nerdydaydreamer

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 24: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~From Void to Vow~

The ominous creak of the dark archway door dragged on, a tortured groan of old iron and protesting wood that seemed to stretch the very fabric of Hell’s perpetual twilight. Footsteps, loud and heavy, crunched on the obsidian floor, echoing through the vast atrium, and then they appeared. The same two hulking demons, their skin like cracked earth and eyes like embers, emerged from the oppressive blackness, dragging Nora back into the flickering crimson light of the fire pit.

She was barely on her own two feet, her worn shoes slipping precariously on the polished surface, as if her legs had forgotten the very concept of solid ground. Her head was bowed, a curtain of hair obscuring her face, and her arms hung limp and lifeless beside her, devoid of any tension or will. She looked utterly, frightfully empty – a vessel drained of its spirit, her essence diffused into the suffocating silence of the Garden of Perpetual Silence.

In the span of a single, agonizing heartbeat, Morpheus was there. He moved with a speed that defied his long imprisonment, a dark blur against the gleaming floor. Just as the demons, with a grunt of release, let go of her arms, he caught her, his pale hands firm and steady against her wavering form. He gently lowered her to be kneeling on the ground in front of him, his recently reclaimed helm, a symbol of his restored power, placed down beside them, completely forgotten for the moment. All that mattered was Nora.

Morpheus’s hands, pale and elegant, ran up and down her arms, a frantic search for any warmth, any sign of life. He felt the pervasive chill that clung to her skin, an icy touch that seeped into his very being, a stark contrast to the infernal heat of the coals. His fingers then moved, with an almost desperate tenderness, to either side of her head, his thumbs sweeping upwards to cup the delicate curve of her jawline. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Nora,” he pleaded, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to crack with uncharacteristic desperation, “Nora, please… are you there? Can you hear me? Can you feel me?” He was begging, his ancient eyes, usually pools of starlight and fury, now wide with a raw, pleading vulnerability. Please, respond. Just a flicker.

Matthew, a flurry of black feathers and worried caws, hopped over, his tiny body trembling. He bumped his head, once, then twice, against her thigh, a silent gesture of desperate inquiry. “Nora!” he begged, his voice high with fear, bumping his head against her again. “Nora, come on!”

And then, ever so slowly, Nora’s eyelids, heavy with unseen burdens, fluttered open. Her eyes, clouded and distant at first, found Morpheus’s face, a beacon in the dim, red-lit expanse. A soft, bare whisper, barely audible above the distant clamor of Hell, escaped her lips: “Morpheus.” The word was a fragile thread, but it was there, a spark of recognition in the overwhelming void. And then, with an explosive sigh that seemed to release a century of suspended agony, she collapsed forward into his chest.

She didn’t have the strength to lift her arms, no matter how desperately she yearned to grasp him, to cling to his familiar presence. Her forehead came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, the smooth fabric of his new leather attire a sudden, grounding reality against her skin. All Morpheus could do was wrap his arms around her, holding her close, her stillness a terrifying weight against him. Please, let her be okay. She has to be okay. He squeezed his eyes shut, a silent, fervent plea echoing in the depths of his ancient mind.

He held her for several tense seconds, the frantic thrum of his own heart mirroring the terrifying silence on her side of their bond. The air, thick with the cloying scent of death and brimstone, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the dreadful sense of vulnerability. Then, a cold, steely rage, ancient and unyielding, began to unfurl within him, pushing back the edges of his fear. Without breaking his protective hold on Nora, he turned his head just slightly, his eyes, burning like twin abyssal stars, fixing on Lucifer.

“I will not forget this,” Morpheus practically growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the atrium, “nor will I ever forgive you. Any future interaction between Hell and The Dreaming, Lightbringer, you will tread with extreme caution.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threats, the underlying power in his tone a stark contrast to his earlier weakness.

With his free hand, he pulled out his familiar leather pouch of shimmering sand. He poured a small pile onto the polished obsidian floor beside them. The golden grains immediately began to undulate, a shimmering, golden curtain rising and coiling around them in a wide, luminous spiral. The ethereal light of the sand pulsed, casting dancing shadows that momentarily softened the dim, infernal illumination of the vast chamber.

Lucifer, who had been watching the scene with an almost terrifyingly cheerful expression, reveling in the cruel irony of Nora’s broken state and the pain it caused Morpheus, suddenly found her sadistic amusement evaporate. Just as the shimmering light began to encompass them, pulling them away from the infernal realm, Morpheus’s voice, now sharp with ancient authority, cut through the air, directed solely at Lucifer. “And one last thing, Morningstar.” He paused, letting the words hang, letting the full weight of his impending declaration sink in. His gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto Lucifer’s. “Nada is free to go.”

The pronouncement struck Lucifer like a physical blow, though she showed no outward sign beyond a sudden, almost imperceptible stiffening of her perfect posture. It was a final, exquisitely precise thrust of the knife, aimed at the very heart of her perverse pleasure. For ten thousand years, Nada’s continued imprisonment had been a small, private triumph for Lucifer. A living testament to Dream’s past rigidity and a constant, visible thorn in his side. To have that prize, that source of enduring satisfaction, snatched away so effortlessly, declared null and void by the very being she had sought to humble – it was an unbearable insult. The air around Lucifer seemed to crackle with suppressed fury, a silent, burning resentment. With Morpheus’s declaration, echoing with his newly reclaimed authority, Lucifer had absolutely no legal or magical grounds to keep Nada imprisoned and was compelled, by the ancient laws she herself so meticulously upheld, to release her.

~

In the next blink, the infernal atrium, with its burning coals and tormented air, vanished as if it had never been. Morpheus, Nora, and Matthew simply were elsewhere. One moment they were in Hell, and in the next, they were in the ruined throne room of Morpheus’s palace, still kneeling on the ground, just as they had been a moment before. Morpheus still held Nora, her head resting against his shoulder, and Matthew continued to hop anxiously beside them, his small body a bundle of worry. The spot they had seemed to land upon, where shattered marble and crumbling stone should have been, was miraculously clear of any debris, as if the swirling vortex of golden sand had meticulously swept it away for them before dissolving into nothingness around them.

"Nora," Morpheus murmured softly, his voice a low, insistent hum, one hand rubbing up and down her back in slow, soothing sweeps. His touch was light, almost a caress, designed to gentle her back to awareness. He desperately needed a response, any sign that the harrowing experience in Hell's void hadn't irrevocably shattered her. Through the deep, enduring connection of their bond, he began to pour a torrent of emotions directly into her mind, a desperate, targeted effort to reignite the spark within her.

He sent her the pure, unadulterated joy he felt from her very presence, a feeling so ferocious it had bloomed within him during his long solitude. He projected the sharp, unexpected amusement from her whimsical comments, the bizarre questions about giraffes in trousers or rainbow-furred capybaras that had brought light to his long imprisonment. He replayed the keen understanding that had blossomed when she offered her unique perspective on his past trauma with Nada, the incisive, compassionate logic that had begun to mend his ancient pride. He flooded her with the warmth of her own kindness, the selfless empathy she had shown him even when facing her own slow, agonizing demise. He sent the echoes of her laughter, particularly the breathless, joyous sound she made when recounting her absurd dreams, a sound that had been a fleeting connection to his lost kingdom. Every emotion he had gleaned from their shared century, every nuance of her vibrant spirit, he now poured into her, a frantic, desperate offering, as if feeding a starving flame.

Gradually, almost painfully slowly, her arms, heavy and unresponsive moments before, began to stir. They came up, with immense effort, her fingers seeking purchase on the sides of Morpheus's new leather coat. Her touch was so light he could barely feel it, a mere whisper against the dark fabric, yet it was there – a fragile, almost imperceptible thread of contact that pierced through his overwhelming dread. "Nora," he called out again, his voice raw with renewed hope, a desperate plea for more, for confirmation. And he felt it more than heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible breath against his neck: "Sandy?" The word was a fragile question, laced with disbelief, as if she were testing the reality of his presence.

"Yes, Nora. It's me," Morpheus responded instantly, his voice thick with overwhelming relief, a dam almost breaking within him. "You're here with me. You're in The Dreaming. We are safe." His voice, though quiet, was resolute, carrying the weight of ancient power newly re-asserted. She is here. Oh thank the endless night.

For Nora, those last three words, "We are safe," resonated like a hammer blow to glass, shattering the fragile composure she had maintained. He's here. He's safe. He's alive. Matthew's also here. He's safe. He's alive. The thoughts began to loop in her mind, faster and faster, a desperate mantra: Safe. Safe. Safe. They're okay. We're okay. She had focused solely on their survival, on his well-being, on Matthew’s, ignoring her own suffering in the crushing void.

