifts in dreams.), messages to the unconscious, prophecies to the unconscious, influencing people unconsciously, hypnotizing, dreaming about the future, daydreaming, dream jobs, human shapes, hallucinations of humans, meditation, desire, hope, insomnia, opium-based medication, lucid dreaming, imagination, schizophrenia or schizophrenia-like disorders or illnesses, creativity, astral travel, encouragement, communication, divination

Element• Water, air

Offerings• Honey, honey cake, wine, fish and incense, Melatonin, Sleep-related gemstones and crystals, Skulls, Dream Catchers (ethnically obtained), Any type of stress reliever, and sleep indulgent tea, Ivory and/or Horn items, Sleep-related spells,

The imagery of his associated animals, Feathers, demon imagery(?), imagery of his animals, offerings of things like moths, butterflies, skulls, and feathers (ethically sourced), melatonin gummies, skeleton keys, Dream Pillows (herbal satchels filled with lavender to place under your pillow for better sleep)

Devotional• Track your dreams on a calendar, Keep a dream journal, Get enough sleep, Turn off your electronics 1 hour before bed (gets you in deeper sleep faster), Perform a night ritual, Learn about lucid dreaming and practice it, Write a letter to Morpheus before going to bed, Prayers related to Morpheus, Prophetic inducing herbs, Creating a playlist for him with songs that help you sleep, drink mugwort or chamomile tea before bed, set and try to stick to a night routine, write letters or jokes to him, write stories/a book, wear or dress your bed in his associated color, keep crystals for him on your bed or bedside table, have a bath or shower before bed, speak to him before you sleep, go to a sleepover to his honor, washing your bed sheets, cleaning up ur bed, try making your own melatonin, practice divination, try controlling ur dreams

Ephithets• Μορφευς, Morpheus, Shaper of Dreams, Sandman, Mildest of the Gods, Balm of the Soul, Oneiros, Kai’Ckul, Lord L’Zoril, Shaper of Forms, Lord Shaper, Prince of Stories (The Sandman, Neil Gaiman), Dream Giver, Sleep’s Guest, Lord Shaper, Father of Dreams, Lord of the Night, He Who Tells Mortals Stories, Formshaper, Shadowmaker

Equivalents (alike not the same)• Niorun (Norse), Angus (Celtic), Caer (Celtic), Bes (Egypt), Tutu (Egypt), Morpheus (Greek), Somnina (Norse).

Signs their reaching out• Sudden floating in dreams, better dreams, sleeping better, seeing him in dreams.

Vows/omans• Perhaps wedding vows.

Number• 1, 6, 7

Morals• Morally lawfully neutral follows the gods' bidding.

Courting• no one, but is seen as Iris's husband in some literature,

Past lovers/crushes• I couldn't find any, I think he is Ace? But that is not anyone's business. He is ‘said’ to date Iris because of always being togetherer

Personality• Morpheus is a very chill and comprehensive God. He’s understanding and he’s happy to help out if he can. He doesn’t ask for much when you worship him, as long as you’re making an effort he’s fine.

Home• Erebus, in the Underworld

Mortal or immortal • Immortal

Fact• Some say they were able to “heal”,

Curses• Insomnia, your dream of the ‘good future’ being wrong, your hopes and dreams crashing down, no dreams (If u like your dreams), feeling anger towards you in dreams and just in general. Your baby wakes up with a nightmare. The back/neck problems you wake up with.

Blessings• Good sleep, having good dreams, and your children going to sleep.

Roots• Ancient Greece, born probably in Tarturas

Friends• Iris, Zeus, Hermes, Hera, messengers in general.

Parentage• Pasithea and Hypnos, some say he came from Hypnos asexually, some say from Nyx asexually, I think Nyx.

Siblings• Oneiroi, Icelus, Phobetor, Phantasus

Pet• None.

Children • None

Appearance in astral or gen• often depicted with wings, he changes into whatever shape is needed at a given moment, decided as a young man in art, and has one ear with wing and one to hear with. He looks like he has short hair.

Festivals • I couldn't find any, I would say hibernation month, and just celebrate being able to sleep when animals are hibernating.

