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maddiemira · 1 year

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So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

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maddiemira · 1 year

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where you go (i will go) — part xii

Summary: When new events transpire in both your unconscious and the Waking World, you’re forced to confront that which you’ve been running from.

Words: 7.1k+

AN: I can honestly say this was my favorite part to write yet. I hope that feeling translates to all of you. Enjoy. x . . .

“Meet me where the lines blur together, it’s 4 AM and I can’t sleep…

I’m love sick, love sober; you left the light on when I had a broken heart.

I was free in the fall, now I’m lost in the moment;

I can breathe through the night even when it is hopeless;

You make me feel homesick."

Homesick, Dayseeker

. . . The honey-gold sand of the beach feels soft and fine between your toes. As a new wave of tide pulls toward you, you stretch your sun-kissed feet toward it, eager to dip them in the clear blue water.

Though your thick copy of Le Morte d’Arthur lays open in your hands, your attention is directed elsewhere. Mere feet away, Fake Dream sits on the beach, one long leg extended in front of him, the other drawn close to his chest. It provides the perfect perch for his arm and the well-worn copy of Eugene Onegin he holds in one hand. His sharp chin is dipped in concentration, his pink lips pursed as if to read the words aloud. His ocean eyes devote each word rapt attention, lingering thoughtfully on some pages before pulling slowly to others.

With each page his nimble fingers turn, a fuzzy warmth settles in your chest, swaddling your heart like cashmere. You suspect you could sit here like this forever. Given that none of this is real, you suppose you could.

As your eyes pull from his studious face, you can’t help but smile at the way his black cloak spills around him, rippling over the sand. A tiny sand crab scuttles over it, stopping to tug at his hem with one minuscule claw. You laugh through your nose at the sight, trying to be quiet, but the sound does not escape Fake Dream. His eyes are upon you instantly, wide and alert. “You are judging me,” he says, brow quirked and voice underlaid with mirth.

You shake your head at him, biting back your grin. “No, no, I’m not. It’s just nice to see you reading something other than a record of dreams, that’s all.” Your eyes settle on the slight curl at the corners of Eugene Onegin’s cover, the faded color of its well-worn paperback spine. “You know, if anyone had asked me before today, I definitely would have pegged you as an old Russian literature kind of guy. I know they say not to judge a book by its cover, but yours is pretty worn. I assume this isn’t your first time reading it?”

Dream cocks his head slightly, considering your words. “I appreciate literature from all cultures, though this piece is one I often come back to.” He pauses, blue eyes studying you thoughtfully. “Have you read it?”

“I haven’t.” You look down at the hefty copy of Le Morte d’Arthur in your hands, the cover faded slightly from the ghost of your own past readings. “Have you read mine?” you ask.

“I have.”

You roll your eyes at him with a chuckle. Of course he has. He probably planted the idea in Sir Thomas Malory’s mind himself. “What makes you keep coming back to that one?” you inquire, curious.

Fake Dream pauses, lowering his pale gaze to the novel in his hands. His thumb traces the edge of one page slowly, almost caringly. Reverent. A shiver trails down your spine in spite of the warm sun above. “I suppose I have never fully grasped the theme at the heart of it, though I suspect I am starting to.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Regardless of how many times I read it, there is always more to learn.”

Your fingertips press into the hardback in your hands a little tighter. “Yes, yes there is.” . . . The crisp chill of winter nips at your cheeks affectionately as you emerge from Cliff’s coffee shop. The coffee in your hand is warm against your skin, the heat of the liquid seeping easily through the thin paper to-go cup. It reminds you of the searing of Desire’s thread against your palm, a memory that burns bright and fresh in your brain.

The thread of desire you’d encountered in the diner by the sea had only been the beginning. In the couple of weeks since you’d attempted to break it, you’d spent a portion of each morning finding another thread of Desire’s to attempt to destroy. It was painful work, a pursuit that demanded patience and persistence. Though you’d been unsuccessful in breaking one so far, you’d noticed a shift in the power within you. With each attempt, you found yourself capable of holding on to the threads for longer and longer.

Unfortunately, as your power seemed to intensify, so too did the bond’s resistance to you. The last thread you’d tried to break had resulted in a lash of pain through your abdomen so jarring that you’d dropped to your knees. A couple hours-worth of rest in bed were required before you’d been able to travel to the Dreaming that day. Convincing yourself that injury was a figment of your imagination had been harder than the rest.