Lucifer, in her twisted cruelty, had sought to inflict the worst agony a mortal could endure: absolute sensory deprivation in the Garden of Perpetual Silence, a void of nothingness designed to break the mind. What the Morningstar could not have anticipated was the nature of the deep, internal anchor bond between Morpheus and Nora. Lucifer was aware of some bonds throughout the universe, but the true depth and unique connection of theirs was beyond her comprehension. And so, while Morpheus had felt nothing from Nora's side, as she had absolutely nothing to project, Nora had felt everything from his.

In that terrible, crushing darkness, where she could see nothing, hear nothing, feel no breeze, no heat, no cold, she had still felt him. The searing pain of the venom burning through Morpheus's veins, the insidious gnawing of the butcher bacterium eating away at his insides and flesh, the terrifying conflagration of the nova, the sensation of being burnt alive. These were not pleasant feelings, far from it. They were agony, pure and unadulterated. And they were stretched out over what felt like endless, agonizing periods, from one wave of torment to the next, a constant, pervasive torment that felt as if it would never end. Yet, they were feelings. They were enough to ground her, anchors in the terrifying, formless void, proof that he was still out there, fighting, living, connected to her. She had clung to every spike of pain, every wave of exhaustion from him, knowing that if he still felt, he still lived. She had held onto that thread, that agonizing awareness, for every endless second she had been trapped.

Now, with Morpheus's voice confirming their shared reality, the dam inside Nora broke completely. The overwhelming wave of joy, of absolute, pure, soul-deep relief that he and Matthew were alive, that they had survived Hell, washed over her. Tears, hot and seemingly endless, streamed from her eyes, soaking into the fabric of his coat against his neck. A choked sob tore from her, her breath catching in her throat as she gasped for air. She was happy, so deliriously, utterly happy, it was almost painful. But beneath that joy, an acute weariness, bone-deep and crushing, asserted itself. She was utterly, completely exhausted. Her weak grip tightened on his coat, an almost desperate clawing, trying to ground herself, to pull him impossibly closer, to ensure he was truly there, truly safe. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, but her spirit, alight with fierce relief, refused to let go.

Morpheus felt the sudden, desperate clench of her fingers, the warm, wet deluge against his neck. A fierce, aching tenderness bloomed in his chest as her sobs shook her frame, a feeling so vast it threatened to overwhelm his ancient stoicism. Her gasps for breath tore at him, a raw sound of distress that pierced through his victory. He knew the ordeal she had faced in the Garden of Perpetual Silence was designed to break her, and seeing her now, shattered and clinging, confirmed the depth of the torment. His only thought was to offer what comfort he could.

He stopped the slow, soothing sweeps of his hand on her back, instead wrapping one arm firmly around her waist, pulling her even tighter against him. His other hand moved upward, past her shoulder, to cup the back of her neck, fingers splaying against her hair. With a decisive, tender motion, he pressed her head deeper into his shoulder, holding her fast, trying to absorb her tremors. He mumbled into her ear, his voice a low, continuous vibration of reassurance, "I'm here. I'm here with you. You're safe. I'm safe. I'm here. I'm not letting go. I'm never letting you go." The words were for her, but they were also a promise to himself, a vow whispered into the ethereal air of his restored realm.

They stayed like that for what seemed like very long moments, suspended in the quiet solace of their reunion. The air of The Dreaming, usually filled with the gentle hum of creation, felt muted around them, respecting the sheer intimacy of the moment. Gradually, Nora’s breath calmed, evening out from ragged gasps to soft, steady sighs, and the flow of tears against his neck subsided to a gentle dampness. The tremors that had wracked her body slowly, slowly receded, leaving her feeling hollowed out but undeniably present. She pushed ever so slightly against his sides, a faint signal of returning strength, a tentative movement to re-engage with the world. Then, slowly, she raised her head.

Morpheus didn’t remove his hand from the back of her head; instead, he lightly gave a comforting squeeze, his thumb tracing the delicate curve where her neck met her skull. His eyes, usually deep pools of starlight, softened further, filled with a raw, almost painful empathy. His heart, an ancient, cosmic thing that had endured eons of stoicism, now ached with a searing tenderness when he saw her face. Her cheeks were still stained with tear tracks, etched like painful rivers on her pale skin, and her eyes, though no longer vacant, were red and swollen from the intensity of her release. He had never wanted to see her like this, marked by such oppressive distress, her vulnerability laid bare before him, and it cut him deeply that she had experienced such agony. Every tear seemed to burn him, a testament to the suffering she had endured because of him, because of Hell.

Nora, with an unstable hand that still trembled minutely, raised it towards Morpheus’s face. Her fingers, cool and hesitant, gently cupped his jaw, feeling the sharp line of his bone, the smooth, cool texture of his skin. Her thumb began to rub along his cheekbone, a tender, feather-light stroke, a gesture of reassurance for both of them. A soft, but happy-filled, “Hi, Sandy,” escaped her lips, barely a whisper, yet resonating with all the warmth and irreverence he had come to cherish. The familiar nickname, a secret comfort between them, brought a jolt of relief through Morpheus.

He was momentarily static, stunned that even in this raw, vulnerable state, a small portion of the fire, the unique spark of personality that made Nora Nora, shone through, bright and unextinguished. He couldn’t help but let out a very soft grin; it just suddenly appeared on his face, there was no fighting it back. The warmth that bloomed in his chest from her very presence, the sheer joy that his Nora was still with him, spread upward, making his entire face glow almost imperceptibly with that happiness. Nora, seeing that rare grin, after a brief moment of shock, let out a light chuckle. “Oh, now you smile, huh?” she whispered, the words a soft, shared secret between the two of them, as she returned his gaze with a soft smile of her own.

Hearing that familiar sass, the playful irreverence he had come to cherish from Nora, Morpheus couldn’t help but let out a slight chuckle, a low, resonant sound that vibrated against her. It was a sound few had ever heard from him, a genuine expression of mirth. Nora’s eyes widened fractionally, a new glint of mischief shining through the lingering exhaustion. “Oh my,” she murmured, her voice still weak but laced with an undeniable, mock horror. “And the laugh too? Well, the world really is coming to an end.” She managed a faint, teasing smirk.

Morpheus adjusted his grip around her waist, pulling her just ever so slightly closer, tightening the protective circle he had formed around her. His gaze, now filled with an open, unshielded tenderness, met hers. “Oh no, My Star,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, unable to hide the feeling from her any longer. “The world is most definitely not coming to an end. I would rearrange the cosmos itself, unravel the very threads of creation, if it would keep that smile on your face and allow me to hear your laughter.” His thumb, still at the back of her neck, stroked gently. “Your joy is a melody I would traverse endless nights to hear, your presence a beacon that guides the very flow of my realm.”

As he continued speaking, his voice dropped even further, becoming a barely audible, intensely private murmur, meant only for her ears, for her soul. “You are My Star, Nora. You were the improbable light during my imprisonment, a small, absurd spark in my oppressive gloom that became the blinding, brilliant relief of a possible dawn. You are the light to my darkness, the unexpected constellation in my often shadowed skies. Stars are unique, are they not? They are singular points of radiant warmth, and they serve as navigational guides. You, My Star, help me navigate my own conflicts, the internal wars that have raged within me for millennia. You are the fixed point in my shifting reality, the constant against the chaos. To see you smile, to hear your mirth… it is something I have come to cherish more deeply than any dream, any realm, for it speaks of a future I once thought impossible.” He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping further, “You are a light, Nora, that has pierced through eons of my quiet darkness. And I would defy any entity, any law, any consequence, to ensure that light never dims. Never.”

Nora was utterly struck speechless. The hand that was cupping his jaw, her thumb, previously stroking his cheekbone, was now frozen in movement, paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his words. He… he said all that. All that, to me? He really said all that to me. Her mind, still reeling from the ordeal in Hell, struggled to process the magnitude of his raw, unfiltered proclamation. Rearrange the cosmos? A light to his darkness? A navigational guide? She knew he felt things deeply, knew there was a magnified connection, but to hear it articulated with such dreamlike intensity, with such utter devotion from a being as ancient and formidable as Dream of the Endless… it was almost too much. Her gaze, wide and unwavering, remained locked on his, trying to decipher if this was real, if she was truly worthy of such a universe-altering sentiment. It felt both impossible and undeniably, wonderfully real, a perfect dream woven just for her.