Season • winter

Day • I would say Saturday because I get the most sleep on Saturday, no school, and no worries, I couldn't find a historic one, or just make a day for him, many people do that for minor gods.

Status• Greek Minor god/personification, a part of the Oneiroi, and the leader of the Oneiroi. plays a major role in day-to-day life. He is a Cthonic deity

What angers them • Insulting them,

Music they like• I would think Sleep Music, Sleep Asmr

What they like • sleep.

What they dislike• I would say physical touch since he disappears all the sudden when he is almost being touched, I think he only touches those he ‘is okay with’ as a sign of trust or adornment because I heard a person back then say they use to get tapped by them

Planet• Moon (phase new)

Tarot cards• The Four of Swords and the Tower, message card (based on sleep and messages, each their own.)

Reminds me of• sleep, the good resting kind of sleep

In my opinion • they are pretty rad, and strangely I've been having shit sleep, ain't he just a sweetheart.

Scents/Inscene • Opium, Lavender, Jasmine, Chamomile, Sandalwood, and any other calming scents

Prayers•

Ever-shifting Morpheus, lord of the Oneiroi who bring us our dreams, true or false. Morpheus, swift-soaring courier, twilight messenger of the gods, kind one, dweller in the shadowed land of dreams, dark-winged god who shapes the visions of the night, who tells the tales that must be told, who strips us bare of secrets, who clothes hard truths in subtle raiment, child of the black night, child of the shrouded dark, in the realm of illusion you are king. Morpheus, harbinger of change, concealer of clues, you bury bits of truth among our wishes and fancies; with your aid can we see into the mist of the unknown, with your aid can we find the hidden pieces of the self. Morpheus, I praise and honor you.

With a whisper I call you, o Morpheus, lord of dreams, greatest amongst the Oneiroi. I call to you as Hypnos draws near.

Phantasos, ancient messenger who crafts wonder into form who conjures in our minds a tapestry otherworldly. Greatest molder and master of lights, many-shaped, you cross the night and take on any face or voice any hue or sound you so desire. I ask you, my lord: shield me from pain and fear in my dreams, let no anguish burden my heart as I sleep. This only I request: that within your great creations I may rest and through your hand I may find safe haven. That my words may reach you, o Morpheus whispered though they may be as Hypnos draws near.

Links/websites/sources •https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morpheus

https://www.thecollector.com/morpheus-greek-god/https://www.britannica.com/topic/Morpheus-Greek-mythology https://www.britannica.com/topic/Hypnos https://despena.gr/morpheus-the-ancient-greek-god-of-dreams/https://kreweofmorpheus.clubexpress.com/content.aspx?page_id=22&club_id=174762&module_id=305302 https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends-europe/morpheus-greek-god-dreams-who-delivered-messages-gods-mortal-world-002318#google_vignette How Ancient Egyptians Interpreted Dreams - UnEarthed Penn Dream Angus: The Celtic God of Dreams (The Myths) - Amazon.comAmazon.com Caer Ibormeith - Thoughts on PapyrusThoughts on Papyrus Who is Niorun? - Northern Tradition Paganismhttps://greekpagan.com/tag/morpheus/

HUGE HELP FROM

I use resources, I do not own the info, and most deep dives have UPG (that I use in my work.) And I only take some information from sources. I am 14, this is my hobby, I am learning but I spent many hours and days on this, and I am always open to criticism. I have been doing worship for 5 years. Please know you can use the info, I do not sue, but I will take action if this work is used without permission and not put as a resource if used in any work. without permisson and not put as a resource if used in any work, for the public.

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joyfultearsandsweetmemories · 1 year ago

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ADDING MORE

Wearing punk clothing in the name of ares

Watching documentaries in the name of Athena

Doing sport competitions in the name of hermes

Dancing like no one is watching in public to the name of Aphrodite

Sitting in front of the heater in the name of hestia

Napping in the car in the names of hermes and Morpheus

Daydreaming in the name of Morpheus

Embracing my youth in the name of aengus

Walking your friends home as a devotional act to Hermes

Walking with a friend to their lectures as a devotional act to Hermes

Going somewhere for no reason other than to accompany them on their travels as a devotional act to Hermes

#helpol #hestia devotee #athena devotee #hermes devotee #aphrodite devotee #hellenic deities #hellenism #Morpheus #celtic paganism #Aengus #Ares #ares deity

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sleepnowmychild · 1 year ago

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MORE!! MORE!!! MEME WORSHIP!!!!