As you weave through the weekday morning throng, making your way back to your townhome, a familiar head of blonde hair approaches you through the crowd. Speak of the devil. Your heartbeat quickens as Desire of the Endless falls into step beside you effortlessly. Besides for Death, you imagine that Desire spends the greatest amount of time walking amongst mortals. Their experience allows them to blend into the crowd seamlessly. Only you are aware of the predator that lurks in their midst.

Purposefully avoiding Desire’s golden gaze, you rack your brain for reasons why the Endless would approach you today. A jolt of fear spikes through you at the thought that they might know about your attempts to destroy their handiwork. Determined to hold your ground, you focus on the memory of the pain in your hand. Harnessing your anger, crowding out the fear. “Hello, Desire,” you say, your voice firm and monotone.

“Ah, she speaks. I was wondering when you’d stop giving me the cold shoulder.”

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup at Desire’s exaggerated, saccharine tone. When they lean forward, trying to capture your attention, you keep your eyes trained forward. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since I was last in your insufferable presence. My apologies if I don’t have much to say.”

“Ooo, touchy, touchy,” Desire sings, their voice pitching with glee. “I must say, I like this new ‘bad bitch’ look on you, darling. Tail-tucked, woe-is-me Love was growing so boring.”

You grind your teeth as anger and embarrassment flare through you in equal measure. The familiar green door of your townhome is within sight now. Your feet move quickly beneath you. “What do you want, Desire?”

“Oh, you know, darling. Just wanted to check in on my dear old friend.” Sensing your haste, Desire quickens their pace, spinning flamboyantly to walk backwards in front of you. When your stride falters, a wide grin splits their face, all sharp teeth and sweet malice. “I sense a shift in you, little goddess. Perhaps there is something I can help you with. Something you desire?”

Their words send every muscle in your body tensing, instantly on edge. Could they know about the thread between you and Dream? Surely not. Desire had no reason to assume such a thing might be possible and no cause for investigating it. Even you still didn’t know whether the philia attachment between yourself and the Dream Lord was platonic or romantic. The thought of checking was a constant presence in the back of your mind, a curiosity that made you equally excited and nauseous. You’d refused to indulge it thus far.

A master of deception, determining whether Desire was lying or not was nearly impossible. Biting the inside or your cheek, you quicken your pace and slip around them. “Perhaps you should take a page from your brother’s book and cease meddling in the affairs of other deities,” you retort, calling their bluff.

Desire slips into step beside you once again, their eyes wide pools of molten gold. Your townhome door draws closer by the second. Just a little farther. You’re almost there. “Ah, yes, Dream. You two have been spending a lot of time together lately, have you not?” Desire presses toward you, demanding your attention. “How’s that going for you?”

You fish into your pocket for your keys with haste, taking the final steps to your front door in a rush. “Goodbye, Desire,” you call with feigned nonchalance. Heart in your throat, you unlock the door and slip through the crack, slamming it in the Endless’s face before they have the chance to protest.

The silence that greets you on the other side of the door feels heaven-sent. You draw in a deep breath, allowing the stillness of the air to fill your lungs, holding it there. Hoping to clear Desire’s words from your frantic mind.

Perhaps there is something I can help you with. Something you desire?

You give a rough shake of your head, as if doing so might dispel the thought once and for all. As you step into the living room, a flash of red from the kitchen catches your attention. The voicemail light on your landline blinks quickly, indicating a new message awaits you.

Your eyebrows furrow as you walk to the kitchen. The landline was more of a formality than anything. It wasn’t as if you gave the number out to many people, mostly just mortal companies that promised you ten-percent-off coupons if you registered with a phone number. You rarely got calls that weren’t spam. You certainly never got messages.

As you lift the phone from its holder and navigate to the voicemail section, your eyes settle on a familiar-looking number. Deja vu washes over you as you stare at it. Some distant part of your brain recognizes the number as significant, yet you can’t remember where you’ve seen it before.

It’s not until you click ‘play’ and hear a familiar female voice that realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Your heart drops to your stomach like a stone. . . . Today, there are no mix-ups, no accidental appearing in one part of the Dreaming when you meant to travel to another. When the Dream Lord’s sand pours from your hand, it’s as if it reads your very heart, as if it knows exactly where to go. It carries you to the throne room in a flurry of pale grains, depositing you mere yards away from Dream himself. He stands at the foot of the throne room staircase, speaking quietly with Abel of the House of Secrets.