She couldn't find the words to respond. Her jaw worked, her mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, a silent struggle to articulate the tempest of emotions swirling within her. Anything she tried to form, any phrase that came to mind, felt utterly inadequate, too small, too mortal to encompass the vastness of what he had just bestowed upon her.

Internally, Nora reached, searching for the link in their minds, the bond that connected them. It felt almost dormant on her side, quieted by the oppressive emptiness of the Garden of Perpetual Silence, only stirred by the agony of Morpheus's struggle. She had to look for it, stretching her awareness, almost forcing it to open back up again.

The bond, which until this moment had been empty from Nora's side – a silent void where Morpheus had received no projected feelings – suddenly seemed to spark. Morpheus felt it, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a flicker like a distant, dying ember suddenly rekindling. Then, with astonishing, breathtaking intensity, it flared to life, a rush of sensation that felt like floodgates opening. Morpheus had to physically stop himself from gasping aloud at the sheer force of the sudden emotions Nora was sending him. It was a torrent, raw and vibrant, that surged through their link, an explosion of feeling that threatened to overwhelm his senses, a stark contrast to the quiet empathy he had carefully projected to her for decades.

Nora, with fierce concentration, focused on sending what she was feeling through the bond to Morpheus. You make me happy. So utterly, completely happy. The words were less words and more pure emotional waves, painting vivid landscapes in his mind. You make me feel whole. Like I have finally found where I belong, where every scattered piece of my soul converges. She projected her absolute conviction: I don't for one second regret anything. Not getting locked up with you, not spending all that time in the glass. I would go through every single moment of it again, every fear, every agonizing second, if it brought us back to this exact place, to this moment, with you. I couldn't imagine being with anyone else, anywhere else, in the entire, vast expanse of the universe. Her feelings were a boundless ocean of devotion, gratitude, and a love so absolute it was almost terrifying in its purity.

This… this is what she feels? Morpheus's ancient mind reeled, bombarded by the sheer, overwhelming beauty of her transmitted emotions. He had known her compassion, her wit, her defiance, but this... this unburdened outpouring of unconditional affection, directed entirely at him, was a revelation that shook him to his core. The warmth in his chest intensified, spreading through his entire being, solidifying the delicate joy that had blossomed. It was a deep, almost dizzying vindication of his quiet affection for her, a fulfillment he hadn't known he desperately craved.

Yet, even after pouring out the depths of her soul through their bond, Nora didn't think it was enough. The intensity of her feelings, the sheer boundless love, still felt too vast to be contained by mere thought. She couldn't not show him physically as well. After just a brief, almost imperceptible moment of hesitation, her eyes, now shining bright with unshed tears and a burgeoning hope, flickered from his cosmic gaze down to his lips. They were slightly full, with a light rosy tinge, a subtle contrast to his pale skin. Then, her gaze snapped back up to his eyes, a silent question, a daring challenge, a world of affection in their depths. She leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, bridging the last few inches between them.

Morpheus's breath hitched, a faint, unheard sound. His starlit eyes, which had been locked on hers, dropped to her lips, watching their approach, a dizzying anticipation blooming in his ancient heart. He too, with agonizing slowness, began to lean in, his pale face drawing closer, closer, until their breaths mingled, a soft, ethereal sigh in the quiet of the ruined throne room. They were only a few millimeters apart, the air shimmering with unspoken desire, with a century of shared solitude and a lifetime of burgeoning, impossible connection. This was it. The moment, vast and fragile, hung suspended in the very fabric of The Dreaming, a universe waiting for two souls to finally meet.

Then, a loud, piercing "CAW!" ripped through the sacred stillness, shattering the exquisite tension like a thrown stone.

Nora, startled, recoiled instantly, leaning back from Morpheus with a sharp gasp. Her head whipped to her right, her eyes wide as she found Matthew a few feet away, perched awkwardly on a crumbled pillar. He shuffled one clawed foot, his black feathers ruffling with feigned nonchalance, as if he hadn't just deliberately interrupted something cosmically important. He let out another, slightly more sheepish, squawk before proclaiming, "Hey, Nora! Glad to have you back!" It was quintessential Matthew: the perpetually anxious, occasionally brilliant, and unfailingly awkward third wheel. He had been a silent, suffering witness to their tender reunion, trapped between the desire to give them space and the undeniable, catastrophic awkwardness of what was about to happen directly in front of him. Clearly, his self-preservation instinct (or perhaps just his internal monologue screaming at him) had won the day.

Nora huffed out a laugh, a breathless sound that bordered on a groan, and shook her head. "Hello, Matthew," she said in a placating, almost chiding tone, as if speaking to a mischievous toddler. Her gaze, still soft with lingering emotion, flickered back to Morpheus.

He was frozen, statue-still, his face a mask of carefully controlled fury. Through their bond, Nora caught a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of pure murder and incandescent rage radiating from him. It might be time for a new Raven, Morpheus thought, the sentiment laced with dangerous ice, directed with chilling clarity at the cawing figure.

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 23: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Unmaking~

As Nora stared, held captive by the demons, Morpheus's form shimmered, and his familiar floor-length wool coat dissolved, replaced almost instantly by a new ensemble. It was a striking outfit, entirely in black, accentuating his lean, elegant frame. A fitted, high-collared leather jacket formed the top, its smooth, dark surface hinting at suppressed power. Below it, a sweeping, floor-length skirt or robe of dark fabric billowed around his legs, giving him an imposing, almost regal silhouette despite its simple design. The jacket's design featured what looked like a central zipper or seam, flanked by sculpted panels across the chest and shoulders that gave it a subtly armored appearance.

Nora’s mind, despite the terrifying predicament she was in, screamed with an utterly inappropriate thought: Holy shit, he looks way too good in that. The sudden, unexpected shift from his usual somber attire to this sleek, almost predatory leather was jarringly attractive. This is not the time, Nora! her internal voice shrieked in self-admonishment. You are literally being held by demons, in Hell, about to be bartered for, and your brain decides now is the moment to appreciate his fashion sense?! The sheer, infuriating absurdity of her own thoughts, even as a sharp pang of pain shot through her arms from the demons' tightening grip, made her want to bang her head against the nearest — non-demon-held — surface. Her internal mortification warred with the desperate fear of her situation, a truly unhelpful internal monologue as Morpheus prepared to duel for his freedom, and now, for hers.

Morpheus quickly knelt down to Matthew, his voice low and urgent. “You must return to The Dreaming,” he commanded. “If anything were to go wrong, Lucienne should not be left without word of our fate.”

Matthew, now hopping agitatedly on the polished obsidian floor, flapped his wings. “No!” he chirped, his voice high with disbelief. “I’m not leaving you here!”

From several paces away, Lucifer’s cool, clear voice cut through the air. The faint, ethereal blue flames from the central fire pit seemed to pulse with her amusement. “Am I interrupting some preliminary bout of some kind?” she asked lightly, a mocking lilt in her tone, her vast, leathery wings shifting subtly behind her.

“Just a ringside pep talk,” Matthew shot back, his tiny head cocked. Then, after a short pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Your Majesty.” He then turned his beady eyes back to Morpheus, his resolve hardening. “We came here for the Helm, and we’re not leaving without it!”

Lucifer’s lips curved into a faint smile, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “We shall see.”

Morpheus slowly rose, his new leather attire rustling faintly, taking one short step away from Matthew and towards Nora. He reached out, his pale hand gently cupping her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. His ancient eyes, pools of starlight in the dim infernal light, locked with hers, a fervent promise in their depths. “I will get us out of here, Nora. Don’t worry. I promised I would protect you, and I will keep that promise.” He flooded their mental link with every comforting thought he could muster – courage, safety, my protection, I will not abandon you – a warm, steady stream against the cold dread. Then, as if the very act tore at his soul, he slowly stepped away and headed towards Lucifer.

They now stood several paces apart, facing each other in a tense standoff. Morpheus radiated an imposing aura, his dark, new leather ensemble a lesser version than Lucifer’s own transformed attire. At some point while Morpheus was speaking to Nora, Lucifer’s stark white robe had been replaced by a sleek, dark leather outfit mirroring Morpheus’s own, though hers seemed designed for fluid, deadly grace rather than somber authority. It was a semi-armored look, fitted and severe, accentuating her powerful form, with subtle gleams of what might be polished metal or intricate stitching within the dark material. Her stillness spoke of immense, contained power, matched by Morpheus. Lucifer, meanwhile, leaned slightly on one hip, her movements fluid and languid, exuding an air of casual indifference, as if the impending duel were a tiresome obligation, yet a subtle, almost hungry gleam in her eyes betrayed her excitement for the exquisite torment that to come. The air between them crackled with unseen energy, thick with the scent of brimstone and anticipation.