#hypnos deity #hypnos devotee #hypnos god #hypnos worship #hellenic deities #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #hellenic worship #hellenism #greek mythology #cthonic gods #Morpheus deity #thanatos deity #greek myth memes #hellenic polythiest #helpol #helpol memes #hellenic memes

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joyfultearsandsweetmemories · 1 year ago

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moght get some electric candles

I'm literally gotta gets some so I can put them on my altars

Morpheus and ares don't have a alter right now because I don't have enough space tbh so I will get them a candle so I can put on my desk. As an offering :3

Probably will merge ares with aphrodite because its right to do!!!

#hellenic deities #hellenism #hermes devotee #hestia devotee #athena devotee #deity work #deity worship #helpol #ares deity #ares god of war #morpheus deity #aphrodite devotee #beginner pagan #hellenic pagan

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joyfultearsandsweetmemories · 11 months ago

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Cough cough *looks at Hermes and Morpheus*

THERES TIMES I FALL ASLEEP WHEN I DID EVEN FEEL TIRED

Oh and this morning woke up early so I played the playlist for hermes and I shit you not please please please let me get what I want by the smiths started playing 😭

Morpheus playlist sends me stra to sleep at times it's funny shit

this happened to me and to another person I talked to before so if anyone relates

Are your deities like, REALLY PUSHY with having good sleep?

Like, every time I have to go to sleep Lucifer appears even when we haven't talked in all day and just says "hey kid you need to go to sleep now" and if not Aphrodite and Ares show up like the cops

like is something gonna happen past midnight? am I gonna get killed? I know I need a good sleep schedule but damn at this point they're gonna get Hypnos to knock me out every night

"have a good night sleep" and I get punched in the face by Hypnos with gold knuckles with "melatonin" written on them

(not trying to be disrespectful, just an itty bitty joke for my hypnos worshippers 🫶🏻)

#deity worship #hermes devotee #morpheus deity #hellenism #hellenic polytheism #hellenic deities

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year ago

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Persephone's Devotee Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrd winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

More to be added

#morpheus x reader #fic: hello mr. monster #fic: persephone's devotee #morpheus x oc #dream of the endless x reader

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preciouslandmermaid · 9 months ago

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quiet fury in your head [xi]

Dream of the Endless x AFAB!Reader!Goddess / Sandman Fanfiction

Note: This one took me so long to write and i don't love it LMAO but next chapter is gonna be like pure smut-no-plot so...that'll be fun. The fic only has TWO MORE CHAPTERS until it's complete that's crazy lmao tagging @sapphireonline cuz they asked so nicely to be tagged :). Also, my fics on ao3 are for registered users only due to AI scraping.

No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: none

Rating: 18+

(Read on AO3) || (masterpost for other chapters)

While standing on the shining, white salt flats, The Gates of Horn and Ivory open for you and the Dreaming cautiously welcomes you.

It’s emptier than you recalled (or perhaps the Dreaming creatures are hiding from you). You allow yourself the pleasure of viewing the Dreaming for the first time without anxiety and without fear. You glide your fingertips across a cobblestone bridge, and the clear, inviting bubbling brook beneath reflects an uneasy, shifting portrait of heartbreak and exhaustion. It takes a moment to realize the reflection is your own. You push away from the bridge, dusting residue from your palms, and trek deeper into the Dreaming.

A swarm of blue, shimmering butterflies fly past – their wings glow beneath rays of sunlight and faint glimmers of light trail in their wake. You lift your hands in greeting, hopeful that one might land upon your palm, but they merely dance through your fingertips with glittery wings before vanishing into the air. These creations radiated with such gentleness and care.