A soft sniffle escapes you as your sneakers pad across the throne room floor, carrying you toward them. In your arms, Theo nuzzles his nose against the underside of your chin, licking a stray tear from your skin.

“Dream.” The call comes out more like a croak, your throat tight with emotion. When the Dream Lord’s star-lit gaze snaps to you, his pale eyes wide and expression taken aback, you feel you can’t breathe for an entirely different reason. You stop in your tracks instantly, holding Theo close to your chest. “Come with me. Please.” . . . Small flecks of snow drift from the gray sky above, clinging delicately to your hair and cheeks. You draw Theo’s warm body into the folds of your winter coat, seeking to shield him from the cold. His favorite toy, a stuffing-less fox, is gripped tightly in your free hand. A lifeline.

As your eyes settle on the familiar sign of the animal shelter in front of you, a dizzying concoction of anxiety, sorrow, and excitement rolls through you. You swallow thickly, fighting back the nausea that comes along with it. “Thank you for coming with me,” your voice comes out as a whisper.

Beside you, Dream of the Endless stands with his hands in his coat pockets, still as the winter air. When he inclines his head toward you, there are snowflakes nesting in his wild hair, clinging to his dark eyelashes. When you draw in another breath, it comes a little easier than the last. “You need not thank me,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft.

“I want to.” Your eyes fall to where you hold Theo with one arm, pressed against your chest like a toddler. He gazes up at you with childlike wonder, all rose-colored glasses and curiosity. You press a warm kiss to the tip of his cold, leathery nose, a feeling you’d recognize anywhere. As another wave of nausea rolls through you, you bury your swollen eyes in his fur. “I don’t know, Dream. I don’t know if I can do this.”

For a moment, all is still. And then, the soft jingle of a bell pierces the air. When you lift your face from Theo’s neck, the Dream Lord stands at the shelter’s entrance, holding the door open with one pale hand. Though he speaks no words, his blue eyes hold yours steadily. Staring at him, a small voice whispers from the back of your mind, Yes, you can.

Warmth floods your cheeks as you step over the threshold and into the familiar lobby of the shelter. The dark-skinned woman working the front desk is instantly recognizable to you–she was the one who helped you fill out your paperwork the day you chose to foster Theo. No amount of time could ever erase the memory of his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time, of the warmth that had flooded your heart when his furry head slipped into your palm. It had fit like a glove, and still did. In spite of the fact that his leash is looped over your shoulder, you hold tightly to him, eager to keep him in your arms as long as you can.

As you and Dream approach the front desk, the receptionist raises her head, appraising Dream’s lithe, dark form with curious eyes. You wonder if she can sense an otherworldliness about him, some aura that you have grown accustomed to. You draw a step closer to him instinctively.

“Hello,” you greet the woman quietly. At the appearance of this new friend, Theo begins to wag his tail. You adjust your hold to keep him comfortable. “I’m here with Theo. I got a call that he’s ready to be adopted?”

The dark-skinned woman’s eyes pull from Dream to you, lighting up at your words. “Ah, yes! Love. It’s great to see you again. It looks as if sweet Theo has been very well cared for.” She rises from her chair with a smile. “The family is in the back getting his records and starter kit now. I’ll go grab them.”

Your throat spasms, wanting to protest. You bite back the urge as she slips through a door behind her desk. For a moment, you’re ashamed at your selfish heart, ashamed of the fact that you are so hesitant to let him go. When you had returned the voicemail, the worker at the shelter had told you about Theo’s new family. A husband and wife with two young boys and another dog similar in age to Theo. The wife even worked from home. He would have multiple playmates and receive endless love and attention. More than you could ever offer him, especially now that you spent time in both your Realm and the Dreaming. It was a perfect match.

And yet, as you tilt your chin to gaze down at your beloved friend, your heart still aches. Would they accept his mouth kisses with glee like you have? Would they trace that precious dip between his eyes, stroke loving fingers over his furry cheeks like you have? Would they kiss his paws every morning, hold him close until he falls asleep at night, give him their whole heart, just like you have? You could only hope and pray.