“Very well, Dream,” Lucifer said, her voice carefree, almost melodic, her white hair framing her perfect face. She stood with her arms lightly folded in front of her. “As the challenged, I set the meter and take the first move. However, to avoid any future…” She paused, her gaze flicking pointedly towards Nora, a chilling sweetness in her tone, “…distractions.”

With a light, almost imperceptible flick of her fingertips upwards, a subtle ripple in the oppressive air, the two hulking demons still grasping Nora’s arms began to move, pulling her backward, dragging her away from the center of the atrium towards a shadowed archway. Nora immediately fought back, twisting and pulling against their iron grip. The fabric of her long sleeves bunched grotesquely under the demons’ hands, stretched taut over her upper arms, and she could feel the bone-deep pressure of their clawed fingertips, a clear promise of dark bruises to come. Yet, she ignored the searing pain, struggling furiously, her shoes catching on the polished obsidian floor, offering no traction as they scraped helplessly.

“Let go of me, you ugly bastards!” Nora screamed, her voice raw, all the pent-up frustration and terror unleashing in a torrent of curses. The demon on her left, who had just given her a rough shake, earned her direct, blazing gaze. “I’ll rip off that damn horn and shove it down your throat!” She continued to rage, her voice cracking but unwavering, the words echoing off the dark, carved walls. “You freaks! You think this is funny?!” Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of where they were dragging her: the shadowed archway wasn’t just an opening; it housed a heavy, iron-bound door, barely ajar, revealing a deeper, absolute blackness beyond. A cold, horrifying realization washed over her, a fresh wave of panic joining her fury. After a few agonizing moments of futile struggle, as the doorway grew closer, she twisted her head back towards Morpheus, her eyes wide with a desperate plea, filled with a mix of fear and righteous fury. “Morpheus!” she cried out, her voice raw and torn, echoing in the vast chamber, before she was finally pulled in through the doorway, disappearing from sight, the heavy door groaning shut behind them, sealing her screams within.

Morpheus roared, a sound of ancient, raw fury that shook the very foundations of the atrium, vibrating the red-hot coals in the fire pit. He took an aborted step towards the doorway where Nora had vanished, his dark leather coat swirling around him like a storm cloud, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with suppressed rage. Then, his eyes blazing like twin abyssal stars, cold and incandescent with a newfound, terrifying possessiveness, he whipped his head back towards Lucifer, his voice a low, dangerous growl that resonated with the weight of millennia. “Where have you taken her?!”

“Where have you taken her?!” Morpheus’s voice, though a low growl, vibrated with a raw, ancient fury that shook the very foundations of the atrium, causing the red-hot coals in the central pit to shimmer. He stood, his dark leather coat swirling, hands clenching into fists that trembled with suppressed rage, his eyes blazing like twin abyssal stars, cold and incandescent with a newfound, terrifying possessiveness.

Lucifer merely chuckled, a light, almost musical sound that seemed utterly out of place in the infernal chamber. She tilted her head, her stark white hair framing a face of unsettling serenity. “Oh, do not worry about her,” she purred, her voice dripping with mock reassurance. “She’s just going for a little bit of a timeout. You have other things to concern yourself with now, sweet Dream.” Her gaze swept over Morpheus, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

Morpheus stood, near trembling with a rage that felt like icy fire under his skin. His worry for Nora, a sharp, aching concern he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, he forced the tumultuous emotions down, channeling them into a laser-like focus. He knew, with a cold certainty that settled deep in his bones, that no matter how deeply he cared for Nora, he could not allow even a moment of his resolve to falter in this challenge. Everything rested on him to win, to ensure their return to The Dreaming. His jaw clenched, a muscle working visibly in his cheek, as he locked his gaze onto Lucifer, his own formidable presence a defiant counterpoint to her ethereal malice.

Lucifer paused for a moment, staring Morpheus down, her dark leather attire shifting with her subtle movements, before her voice, light and deceptively soft, filled the vast atrium.

“I am a Dire Wolf,” Lucifer declared, her voice a low purr that resonated with a chilling power. “Prey-stalking, lethal prowler.”

A deep, guttural growl, impossibly real, echoed around them, seeming to emanate from the very stone walls, making the air prickle with primal fear.

Morpheus stared back, a sneer, cold and sharp, twisting his lips. “I am a Hunter,” he bit out, his voice laced with grim resolve. “Horse-mounted, wolf-stabbing.”

The faint, rhythmic clop-clop-clop of horse hooves, muffled but clear, echoed across the polished obsidian floor, followed by the sharp thwip of an arrow being loosed from a bow. Lucifer, mid-stride, gasped. Her body arced, bowing forward as if struck by an invisible force, her hand flying to clutch her stomach. A low groan escaped her lips. Slowly, agonizingly, she lifted her hand away, revealing a small, glistening pool of dark blood collected in her pale palm. Morpheus looked on, a grim satisfaction hardening his features.

Lucifer’s eyes, wide with surprise and a flash of pain, fixed on the blood. She slowly clenched her palm into a tight fist, the blood smearing, before looking back up at Morpheus. A light smile, thin and stretched, touched her lips, quickly twisting into a grimace of furious defiance.

“I am a Serpent,” Lucifer hissed, her voice quieter now, a venomous whisper that slithered through the air. “Horse-biting, poison-toothed.”

Morpheus stretched his head upwards and to the side, his neck arching. Beneath the pale skin of his face and neck, livid, purplish-green veins began to writhe and spread, creeping upwards from his chest like insidious vines, reaching towards his jaw, a visceral depiction of internal poison. He gasped, a guttural sound, before biting out his retort, his voice strained.

“I am a Bird of Prey,” he snarled, his eyes blazing. “Snake-devouring. Talons-ripping.”

As his words left him, the purplish-green tendrils beneath his skin began to recede, as if dissolving. The natural, pale hue slowly returned to his face and neck, the poison bleeding away, leaving his skin clear and untainted. Lucifer, however, was not so lucky. Her head sharply whipped downward, as if she had been physically slapped, a faint rip resonating through the air. As she slowly raised her head, three distinct, angry gouges, like fresh claw marks, raked across her cheek, dark red lines stark against her pale skin.

Lucifer’s voice, quieter but no less lethal, was a low snarl. "I am a Butcher Bacterium. Warm-life destroying."

Morpheus immediately bent over, a sudden, agonizing cramp seizing his core. He gasped, a ragged, choking sound, collapsing onto his knees as if his very insides were being consumed. His form shuddered violently. His skin, already pale, began to blotch and turn grey, areas sinking inwards, growing translucent as if the very flesh were dissolving. Patches on his cheeks and forehead seemed to liquefy, leaving hollows and a ghastly sheen, as if the invisible bacteria were eating him alive. He struggled, slowly tilting his head upwards, his eyes wide with torment, his form visibly shrinking. He fought for breath, for words, a guttural struggle tearing at his throat, his ruined face a mask of violent agony. Finally, with immense effort, he forced out, "I am a World."

Suddenly, his voice gained strength, smoothing out, filling the atrium with a resonant power. A faint, ethereal flutter of birds chirping, like distant bells, echoed around them. Morpheus pushed up, his form still hunched and marred, but his eyes blazing with renewed defiance. "Space-floating, life-nurturing."

Lucifer hesitated for a moment, her perfect features contorting in a flash of frustration. Then, her voice strong, almost a shout, she delivered her next move. "I am a Nova! All-exploding, planet-cremating!"

Morpheus instantly held up a hand, as if to physically block the approaching onslaught. A giant, blinding wave of pure explosive energy seemed to rush towards him from Lucifer, a sunbeam of incineration. His raised hand began to visibly burn, the skin blistering and melting, charring black, as if it were directly on the surface of the sun. His face, too, twisted in agony, the skin seeming to liquefy and peel away. He cried out, collapsing onto the ground on his side, his body wracked with pain, struggling to even push himself upright. Lucifer let out a slow, deliberate beat of her wings, as if in impatience, a subtle tremor running through the air.

After a few quiet moments, thick with the stench of scorched flesh, Morpheus quietly, agonizingly, let out, "I am a Universe." His voice was barely a whisper, echoing through the vast space. "All things encompassing, all life embracing."

Lucifer responded, her voice rich, almost cherishing each word, imbued with a terrifying finality. "I am Anti-Life. The Beast of Judgment. The Dark at the end of everything."