Morpheus’ absence is a thorn beneath your nail. You wrestle your difficult emotions into subservient silence. Your desire for him will achieve nothing and accomplish nothing. The prideful King has made his choice. He chose a glass orb prison in an amateur’s basement rather than to be with you and fulfill a centuries-old promise to reunite.

The landscape deepens to rich burgundy, dusky tan, and blooms beneath effervescent golden sunlight. The dry, warm air fills your nostrils and lungs. You stand on a plateau of flat, crimson rock. The sun remains in a perpetual state of dusk, painting the sky periwinkle, and pink, and streaking claws of orange. You crouch and lift fine, rusted sand and gravel into your palm. You hold it for a moment, sensing its warmth, feeling the essence of Dream’s magic before releasing it, and watching it swirl and twist on the wind.

A creature approaches you, timidly, and is burdened by a shell on its back—its face is weathered and gray. The skin around its neck is saggy and loose. A lantern swings on the tall, oak-sculpted stick it carries. It stands a few feet shorter than you, squat and bipedal, and watches you with beady and cautious eyes.

It bows its bald, speckled head. “I remember you,” it says in low, resonate timbre. “The Dreaming whispers your name, Lady Morrigan.” It speaks slowly with small ‘hmms’ between each word.

You think of the Corinthian. Do all the creatures assume you abandoned them? Is this creature yours? Did you create him? You hold no memories of creating anything inside the Dreaming. You only manipulated what already existed. Yet, you cannot ignore the fact that you may have forgotten something. Anything is possible in the life of a reborn God.

“Do they know I died?” You ask, “that I was unmade in the minds of Men? That I was forgotten? Erased?” You can’t help but spit that final word with contemptuous venom. The graciousness of forgiveness is a difficult lesson to learn.

The lantern swings when it starts to walk again. “The minds of Men may have forgotten. We did not.”

“Do you expect my gratitude?” you ask dryly.

Are you supposed to give this tortoise-creature a boon? That is what your devotees of old wanted. They had chanted, and sacrificed, and called you into their battlefields or into their beds. They begged for your blessing on all fours and you were fickle; You would kiss the brows of beloved warriors, or bite their hearts with a freezing, cold grip.

But you are no longer Nemain of the Sisters Three. You are simply The Morrigan, Queen of Nightmares, a forgotten monarch in the realm of Dreams. Your purpose slowly manifests before you. You promised Dream that you would return. If only he wasn’t so unreasonably stubborn, then he would’ve been next to you, with Roderick’s bones ground to dust beneath your heel. You desire for vengeance seizes like a vice around your throat. Roderick ought to be dead. The roots of his family tree torn asunder and fed to his funeral pyre.

The creature finally deigned to respond, “I expect nothing, my lady.”

Its black tongue licks its’ wrinkled, dry beak. You sense its’ desire to leave. The Dreaming flutters with this knowledge and cajoles you into trying to get it to stay. You fold your arms across your chest. It moves at a glacial pace, its’ lantern swinging, its’ clawed feet kicking up small plumes of reddish dust.

You say, “It will take you decades to reach where you’re going.”

“It is not about where I will be,” It says, “it is about the going.”

You shrug and allow the creature be.

You cannot effect anything within the Dreaming. Those powers remain locked inside a small ring that Dream used to wear on his pinkie finger. Aimless, you walk through the Dreaming, and you talk to Her inhabitants and in the words of a strange tortoise—you focus on ‘the going’, rather than the destination.

The castle doors groan when they open. From the outside, it seems as if nothing had changed, but the interior plumes with dusty motes and freckles of ancient, unraveling magic. Your fingertips trail against the dusty banister as you move through the arched hallways with new eyes and a wounded heart.

You don’t know this castle well. You never traversed it when you were confined to the Dreaming. Except for one place, of course. A place where an old friend might be found.

The scent of paper and leather fills your nostrils and Lucienne steps from the aisle of books as if she was expecting you.

“Lady,” she bows her head as she says it.

“Lucienne.” Her name is a feathery sigh from your throat. The sudden warmth that spreads through your chest is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Lucienne’s face hasn’t changed. Her inquisitive eyes peer at you from behind her rounded spectacles. Her full cheeks round when she smiles.