Pressing your nose into his fur once again, you inhale his familiar scent deeply–the perfect concoction of puppy musk and freshly laundered cotton. You can still remember the first time you’d found him burrowed into your bed sheets, not even a week after you’d first brought him home. Closing your eyes, you commit the scent to memory. Though you feel Dream’s eyes on you, you sense no judgment from him. You’re grateful he’s here, his familiar presence comforting.

When the door to the back of the shelter opens, your head lifts immediately. You’re greeted by two dark-haired young boys and a middle-aged woman whom they are a clear spitting image of. The boys come toward you in a rush, their grins wide and eager, proudly displaying several missing teeth. You wonder if they’re still young enough to believe in the tooth fairy.

When one of the boys reaches out to pet Theo’s head, you crouch down to his level. As his small hand finds the sweet spot behind Theo’s ear, Theo’s tail begins to swish against the front of your coat. Your heart swells with delight and breaks into a million pieces all at once.

“Mom, he’s perfect,” the little boy petting Theo’s head says. His smile is as radiant as the sun, warming the whole room. “Milo’s gonna get along so great with him.”

You smile at him kindly, then shift your gaze to the young boy who has yet to pet Theo. With a reluctant heart, you take a crouched step closer to him, asking, “Would you like to hold him?”

Wide-eyed and grinning, the child nods eagerly. You instruct him on how to hold Theo just so, looping your furry friend’s front paws around the boy’s neck, showing him how to slip one arm under Theo’s tail. When Theo gazes adoringly at the child, placing a tentative, exploratory lick to the underside of his chin, a wave of relief and bittersweetness washes through you.

When you rise to your feet, your eyes turn to the mother. Her emerald eyes regard you kindly. “Thank you for caring for this sweet pup all this time. I’m sure today isn’t easy,” she says, offering you a warm smile.

Something about her words, the thoughtful empathy that underlays them, forms a pit at the base of your throat. A familiar prickling begins to surface behind your eyes. You blink quickly, trying to clear it away. “He loves Cheez-Its.” The words escape you in a rush, impassioned. “And licking the cream cheese from your fingers when you make your morning bagel. He loves to eat dead leaves, but don’t let him eat too many, because he has a really sensitive stomach. If he throws up on your carpet, and he definitely will, a little all-purpose cleaner and Shout will clean it right up. He makes this adorable squeaking sound when he yawns, like an old door hinge, and he loves morning cuddles. He’ll let you hold him just like a baby.” You swallow thickly, fighting to keep your mouth from contorting, to keep the tears from falling. “He’ll be your best friend.”

The woman’s smile turns wistful as she studies you, soaking in your words. When she takes her children into her arms, the four of them look like a picture-perfect family. Your saddened heart lifts at the sight. “I promise you we will take the very best care of him. He won’t want for anything,” she assures you.

You nod once, stiffly. When your gaze falls to Theo, you find him already looking up at you, doe-eyes wide and gleaming. You drop to your knees in front of him. The child holding him turns slightly, affording you a better look at his sweet, furry face.

“Well, I guess this is it, little love,” you whisper, your voice warbled and tight. Leaning forward, you press a trembling kiss to the tip of his leathery nose. Theo quickly returns the gesture, licking you full on the lips. You couldn’t hold back the peal of laughter that springs from you if you tried. “I love you so much, buddy. Please don’t forget me. I promise I won’t forget you.” You give him a final loving scratch behind his ears, then bury your mouth against his cheek, whispering, “I’ll see you again. I promise.”

When you walk out of the shelter’s doors minutes later, the cold that pricks at your face is a welcome feeling. It nips at your tear-rimmed eyes, soothing them, calming you. Your thoughts are already on the future, on your intention to travel to the Realm of Attachment later today. You’ll pluck the threads of storge between Theo and his new family until they light their entire home.

The Dream Lord follows behind you like a shadow. He hasn’t said a word since you first arrived at the shelter. When you pause on the sidewalk outside, he stops beside you. Finally, he breaks his silence, his low voice gently inquiring, “If you care for him so deeply, why not keep him? Why did you choose to let him go?”

The corners of your lips lift ever so slightly at his question. It was one you’d asked yourself countless times in the months you’d fostered Theo, knowing full well that this day would one day come. Hell, you’d even pondered it earlier when you’d received that voicemail. Should I adopt him myself, or should I let him go? In the end, the answer, bittersweet as it was, had come quickly to you. “As much as I love Theo, I couldn’t give him all he deserved. I’ve been away a lot, especially in these last few months. This family…they’ll be able to give him more than I can. The utmost happiness is all I want for him. I want it more than I want happiness for myself.”