Morpheus, still lying on the ground on his side, struggled to take a breath, but his lungs refused, as if there was no more air for him to breathe in the entire universe. His skin had gone a horrifying, pale ashen, and his face was drawn and shallow, the melting features now sunken, as if the very life within him had been utterly sucked out. His fingers twitched weakly on the polished obsidian floor, trying to find some semblance of reality, some anchor in the encroaching void.

Lucifer stood above him, her leather-clad form an imposing silhouette against the fiery pit. Mockingly, she purred, "What will you be then, Dream Lord?"

"I—" Morpheus gasped, trying to push himself up, but his strength failed him, and he collapsed back to the ground. "I—" he tried again, his breath stuttering, raw and desperate. He couldn't form the words, only that initial, strangled sound.

Matthew, who was watching worriedly from the sidelines, suddenly hopped over towards Morpheus, his tiny body trembling. "Hey, Boss!" he chirped, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence.

"Still with us, Dream?" Lucifer's voice, devoid of mercy, echoed from above.

Matthew sharply turned towards her, his small body puffed out with defiant courage. "He is," he chirped, his voice surprisingly firm. "And it's his move, Your Majesty." Reluctantly, he bowed his head, a quick, resentful dip.

Lucifer let out a dry, mirthless laugh, as if sharing a grim, undeniable fact. "There are no more moves. What can survive the Anti-Life?"

Matthew turned sharply towards Morpheus, his tiny eyes wide with an impossible, fierce conviction. "Listen, Boss, you know what can survive the Anti-Life, you!" he insisted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Because dreams don't fucking die... Not if you believe in them. And I believe that Dream of the Endless would never leave his Raven here alone, in Hell with Lucifer. And don't you dare forget about Nora. She's counting on you too, Boss."

At that moment, as Matthew's words pierced through the encroaching darkness, an epiphany, sharp and clear, clicked in Morpheus's mind. Nora... The thought resonated within him, a vivid, internal sensation of that bright light at the end of a long tunnel, of the pervasive warmth and happiness that seemed to emanate from her very being. It was the feeling she gave him, a grounding, joyful presence in his existence, and it suffused his battered form, a stark contrast to the despair Lucifer sought to impose. His rattling breaths suddenly stilled. He took one slow, deep breath, a exquisite intake of air, before his eyes, no longer shadowed by despair, locked onto Lucifer standing above him. He slowly, deliberately, said, "I am..."

And then, with a surge of strength that seemed to defy all the pain and loss, he pushed himself up onto his knees, his ravaged face slowly beginning to reform, the ashen skin regaining a faint hint of color. He tilted his head upwards towards Lucifer, Morpheus finally finished his move, his voice ringing out, strong and clear, filling the entire atrium. "...Hope."

A bright glow suddenly encompassed the entire room, pushing back the oppressive shadows. The fiery coals in the pit seemed to dim in its presence, and Lucifer's face, for a fleeting moment, seemed to stutter, her perfect features momentarily losing their composure. Morpheus, his color now fully returned, the ghastly marks vanishing, stood strongly, fully upright.

Lucifer, her voice weak, almost a whisper of disbelief, repeated, "Hope?"

"Well, Lightbringer," Morpheus responded, his voice cool and steady, a touch of mocking triumph now evident, echoing the countless times Lucifer had taunted them during this entire encounter. "It's your move. What is it that kills Hope?"

Lucifer's jaw clenched, a muscle working furiously. She turned sharply towards Choronzon, who had been watching the duel with a mixture of awe and fear. "Give him back his Helm!" she ordered, her voice sharp with frustrated command.

"No!" Choronzon protested, almost childishly, clutching the Helm closer. "I won't! It's mine!" Then, after a second, a desperate whine, "Please!"

Mazikeen, who for the entire challenge had been standing impassively on the side, suddenly moved. With a predatory grace, she walked up behind the demon, her hand lashing out. With unnatural strength, she forcibly wrenched the Helm from his grip, then gripped Choronzon by the back of his neck, dragging him, whimpering and struggling, over towards the balcony. Without a word, she threw him off the side, his screams cut short as he plunged into the unseen depths below. Mazikeen then turned, her movements fluid and unhurried, and walked towards Morpheus, the dark Helm, intricately crafted, held out to him.

Morpheus accepted it, his pale fingers closing around the cool metal. He took a second, allowing his gaze to linger on the dark, intricately crafted helm, the weight and familiarity of it an anchor after so long. He then tucked it securely under his arm, the hard metal a solid presence against his side, before slowly turning back to face Lucifer. His voice, now deep and resonant with ancient power, carried a predatory edge. "Now, Lucifer. Nora will be returned to me."

Lucifer, still seething from her loss in the duel, seized the opportunity to add a cruel twist. She responded lightly, her voice like a silken thread of malicious amusement. "Oh, that won't be an issue. However, the state of her return is entirely up to her." A faint, chilling smile touched her lips. "And the 'timeout,' as I so quaintly put it, that she was in... it's a very peculiar form, you see."

Morpheus took a deadly step towards her, his body taut with sudden dread. The air around him seemed to thicken, charged with his barely contained fury. "Explain yourself," he growled, the command tearing from his throat, his eyes blazing.

Lucifer turned slightly, her sleek leather attire rustling with a soft hiss as she began to walk around the central fire pit, subtly widening the distance between them. Her movements were unnervingly calm, her expression serene, conveying no hint of the horrors she described. Her voice, light and unaffected, floated across the vast chamber. "Nora spent some time in what we in Hell like to call the Garden of Perpetual Silence." The name hung in the vast atrium for a moment, resonating with its own chilling history, the distant, ceaseless gonging of Hell seeming to grow faintly louder, as if in recognition. "It's a void, basically, where light, sound, touch, and even the whisper of one's own breath are utterly absent. It truly is quite… empty." She drew out the last words, savoring them, a perverse satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "A place designed to dismantle the mortal mind piece by agonizing piece."

Morpheus felt an internal dread sink like a stone into his gut, cold and heavy. What Nora went through... The thought was a lead weight. He forced the words out, his voice raw with barely suppressed fury. "Why was that chosen for her?"

Lucifer let out a light chuckle, devoid of warmth, her head tilting slightly. “Oh, only the best for valuable guests, Dream.” The word “valuable” was hissed, laced with mocking scorn, a clear jab at Nora’s perceived insignificance in the grand scheme of Hell. “And,” she continued, almost as an afterthought, her gaze drifting towards the immense, flickering blue flames of the central pit, “the time in the void, you see, is… malleable. While we have spent only several minutes in here, your companion has endured days. Days of absolute nothingness. Her mind, I assure you, is either a shattered wreck or close to it. It is, shall we say, a testament to the resilience of her species,” the last word an almost imperceptible sneer, dripping with disdain, “if she retains any semblance of sanity at all.”

With a chilling smile that never quite reached her eyes, Lucifer slowly approached Morpheus, her leather outfit gleaming in the dim infernal light, her presence radiating cold power. “And when I said earlier that we would ‘debate’ what you must do to get her back… that wasn’t quite the truth, Dream. In all honesty,” she purred, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, “the choice is entirely up to her.” She paused, a show of exaggerated sincerity crossing her features. “If there’s anything left to her mind at all, she can rejoin the waking world, or… “ her voice dropped to a low, mocking whisper, filled with a twisted, perverse delight, “remain completely and utterly lost within her own broken consciousness.”

A cold, primal terror ripped through Morpheus, sharper than any wound inflicted by the duel. He reflected on the preceding contest, how his focus, his entire willpower, had been directed at defeating Lucifer, at winning the Helm. He had thought to protect Nora through victory, to secure her freedom by his own might. But as he looked deeper within, to the internal anchor bond he shared with Nora, he realized with a sickening lurch that her side had been terribly quiet. There had been nothing echoing, not even a faint whisper, no trace of her vivid warmth or sharp wit, since she was pulled away. The silence of her side of the bond was now a deafening roar in his mind, confirming Lucifer’s cruel words.

Lucifer, utterly oblivious to the dawning horror twisting Morpheus’s features, turned away. Her movements were fluid and unhurried as she walked back over to the ominous archway leading to the balcony, her vast, leathery wings shifting subtly. She called over her shoulder, her voice casually dismissive, “She’s being retrieved now.” The words hung in the air, echoing with an unspoken threat. “We shall see what remains.”