“I cannot express how good it is to see you,” she says, a book clutched to her chest. “The shelves knew of your return before I did.” She looks up, her expression icing into fraught sadness streaked with regret. The spine of a book trembles, like a frightened creature, before drops from the shelve and falls open to reveal its blank pages. Are all the stories gone?

“They are not all empty,” Lucienne says, as if reading your mind, and offers the book she’s holding to you. You read the etched, golden title. The Adventures Of...it reads before fading away onto the stiff leather. You flip through and discover an irregular layout of full chapters combined with blank sheets.

You ask, “What else remains?”

“Your room,” she says, returning the book to her hands and wearing it like a shield before her heart. “I did not go within, of course,” she adds quickly, “but I know it’s there.”

You knew it too. You lick your lips and silently leave the room without farewell. Lucienne doesn’t call after you, nor does she ask the questions you can see written across her face. There will be a time for questions later. Right now, you need to explore and confirm this reality – this land of broken Dreaming. A palace without a monarch. A graveyard without a keeper. A home without a hearth. The doorknob turns beneath your palm, welcoming you, as so many small pieces of the Dreaming tend to do.

A room you never slept in—except for when you were poisoned. A closet with clothes you never wore—except for your single black cloak. You step into the closet and quietly admire the craftsmanship of Dream’s meticulous touch. Your fingertips glide through gauzy starlight, twinkling in your palm. You lift your nose to floral fabrics and your stomach swoops at the scent of full spring dancing through your nostrils—lush, bright meadows, humming bumblebees, and the tickle of pollen at the back of your throat. The burning cold of frost, the viscous-ember of magma, the angry swell of a blue-gray sea; all of it is contained within your wardrobe.

Your jaw clenches. How can someone capable of such careful beauty be so stubborn and illogical? Why can’t he see that his realm need him? That his selfishness is causing harm? You clench your hand around fabric that is storm-cloud and heat-lightning.

A name drops into your mind. A name you had accidentally forgotten. You sweep yourself into the dress in swirls of gray-and-white color before you vanish from the Dreaming in a thunderclap.

Your toes sink into the damp, cold sand and the rainwater prickles onto your skin. The air hums with the brewing storm. Something in your veins – something powerful – ricochets down your spine.

“Dima!” you shout into the roiling, dark clouds above the ocean. “Morrigan, Goddess of Nightmares, calls upon you.”

The lightning flashes and strikes, erupting a piece of earth beside you, and sending hardened diamonds into the air as the budding rain commits to a roaring deluge. Dima is crouched in a three-point landing, her head bowed, kneeling and reverent at your feet. Your heart burns with joy.

“Rise,” you say while opening your palm to her. “I would meet your eyes as a friend.”

Her hand slides into yours and you meet her white-eyes with a smile aching your cheeks.

“You changed your name,” she says. You cannot tell if the water down her face is from the rain or her tears. In the end, it does not matter. You are happy to see her. She came when you called. She remembered you. That is all that matters.

“You remember me.”

“I am not as fickle as mortals.” Dima sniffs. “The sky, the stones, the water, and trees…” She gestures with both arms to the world. “We don’t forget.”

You say, “Neither do Endless.” It wasn’t only Dream’s devotion that re-made you and brought you back into the world as a Goddess. Dima, too, played her part in your revival. An Endless and the personification of Storms believe in a Goddess. What an odd following you have claimed. Dima looks away when you mention Morpheus.

“He lifted your banishment,” you whisper, and your words are clear despite the storm. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Dima folds her fist over her heart. “I could not go back without you.”

“Then come back with me now.” You offer her your hand once more.

Her smile is bright. “Is this a choice or an order, my Lady?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head at the gall – the bravery – of her. You are the Queen of Nightmares and yet Dima does not flinch. Perhaps that’s because she knew you before your death. You don’t frighten her and you don’t want to. She was your first friend, after all.

“A choice, Dima.”

The rainfall starts to lessen. “Then I choose to accept.”