When you turn your head, you find Dream watching you quietly, eyes bright and keen. Despite the weight his gaze carries, you force yourself to hold it, to give him a small, wistful smile. “Sometimes, if you love something, Dream, the best thing you can do is let it go.” . . . As you slip into the soft embrace of unconsciousness, the familiar whisper of waves is not the only sensation that greets you. A gentle, repetitive pressure coaxes you into alertness, a bizarre sensation that feels like soft, wet sandpaper. Familiar. You know this feeling…

In an instant, your eyes snap open. “Theo?”

Theo’s furry face is bent over where you lie in the sand, all sloppy, wet tongue and dark, gleaming eyes. You sit up with a start, eagerly taking him in your arms, running your hands over his warm, squirmy body. You know this can’t be real. You gave him to his new family just earlier today. And you’re sitting on that honey-gold beach by the Tiffany blue sea, which tells you you’re steeped deep in your unconsciousness.

And yet, Theo’s form feels so real beneath your hands. His ears are as floppy as ever, his curls as soft as silk under your palms. Once again, your unconscious ability to commit physical characteristics to memory has astounded you.

But there’s one familiar figure you haven’t seen yet. As Theo buries himself in your arms, eagerly lapping at your chin, your eyes sweep across the beach. And there he is, standing only a few feet away. The radiant sun frames Fake Dream’s tall, slender form in white gold. As you stare at him, something seems off to you. It takes a moment to register the difference, but when you do, the realization steals the breath straight from your lungs. Because Fake Dream’s lips are not downturned in a scowl, or flattened in indifference. No, one corner of those rosebud lips is ever so slightly upturned into the faintest ghost of a smile.

It’s a gesture that carries significance, a deviation from his normal stoicism that you’ve only seen directed toward Hob, Matthew, or Lucienne. That gesture, so sparingly given, has never been directed at you before. Heart caught in the base of your throat, the realization that you would do anything to hold it there, to see it again and again, hits you like a ton of bricks. To see it in real life. Because that’s how you know this is fake. Real Dream has never offered you such a display.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter that any of this is fake. All that matters is Theo’s kisses on your face, his furry body in your arms, and Fake Dream’s quirked lips. All that matters is that it feels real, even if it’s not.

Once, you had dreaded slipping into unconsciousness at night. Now, you feel yourself hesitating to leave it with the dawn. . . . When you step out of the vortex of sand and into the open grove of Fiddler’s Green, the lush flora and fauna seem to reach to greet you. Blades of grass sprout beneath your feet with each step, framing your sneakers in brilliant green. Dandelions crane their necks to graze your ankles, while golden Russell lupine incline to brush against your knuckles.

You caress them in kind, a soft smile gracing your lips. I missed you, too, you think fondly, bending to enjoy the sweet scent emanating from the delicate petals. And it was true. Ever since Theo had gone to his new family a few days prior, you’d been spending more and more of your hours in the Dreaming. The silence of your townhome felt too quiet, the stillness too empty. While you’d been slipping away to perform your duties and snag a few hours of rest, even a short period away from Dream Country left you eager to return as of late.

That familiar pull takes up in your chest as you walk through the grove, coaxing you toward the palace, toward the Dream Lord. With a smile, you pull the pouch of Dream’s sand from your pocket. A fresh handful spirits you from the open fields of Fiddler’s Green to the familiar warmth and clutter of the Library of Dreams. You spot Lucienne immediately, her regal, coat-tailed silhouette pacing in front of the colossal doors to the throne room.

“Lucienne!” you call as you approach her. She swivels instantly at your exclamation, pausing in her incessant pacing to look at you. You immediately catch the furrow in her brow, the tight clasp of her hands behind her back. Your lips mirror her frown as you come to a slow stop before her. “Is something wrong?”

Lucienne’s full lips part and close several times, as if seeking the right words to say. Her hesitation makes your heart stutter in your chest. Finally, she bows her head apologetically at you. “Forgive me, Miss Love, for my frazzled state. All is well in the Dreaming. It is just that Lord Morpheus has welcomed a rather…unexpected guest to the palace today.”

Your eyebrows shoot up at her words, your interest thoroughly piqued. What kind of guest would leave Lucienne frazzled? “A guest? Who?”