 -

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

Next Chapter

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 22: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~A Devil’s Welcome~

The short, stone archway tunnel opened almost immediately into a vast, awe-inspiring atrium. It was a large, circular room, a dizzying expanse of dark, almost black wood and polished obsidian, its surfaces gleaming faintly in the flickering light. Intricate, flowing carvings, impossibly detailed and ancient, ascended towards the unseen, vaulted ceiling, depicting scenes both noble and terrifying. In between each arch on the wall, fire sconces blazed with hot coals, burning a furious, bright red, casting dancing, crimson light that chased the shadows across the polished, dark surfaces. The air in this space was palpably warmer, thick with the scent of heat and something metallic, almost like blood.

The central area of the floor was sunken, two wide, shallow steps leading down into a vast, circular expanse. Directly in its center was a waist-high fire pit, heavily carved with grotesque and beautiful designs, yet it contained no wood or fuel. It was merely a bed of blazing, incandescent red hot coals, radiating immense heat, with the occasional ethereal blue flame coiling and wisping out from its depths like spectral tongues.

On the far side of the expansive room, opposite their entry, was a large, ornate opening that led to a broad, dark balcony. Beyond it, Nora could hear a tremendous commotion, a deafening cacophony that vibrated through the very stone of the atrium: a raw, primal chanting, the rhythmic, booming thud of massive drums, and a pervasive haze of deep, infernal red light emanating from the ground below, a stark and startling contrast to the dark, oppressive twilight sky they had just left.

Standing in the archway before the balcony was a very tall person, who held themselves with an undeniable, regal grace. Their short, stark white hair curled slightly at the ends and enormous, leathery wings, remarkably similar to those of a bat, spread out behind them like a dark, imposing cloak, shifting slightly with an unseen current. They were clad in a floor-length robe of satin-looking white, its fabric seemed to absorb the flickering light of the coals rather than reflect it, lending to their shadowy allure.

After a short, charged pause, the figure slowly turned, their movements fluid and deliberate. Nora realized with a jolt that it was a woman, and even from this distance, a palpable dark aura seemed to emanate from her, a curious, unsettling juxtaposition against her stark white hair, which, paradoxically, appeared almost like a halo around her head.

“Hello, Dream,” the woman’s voice resonated through the vast space, cool and clear, carrying an ancient authority that spoke of millennia.

“Greetings to you, Lucifer Morningstar,” Morpheus responded, his voice equally composed, devoid of warmth or deference, yet laced with an ancient recognition. He then turned his head slightly to the side, acknowledging another figure Nora hadn’t noticed until that moment, partially obscured by Lucifer’s imposing presence. “And to you, Mazikeen of the Lillim.”

The second woman turned her head a fraction more towards Morpheus, and Nora saw, with a jolt of revulsion, that the other side of her face was a grotesque landscape of melted, stretched skin, pulled and scarred in odd, horrifying directions. Despite the disfigurement, the woman bowed her head towards Morpheus, a faint rasp in her voice as she spoke. “Greetings, Dream Lord.” Her eyes, sharp and intense, flickered over Nora for a brief moment.

Lucifer cut in then, her voice abruptly shifting to a saccharine, almost unnervingly cheery tone, utterly fake, a mockery of genuine pleasantry. “You look well, Dream. Are you well? And your family… Destiny, Death, Despair…” She paused, a brief, theatrical sigh escaping her lips, as if the sheer number of names was well beyond her effort level, or perhaps merely a rhetorical flourish to emphasize her feigned concern. “And the others?”

Morpheus’s patience was visibly thin, though he attempted to mask it, his voice tight. “I presume the ruler of Hell knows this is no social call.”

Lucifer took a languid, deliberate step forward, her expression shifting to one of almost hopeful curiosity, a glint in her eyes like ancient ice. “Have you come to join forces then? To ally your realm to ours? To acknowledge the sovereignty of Hell?” Her words dripped with a mocking invitation.

“You know my feelings on that, Lightbringer,” Morpheus responded, his tone unwavering, a steel edge beneath the calm.

Lucifer laughed softly to herself, a sound like dry leaves rustling across a desolate plain. “Well, feelings change.” After a short pause, her eyes, usually devoid of obvious emotion, held a strange, piercing glint, alight with malicious amusement.

"Especially when one has been caught and imprisoned by mortals." Lucifer's voice, though light, carried a sharp, predatory edge. She left the archway of the balcony, descending with an unnerving grace down the few steps into the very center of the sunken floor. Her long white robe seemed to flow around her like liquid moonlight. "We expected better of you, sweet Morpheus," she said, her tone dripping with mock sorrow, a theatrical sigh accompanying her words.

"I have come because my Helm of State was stolen from me," Morpheus cut in, his voice cutting through her performance, cold and unyielding as granite. "I believe one of your demons has it. I should like it back." A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge, before he lowered his voice, the word resonating with ancient power: "Now."

Lucifer began to walk around the central fire pit, her movements slow and deliberate, her gaze never leaving Morpheus. Her pale hand stretched casually towards the intensely hot coals, and a wisp of blue flame, as if drawn by an invisible thread, curled delicately around her fingers, dancing on her skin without harm. "And if only it were that easy, Dream," she purred, her voice a mocking echo of true sympathy. She paused, the flame twisting around her digits, before continuing, her tone almost a direct taunt, "But there are rules, you see. Protocols. Which must be followed."

Nora, watching from a few paces behind Morpheus, saw a minute tremor pass through his shoulders. He very slightly shook his head, a ghost of a self-mocking smile curving his lips. He should have known. He, who embodied the very essence of rules and cosmic laws, was now being lectured on them by the King of Hell. The irony was palpable.

Lucifer gave him a small, knowing smile, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, before turning sharply. Her wings unfurled subtly, momentarily casting a vast, sweeping shadow across the gleaming floor as she moved. She walked back towards the balcony opening, her white robe trailing elegantly behind her. "Which demon has your Helm? Name it, and we will bring it here."

"I confess, I do not know the name," Morpheus called out, his voice betraying no frustration, only fact.

Lucifer paused at the archway, her expression suddenly, almost terrifyingly cheerful, as if everything was proceeding exactly as she desired. "Then we will have to summon all of them!" She turned, her arm sweeping out in an almost languid wave motion towards the unseen crowds below the balcony, and the distant, drumming noise level increased drastically, swelling into a thunderous roar. Morpheus took several swift steps to follow her to the balcony, his dark coat billowing, and Nora and Matthew following.

As Nora peered over the edge of the balcony, her eyes widened in stunned disbelief. Below them, stretching into the hazy red distance, were not just hundreds, but thousands of demons, a churning, chaotic sea of monstrous forms. Their grotesque faces, horns, and varied shapes were barely discernible in the infernal glow, illuminated sporadically by massive bonfires that dotted the landscape like angry, pulsing sores. The air below was thick with their collective, malevolent presence, their roars and chants rising like a storm.

"There, now, Dream," Lucifer said, her voice carrying over the din, impossibly clear. "You may inquire which demon has your helmet." She then turned her head towards him, her beautiful features tilting in an almost innocently light inquiry. "Shall we interview them one at a time, or…?" A subtle, cruel smirk played on her lips, hinting at the endless, soul-crushing task she was proposing.

Morpheus gave an almost invisible nod, a flicker of resolve hardening his gaze. "That won't be necessary." He turned abruptly, walking back towards the other side of the atrium, away from the roaring abyss and the grinning Devil. Nora and Matthew followed close behind him, neither wanting to stand within Lucifer's immediate vicinity for a second longer than required.

Lucifer shared a quick, knowing look with Mazikeen, a silent exchange of triumph, before turning and following Morpheus, her words a mournful, almost sorrowful lament that was entirely for show. "It surprises us how easily you would give up, Dream." Her voice deepened, becoming more melodious, as she walked towards where Morpheus now stood in the central atrium. "We know how you relied upon your tools. But tools are the subtlest of traps. We become reliant upon them, and in their absence, we are vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless." She continued to speak, her words like poisoned honey, enumerating all the ways she believed Morpheus was diminished, exposed, and helpless without his sigils, without his realm, without his strength. Each syllable was a carefully crafted insult, designed to chip away at his ancient pride, to remind him of his recent captivity and loss.

With each word from Lucifer, Nora's anger coiled tighter, the rage inside her building. She could feel the mocking scorn, the insidious joy Lucifer took in tearing down Morpheus. Her free hand, the one not cradling Matthew, clenched slowly into a tight, white-knuckled fist, held just slightly behind her back, out of sight. Her jaw was tight, a silent vow of retribution forming in her mind.