50 years later…

(1972)

This is your third time visiting Fawney Rig. The second had been a rushed visit after you felt Jessamy’s death. It had been like an arrow through your lungs. You brought yourself to the cellar and demanded Morpheus allow revenge—if not for him then for Jessamy.

You were bound to Corinthian’s promise to not harm Roderick. But, you could harm others. You could make them all suffer for their foolishness. You could make Roderick miserable. But, you wouldn’t do it without Morpheus’ blessing. He needed to balance the scales. He needed to owe you his life, or something close to it, so that you could truly be equals.

Yet, Morpheus did not speak to you.

That had been about fifty years ago—give or take. It was time to see if the Dream Lord’s stubbornness had finally eroded. The snowfall is light, though thick piles rest on the pine like bruises. You choose to feel the cold. You let it push through the weaves of your wool coat and prickle against your cheeks and nose.

You reach for the doorknob and your fingers freeze in mid-air, straining against an invisible force, before omniscience wraps itself around you. They’ve warded Fawney Rig from me, you think with a furrowed brow. It was Corinthian, of this you have no doubt.

“Cowardly little nightmare,” you mutter to yourself, though you are a little impressed. It’s been decades since you’ve seen Dream, yet Corinthian is afraid of you, and worried that you’ll find a way around the promise that was made. “Smart,” you concede, blinking snowflakes from your eyelashes, “but cowardly.”

You reach out to Dream through the ambiguous, void-space of one mind talking to another.

“I do not expect a reply, Lord of Dreams, but I’d like you to know that they’ve warded the mansion against me.” You pause walking the perimeter. “So, even if you wished for my help, I could not give it.”

The magic surrounding Fawney Rig is well-crafted, tailored, and not even your various shape-shifted forms can penetrate it. You circle towards the entrance.

“It’s snowing. The moon is full.” You don’t know if Dream can hear you, but it feels nice to try. He rejects all of your ritual daggers, but perhaps he will take this instead – insignificant details of the world that he loves from the Goddess he revived.

“I’ve always had a fondness for nights like these. The world is gray and white. The moon is like a silver coin in the sky.”

You crumple powdery snow between your fingers. “You know, the mountains were my favorite place in the Dreaming. They still are, if we’re being forthcoming about it. I’ve yet to visit them again. They remind me of...solitude and serenity, the clarity that comes from being a distance.”

You pull a novel from the inner lining of your coat. There are hours before the next shift change and you want to see if the guards perform any rituals during the transition. You are curious to discover if you can break these bonds.

The hours whittle away as you speak to Dream, mind-to-mind.

“I heard about Roderick’s death. It could’ve been crueler. Should have been.”

“I would’ve driven him mad, if it had been me. I would have plagued him with visions of his dead son until he freed you with broken, bloody hands.”

“I ran into your sibling, Desire. About…” You count the years in your head. “Thirteen years ago? I asked if they knew I’d die if I returned to the Heart Tree and they said they had their suspicions.” You scoff. “Which I believe means yes. You likely know them better than I, so draw your own conclusions.” You idly wave your hand as if brushing the story aside.

You disliked being set up as a pawn in an emotional chess game between ancient, cosmic entities. You had told Desire as much and were seething when you turned your heel and said, “Leave me out of it next time.”

You aren’t a pawn, anymore. You look after the Dreaming. You look after mortals—especially young, scared children, like that little girl with the dog—regardless of whether or not they provide offerings or prayers. You don’t like to get involved in their messy, dramatic, and short mortal lives, but you like to watch them. You like to see how the threads of fate unravel and twist unexpectedly.

In time, you know that ‘The Morrigan’ will eventually reach the collective consciousness, but you just don’t yet know what new stories they will tell.

“I’ll return when I can.” You rise to your feet from where you had been sitting in the snow.

“Why?” His voice scrapes through your mind like gravel. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the manor’s brick wall. The cold air bites through your lungs. You want to live inside the roughed caress of his voice. A sweeter sound never made, you think, as you try to calm your heart.

Your heart hums. “Nobody else listens half as well as you do.” You touch your forehead against the wall and the Ward stings your skin.

“Until next we meet, Morpheus.” The promise lingers in the air among the snowflakes.

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