Lucienne lowers her gaze to the floor. You get the impression that she’s mulling over whether to divulge the identity of this mysterious guest. Perhaps it’s someone Dream wishes to keep a secret. Just as you’re about to reassure her that she doesn’t have to tell you, she lifts her gaze to yours. “It is Lord Morpheus’s former spouse. The Muse, Calliope.”

There is a distinctly bottomless sensation as the floor of the library is ripped out from underneath you, sending you plummeting down, down, down.

Oh.

“Oh.” The word is out of your mouth without contemplation. It hangs in the air between you, awkward and plain, making the heavy silence heavier. Clearing your throat, you scramble for some kind of coherent thought to add on to it. “And that is concerning…why?”

“After their…separation, Lord Morpheus became bitter and angry. Their parting was steeped in loss, and it darkened him.” She pauses, turning to glance at the closed doors behind her. The pull in your chest thrums as she does, urging you to walk through them, to go where Dream lies on the other side. “His countenance seems much improved today, I must say. Still, I’m a little nervous. It has been a long time since the Lady Calliope has been in the Dreaming.”

His countenance is much improved. The Lady Calliope. A tight knot tangles itself at the base of your throat, making it difficult to breathe. Your mind turns to the red eros and green storge attachments that had linked Dream and Calliope’s names in his book in your library. The book could not tell you what was current and what was not. It was a record, and nothing more. Still, Lucienne’s description of Dream’s ‘improved countenance’ leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. “Any idea what they’re talking about?” you ask, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“I haven't a clue.”

Your lips tighten into a hard line as your stomach turns. You suspect you know exactly what they’re talking about. In spite of the unease pooling in your gut, you smile at Lucienne. “Okay. Well, I, uh…I guess I’ll just wait, then. Read some books until they’re done. Will you come find me when they’re finished?”

“I will, Miss Love.”

You turn on your heel without a farewell, acutely aware of the fact that you’re acting totally out of character. Acutely aware of the fact that this deviation will not slip past Lucienne, as astute as she is. You dive into the aisles of bookshelves swiftly, eyes ignoring the signposts displaying years and letters above you, instead trained only on what is in front of you. Adrenaline propels you forward, away from others and their prying eyes, eager to be alone with your thoughts.

After several minutes of twisting and turning, you find yourself among the first-century ‘Z’s.’ A relatively sparse collection in the grand scheme of the universe, and a spot you feel others are unlikely to journey to. It’s here that you press your back against the bookshelves and sink to the floor with a bone-deep sigh. Only here do you allow the mask to slip aside and the dam to break as the full weight of your emotions washes through you.

First comes the disbelief, hollow and cold. One of the Dream Lord’s former lovers–no, his ex-wife, the mother of his child–was here in the Dreaming. The mere thought sends your head spinning so wildly that you cradle it in your hands. Though you had heard the stories and seen the names in his book with your very own eyes, the Dream Lord’s past lovers had always felt like distant figments to you, almost more like myths than reality. You had never suspected that a day like this might come.

Anger comes next, taking you off-guard. It boils up from a place deep within you, coiling tightly in your stomach, simmering in your veins. Anger at what, you’re not sure. Perhaps at yourself for acting a fool, for not being able to control your emotions? You had no right to be angry with anyone else. Fingernails drag across your scalp as you comb anxious fingers through your hair. In spite of the deep breaths you try to calm yourself with, the relentless hammering of your heart doesn’t stop.

It’s from that hammering heart that the next emotion swells, clouding your thoughts, making you dizzy. Panic. Panic over what the two of them could be talking about. Though Lucienne claimed to have no clue, the answer seemed obvious in your mind. Dream’s sentiments from that night on the dock, his apparent dismay at not understanding why his past relationships had ended in ruin, burns in your memory like a brand. ‘Love is as much about sacrifice as it is about reward.’ That’s what you’d told him. He must have found his answer within that sentence. Must have learned his lesson.

And now, he was reuniting with his former wife, the mother of his lost child, with the intention of getting things right.

As you curl your knees to your chest, resting your forehead against them, a new sensation sweeps through you. Or rather, the absence of sensation. As the heat of your anger and the turmoil of your panic drain away, a numbness takes their place. It’s familiar, this bone-deep emptiness, this feeling of being carved out and left unfilled. You fold into yourself tightly, making yourself as small as possible. As if doing so might grant reprieve from this feeling that has plagued you so many times in your long, long existence. Sorrow.