Morpheus, still facing away from them, towards the desolate stone wall, allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips. "Not entirely." He reached into the deep pocket of his dark wool coat, pulling out his familiar leather pouch of shimmering sand. He knelt down towards the polished obsidian floor, his movements deliberate. With a practiced motion, he tilted the pouch, and the golden, ethereal sand began to spill out, piling onto the smooth stone in a small, glowing mound. His voice, low and resonant, cut through Lucifer’s lingering taunts. "I have recovered my sand. It brought us to Hell. And it now brings that which is mine in Hell to me."

The sand he had poured onto the floor began to swirl, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, forming a shimmering, golden vortex. Morpheus took a single step back, his eyes fixed on the growing phenomenon. The sand continued to swirl outwards and upwards, coalescing into a shimmering, miniature tornado in the center of the sunken floor. Slowly, within that swirling column of golden grains, a dark form began to appear, solidifying from the ethereal shimmer. With a final, violent swirl of golden sand, the body completely solidified, facing away from them, a tall, hunched figure. Morpheus's helm, dark and intricately crafted, was clearly held in its hands. The figure's head moved slowly, side to side, as if confused, disoriented, or perhaps searching for its bearings. Then, as abruptly as it appeared, the sand dissipated into nothing, leaving only the demon standing before them.

The demon, whose form was grotesque and hulking, swiftly turned around, its eyes, like burning coals, fixing on Morpheus. Morpheus's voice, sharp with ancient authority, cut through the silence. "Tell me your name."

The demon's gaze flickered towards Lucifer, who stood behind them, off to the side, a faint scowl on her perfect features now that Morpheus had cleverly circumvented her attempt to prolong his search. "Do I have to?" the demon grumbled, its voice like gravel.

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated growl, muttering to Morpheus, "That is Choronzon. A Duke of Hell."

"Choronzon," Morpheus repeated, his voice low, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the demon directly. "The Helm is mine. You will return it to me."

"No," Choronzon replied, almost childishly, clutching the helm tighter. "It's mine now. I traded it from a mortal for a paltry thing. It was a fair trade. I've broken no laws." After a pause, the demon seemed to regain a measure of its infernal courage, its voice growing in arrogance. "And if the Dream King wants his Helm back, he will have to fight me for it."

Morpheus's lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. "Very well. I challenge you, Choronzon."

The demon chuckled, a guttural, wet sound. "You know the rules, Dream Lord."

"If I win, you will return my Helm," Morpheus stated, his eyes blazing with resolve.

Choronzon countered, a cruel gleam in his eyes, "And if you lose, you'll serve as my slave in Hell." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, allowing their full weight to sink in. "For eternity."

At Choronzon's final pronouncement, both Nora and Matthew sharply turned their heads to Morpheus, their expressions mirroring each other's shock. "For... forever?" Matthew squawked, his voice high with disbelief.

Nora's breath caught in her throat. The casual bravado of Hell, the chilling indifference to endless suffering, suddenly became terrifyingly personal. Forever? A slave in Hell? The stakes just went from bad to unspeakably, cosmically catastrophic. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the encroaching dread.

“I accept the terms,” Morpheus stated, his voice ringing with a cold, unwavering resolve that seemed to cut through the infernal din.

Matthew let out a dread-filled caw, a mournful, terrified sound that echoed in the vast atrium. Nora’s arm, still holding the raven, shook slightly, a tremor that ran through her entire body.

“And whom will you choose to represent you in this battle?” Lucifer asked, her voice smooth as polished marble, her eyes gleaming with an unholy light amidst her ethereal beauty.

“I shall represent myself,” Morpheus replied, his gaze fixed on Lucifer, unwavering, his own dark eyes burning with ancient fire.

“And whom will you choose to represent you?” Lucifer turned to Choronzon, her white hair framing her unsettlingly perfect face.

Choronzon paused for a second, his brutish features contorting in thought, the faint glow of the coals reflecting in his deep-set eyes, before a slow, cruel grin spread across his face, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. “Hmm. I choose you, Sire.” He pointed a thick, clawed finger at Lucifer.

Lucifer bowed her head, a show of fake sorrow, her satin-white robe rustling softly around her. Her voice dripped with mock apology. “Apologies, Dream, but the laws of Hell demand that I become his champion.” Her eyes, when she lifted them, gleamed with triumphant malice, utterly devoid of the feigned regret. “But if you would not fight me…”

“I have accepted the terms,” Morpheus cut her off, his voice absolute, each word a hammer blow of conviction. “We will challenge.”

Lucifer’s smile became almost saccharine, too sweet, too wide for the hellish setting, revealing teeth that were just a touch too sharp. “Perfect. But first…” She paused, her gaze fixed on Morpheus for a deliberate, challenging moment, then, with agonizing slowness, shifted her attention towards Nora, a calculating gleam entering her eyes. Her hand, pale against the stark white of her robe, flicked once into the air, a quiet, almost imperceptible signal in the cavernous space.

Suddenly, Nora found herself assailed from behind. Two hulking demon forms, their skin like cracked earth and eyes like embers, seemed to spawn from the very shadows of the atrium, their clawed hands clamping down on both her arms with bruising force. Matthew, caught completely by surprise as Nora’s arm was ripped out from beneath him, let out several loud, indignant squawks, flapping wildly with a flurry of black feathers before landing a few feet away with an undignified thud, his tiny body trembling. Nora gasped in shock, the air driven from her lungs by the sudden assault, and instinctively tried to pull her arms from the demons’ iron grip, but their hold was locked tight, almost crushing her bones.

Morpheus’s attention immediately snapped to Nora, his eyes blazing with ancient fury, starlit pools of rage, and he took a furious, ground-eating step towards her, his dark coat swirling around him like a storm cloud.

“Dream!” Lucifer’s voice cracked like a whip, stern and absolute, cutting through the sudden chaos and stopping him immediately, a palpable wall of command erected between him and Nora.

Lucifer then began to move, taking slow, deliberate steps around the other side of the central fire pit, her movements intimidatingly graceful, subtly gaining ground towards Nora. Her white robe flowed around her like a predatory cloud, the light from the coals dancing in its folds. “You think I had forgotten the mortal,” Lucifer purred, her voice a silken thread of accusation, “that you brought along with you into Hell, into my realm, without consideration for me, or for asking permission?” She shook her head, a theatrical display of disappointment. “Tut, tut sweet Morpheus. It’s almost as if you don’t care about this mortal, or what happens to her.” As she finished speaking, she stopped directly in front of Nora, her ethereal beauty an unnerving contrast to her malevolent intent. With unexpected gentleness, she delicately placed her forefinger underneath Nora’s chin and tilted Nora’s head up, forcing her to meet Lucifer’s gaze. “And such a pretty thing too,” Lucifer mused, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper, her eyes raking over Nora’s face with a proprietary gleam. A shiver, cold as grave dust, ran down Nora’s spine. The “gentleness” was far more terrifying than any overt threat, a promise of exquisite, prolonged torment.

At Lucifer’s words, the two demons holding Nora grumbled in guttural agreement, their monstrous grips on Nora’s arms tightening just slightly, almost imperceptibly, yet enough to send a sharp pang of pain through Nora’s limbs. The smallest whimper, a sound of fear and pain, leaked out of Nora’s mouth, escaping before she could stop it. This is it, a panicked thought screamed in Nora’s mind. This is where it all goes wrong. This is where I break. She could feel the demons’ raw power, the immense weight of their presence, and Lucifer’s gaze felt like a physical violation. The heat from the fire pit seemed to intensify, pressing down on her, suffocating.

Morpheus’s eyes, already burning with fury, flared with a possessive rage that ignited like supernova. The subtle possessiveness he held for Nora, a feeling he rarely acknowledged even to himself, roared to life. How dare she touch what is not hers? How dare she lay a hand upon her! His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous growl, laced with ancient ice. “Unhand her, Lucifer. She is not yours to touch, nor yours to threaten.”

Lucifer’s delicate touch lingered on Nora’s chin for another agonizing second before she slowly withdrew her finger, a dismissive flick of her wrist. A cold, knowing smile spread across her face, thin and sharp. “Oh, but she is, Dream. She is within my domain now. And this little side-venture of yours, this unexpected baggage… it was not part of your original, rather pathetic, challenge for your Helm.” Her eyes, once again fixed on Morpheus, blazed with triumphant malice, utterly devoid of the feigned regret. “Even if you win this little contest against Choronzon, that does not mean the mortal leaves with you. You will have to fight for her as well. Perhaps, a new wager, Dream Lord? For her soul? For her eternal service here in Hell?” The last words were a taunting whisper, a direct challenge to his authority, his compassion, and his carefully constructed detachment, promising an agonizing choice.