What reason do you have to be sad? that incessant voice of logic hisses in the back of your mind. You should be happy for him.

Shame rides on the coattails of the voice’s words, thick and nauseating. Still, it’s a welcome relief from the sorrow, and you hold tightly to it. Indeed, why were you sad? Dream was reuniting with his lost love. They were getting a second chance at happiness. He deserved to be happy. Plus, with Dream and Calliope’s relationship rekindled, you wouldn’t have to worry about the philia attachment between you anymore. It was as good as platonic.

You draw in slow, deep breaths, waiting for the emptiness in your bones to fade. Waiting for it to be replaced with that overwhelming feeling of radiant rightness that filled your soul every time you fulfilled an attachment, every time a love match found its way.

Still, the sorrow remains.

Hoping to outwait the feeling, you remain where you are, tightly folded in on yourself amid the aisles of the Library of Dreams. When you hear quiet footsteps approaching you, you’re unsure of how long you’ve been sitting here. The only thing you’re sure of is that you haven’t outwaited anything.

“Miss Love.” The soft tone of Lucienne’s voice coaxes your head upwards, unfurling you from within yourself. She stands a few feet away at the edge of the aisle. You can spot the concern in her dark eyes from here. “Are you alright?”

You offer her a small, crooked smile. Rising to your feet, you lie, “Yes, I’m fine, Lucienne. Just tired, is all. Is he ready for me?”

Lucienne draws in a breath to speak, then hesitates. She clearly doesn’t believe you. Indecision wages war in her brown eyes. You can practically see her weighing the scales, contemplating whether to cling to formality and proceed forward, or potentially overstep a boundary by prying further. You’re not sure which option terrifies you more.

After a long moment of silence, Lucienne gives a brief nod. She speaks no words as she beckons you to follow, and you trail after her in silence. As you weave through the labyrinth of bookshelves, a part of you wonders what made her choose silence over inquiry. Perhaps a lifetime of trying to provide emotional support to Dream, only to often be rebuffed, has made her believe that some individuals simply do not want to be helped. The thought makes your heart ache.

When you walk into the main corridor of the library, you find that the towering throne room doors are now wide open. Two forms stand on the other side of the doorway, their silhouettes outlined in emerald, ruby, and sapphire from the stained glass windows behind them.

Though Lucienne stops at the edge of the bookshelves, your feet carry you forward, unbidden. Dream’s dark, lithe form is leaned over, whispering something in the ear of the dark-haired woman facing him. Your cheeks flush as you come to a stop outside the throne room doors. Calliope.

When the Muse turns away from Dream, toward you, you go still as a stone. It’s instantly evident why Dream fell for her. Her ethereal form seems almost weightless as she glides toward the library, her sandaled feet barely touching the floor. Her brilliant white peplos floats about her like foam on the sea. Ringlets of dark-brown hair spill over her shoulders, framing the soft features of her kind face. There is a grace and freedom in her movements that you’ve never seen in another being, an effervescence that she carries effortlessly.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares and a Muse of divine inspiration. The perfect pair. You swallow thickly.

As Calliope exits the throne room, you expect her to dissipate into feathers, or at least bypass you entirely. When her warm brown eyes settle on you, you hold your breath. Or, rather, your breath holds you.

Calliope approaches you silently, coming to a stop within arm’s reach. You’re certain she must hear the pounding of your heart in your chest. If she does, she doesn’t show it. Slowly, she reaches out, taking your hands in both of her own. Frozen in place, you allow her to do so, halfway convinced that you must have spontaneously developed the ability to dream. Halfway certain that none of this is real.

When Calliope gives your hands a gentle squeeze, however, you’re assured that this is no dream.

“Watch over him. Please,” she says softly, her voice as sweet as wine and honey.

Your lips part in awe. Your mind tailspins, caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay, wanting to ask her questions and wanting to question nothing.

“Yeah,” you breathe. It’s the only coherent thought you’re able to articulate.

Calliope’s plush lips draw into a warm, pleased smile. She gives your fingers one last squeeze. And then she slips away, gone like a petal in the wind.

You find that you can’t watch as she drifts away to exit the Dreaming. As weightless as she seemed, the weight of this moment feels all too heavy. Your gaze remains affixed on your hands, still extended from where she held them. Your mind struggles to wrestle with her simple words, the complex implication behind them.

The quiet clearing of a throat snaps you out of your thoughts. When your eyes dart upward, you find that Dream has crossed the throne room to stand before you in Calliope’s place. The proximity of his body to yours makes your skin hum. The way his ocean eyes regard you with a palpable gentleness makes your stomach flip.

“Are you ready?” Dream asks, his rosebud lips caressing each word with care.

At first, you’re not sure what he means. Then, the realization dawns on you. Work. Of course. You offer him a small, tentative smile, shoving down the tempest of emotions storming within you.

But only temporarily. You know now what you have to do. “Yes.” . . . Hours later, after all your work with Dream is done, you slip into the Dreaming under cover of night with a palmful of sand. Unlike normal, you don’t immediately go in search of Matthew, Lucienne, or even Dream.

No, your first stop is Mervyn Pumpkinhead’s personal quarters within the palace. You slip through the door in silence, like a dream in the night. A featherlight touch to his quietly snoring chest is all it takes to step into the Realm of Attachment from there.

The transition to the radiance of your Realm from the nighttime shadows of the Dreaming is jarring. The only thing that doesn’t catch you off-guard is the brilliant white thread you find unfurling from your chest. Philia.

Though its presence comes as no surprise to you, the sight of it still takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’ve ever laid eyes on it, the first time you’ve ever seen any attachment originate from within yourself. Its white glow brightens and dims in time with your heartbeat, a pattern that quickens the longer you stare at it. You exit Mervyn’s room swiftly, before you can change your mind.

The white thread guides you out of the living quarters, through the palace’s long, wide halls and winding staircases, into the Library of Dreams. The attachment leads straight across the main corridor, stretching over the reading tables before disappearing into the colossal doors at the opposite end. With a deep, calming breath, you slip through the throne room doors like a ghost.

Dream of the Endless stands on the other side, his solitary form a dark run of ink in the center of the throne room. Hands clasped behind his back, his black cloak spills around him, pooling at his feet. You approach his still form with slow, careful steps, in spite of the fact that you know he can’t see you. With each step you take, the thread between you grows shorter and shorter. With each inch you lose, your heart flutters faster.

You step in front of him, seeking his face, only to find it turned toward the open ceiling above. While you know he is staring at the star-speckled cosmos that lie above the palace’s trusses, the Realm of Attachment affords you no cosmos. Instead, a kaleidoscope of colors is reflected in his pale blue eyes, a mirror image of the rainbow threads above.

A soft smile pulls at your lips at the sight of him here, pondering the night sky after a long day of work. You suddenly realize that you’ve never asked him if he has his own resting hours to retreat into. While other deities remain dreamless, does the Dream Lord himself ever dream?

In any other realm, you’d be wary of staring too long, worried that his keen gaze might take notice. The knowledge that he can’t see you now is…comforting. Allowing yourself the simple pleasure of studying his features, unhurried and unabashed, feels like a gift. Your eyes trace the perpetual disarray of his raven hair, the stray strands that fall over his forehead. They brush against the lush, dark lashes that frame his ocean eyes–ever bright, ever pondering. The light of the rainbow sky above casts his alabaster skin in an array of colors, accentuating the proud bridge of his nose, the faint dimple at its tip. Tilted upwards in thought, that sharp jaw could cut your heart out. The faint ghost of a shadow along it, creeping down to the top of this throat, sends a delicious warmth spreading from the top of your scalp to the tips of your toes.

And his lips. Maker, his lips. Pink as a rosebud, they part softly as he ponders the heavens above, as if searching for answers. Answers to what, you don’t know. Standing this close, you notice for the first time that his bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top. The urge to draw the pad of your thumb over it, to test its softness, its fullness, is sudden and overwhelming. Not a curiosity, or a want, but a need.

He’s beautiful, you admit to yourself for the very first time. Warmth blooms inside your chest, caressing your heart in gentle hands. The philia attachment between you beams in kind, illuminating both of your faces in its radiant glow.

You swallow, nerves stealing the grin from your lips, turning your mouth to sandpaper. It’s time. Time to do it now, before you lose whatever courage you have left.

The hammer of your heart is all you know as you wrap your hand around the thread with conviction.

Show me. . . . AN: Sneak peek content for anyone who sends me theories about Eugene Onegin and Le Morte d’Arthur. x

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