The thought of Nora, held captive, threatened, her spirit vulnerable to the myriad torments of Hell, caused a profound, almost physical agony within Morpheus. Every instinct screamed at him to tear through the demons, to snatch her back, yet Lucifer had halted him, binding him with the very laws he himself upheld. The seconds stretched into an unbearable eternity, each one a torment as he left Nora in the hands of his ancient foe. The pain, sharp and cold, resonated through their psychic link, and Nora felt it too, a mirrored ache of his extreme reluctance, of his controlled fury. He forced himself to take a single, agonizing step back, away from Nora, before turning slowly towards Lucifer. His face, usually a mask of detached solemnity, was now contorted into a dark, predatory sneer, a sight rarely seen even in the deepest nightmares he commanded. His eyes, burning like twin abyssal stars, fixed on Lucifer Morningstar, daring her to flinch. “Let us begin, then.”

-

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

Next Chapter

[nerdydaydreamer]

You Explain Geese to Morpheus

MASTERLIST

Morpheus sat on his throne, chin resting on his hand, observing the swirling nebulae and nascent dreams within his realm. You, Y/N, paced before him, a whirlwind of agitated energy.

"No, you don't understand, Morpheus!" you exclaimed, throwing your hands up. "They're not just 'geese.' They're menaces! Feathery, honking, unholy terrors that walk the earth with no fear in their beady little eyes!"

Morpheus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his ancient gaze. "A nightmare based on a waterfowl, Y/N? Surely you jest. They are but simple birds, are they not? Grazing peacefully on lawns, swimming serenely on ponds."

You stopped pacing, planting your feet firmly. "Peaceful? Serene? Oh, you sweet, naive Dream Lord. These things stalk. They patrol. You walk too close to their... their nesting grounds, and suddenly you're being dive-bombed by a feathered torpedo of pure rage! They hiss, Morpheus! They hiss like miniature dragons, daring you to challenge their dominion over a patch of grass!"

"A hiss," Morpheus mused, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Hardly the stuff of nightmares, I would imagine. Fear thrives on the unknown, the monstrous, the things that twist the mind. Not... a goose."

"Oh, but it is unknown!" you insisted, warming to your subject. "You never know when they'll strike! One minute you're enjoying a picnic, the next you're making a tactical retreat from a honking assault squad. And their eyes, Morpheus! Black, soulless pits that stare into your very being, daring you to challenge their right to that discarded sandwich crust. They will chase you. They will remember you. And they are utterly, utterly without fear."

You leaned in conspiratorially. "I once saw one go toe-to-toe with a fully grown tiger at the zoo. A tiger, Morpheus! A massive, striped killing machine, a predator designed by nature itself! And this goose? This unassuming, waddling goose just... annihilated it! Backed it right down! It was glorious. It was horrifying. It was... nightmare fuel!"

Morpheus chuckled, a sound like shifting sands. "So, you envision a nightmare where mortals are pursued by… aggressive waterfowl? A rather specific terror, wouldn't you say?"

"Think bigger!" you urged. "Imagine a dream where they aren't just geese. They're the sentinels of the suburban apocalypse. Their honks echo with the weight of impending doom, their waddling gait becomes a terrifying march, their little webbed feet stomp out the hope from your soul! They guard every park bench, every pond, every scrap of food with the ferocity of a thousand demons! They are the devil incarnate, I tell you!"

Morpheus finally leaned back, a glint in his eye. "You are… passionate about these creatures, Y/N. Perhaps there is a thread of potential in your absurd proposal. The fear of the mundane transformed into something truly unsettling… a pervasive, irritating, yet undeniably terrifying presence." He tapped a finger against his chin. "Tell me more about their methods of intimidation. Their preferred ambush techniques. Their most unsettling honk patterns."

A triumphant grin spread across your face. "Oh, Morpheus, you're going to love this. Let me tell you about the 'honk of judgment'..."

~

A short time later, the air was warm and filled with the cheerful sounds of children's laughter. Sunshine dappled through the leaves as you strolled with Morpheus through a seemingly idyllic park. A small pond shimmered to your left, its gentle fountain a soothing murmur against the backdrop of chattering parents on nearby benches, casually gossiping while their kids played tag on the emerald green grass. You had just recounted a particularly absurd dream you’d had involving Desire and a sentient bag of pretzels, and your laughter was finally subsiding, leaving a pleasant lightness in the air.

Then you heard it. A single, deep, resonant HONK. It wasn’t the cheerful greeting of a typical bird. This honk held a weight, a promise of something… unpleasant. A cold shiver snaked down your spine, and the color visibly drained from your face.

“Honk. Honk.”

Your head whipped around, eyes scanning the perimeter, desperately seeking the source of the ominous sound. Across a small, manicured field, at the very edge of a line of oak trees, you saw it. A lone goose waddled into view, its long neck extended, its head held high, surveying its domain with an almost regal, yet utterly chilling, composure.

“Okay,” you whispered, a fragile hope fluttering in your chest. “Okay, maybe it’s just one. We can just… back away slowly.”

But then you saw it. Another goose, a dark silhouette against the sun-drenched grass, emerged from the trees beside the first, its gait just as purposeful, just as… menacing. And then a third. A chorus of lower honks echoed from the treeline, a chilling avian backup choir of pure, unadulterated doom.

“Oh no,” you breathed, the lightness from moments ago completely extinguished, replaced by a familiar, icy dread.

Suddenly, the lead goose spotted it. A half-eaten sandwich lay precariously close to the edge of a park bench, momentarily abandoned by a father distracted by his chattering toddler. With a speed that belied its awkward waddle, the goose launched itself forward, a cacophony of honks and angry hisses erupting from its beak like a feathered, feisty missile. It dive-bombed the sandwich, its wings flapping furiously, a true aerial assault.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Screams pierced the air. Parents, jolted by the sudden avian assault, scrambled to scoop up their children, their faces contorted in a mixture of fear and disbelief. Picnic blankets were abandoned, bags forgotten, as a wave of pure, unadulterated panic swept through the park. People tripped over each other in their haste to escape the feathered fury descending upon them. The air was thick with honks, hisses, and the terrified cries of the fleeing populace, a symphony of chaos orchestrated by a flock of very angry birds.

You turned to Morpheus, your eyes wide with vindication amidst the swirling pandemonium. “See?” you exclaimed, your voice a desperate plea over the din, gesturing wildly at the unfolding scene. “I TOLD you!”

Morpheus’s usual serene expression was gone, replaced by a flicker of something akin to awe, perhaps even a hint of disquieting revelation. He observed the chaotic retreat of the humans, the relentless, almost formation-like advance of the geese. He noted the sheer, unbridled terror these seemingly neutral birds could instill, an unrelenting nature he had not anticipated. One portly gentleman, attempting to escape a particularly aggressive gander, tripped over his own feet, arms flailing like a windmill as he landed squarely in a rose bush, a high-pitched yelp escaping him as the goose continued its determined pursuit. Yes, the terror of the mundane transformed into an utterly effective weapon, Morpheus mused, his mind processing the rapid shift from pastoral peace to feathered anarchy. They possess a relentless, organized aggression. I, the Lord of Dreams, had gravely underestimated the power of their mundane horror, the potent fear born from something so outwardly innocuous. He had been profoundly proven wrong by these persistent, terrifying birds. The concept was almost... humbling.

Just then, a solitary goose detached itself from the chaotic fray. It waddled directly towards you and Morpheus, its head tilted slightly, appearing utterly innocent, almost curious. But you knew better. A primal tremor of panic started to ripple through you.

“Morpheus,” you whispered, grabbing his sleeve and shaking it slightly, your voice tight with barely suppressed hysteria. “Morpheus, can we panic now?”

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 21: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Where Angels Fall~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright, don't panic," Matthew announced, puffing out his chest, trying to project an air of competence. "I'm just going to fly up and see where we are." He flapped his wings twice, launching himself into the air, a picture of avian determination. He immediately spun back around, landing heavily on the ground, his feathers ruffled and his small body trembling. "Nope! Nope, not doing that."

Nora and Morpheus looked up, their gazes following Matthew's terrified stare. Nora immediately grimaced, a wave of revulsion washing over her. Interwoven into the skeletal trees above them were decaying, grey corpses, their forms grotesque against the twilight sky. Their leathery skin clung to bone, and empty eye sockets stared down at them. Groaning sounds, like wind whistling through hollow reeds, drifted down from the branches, mingling with the creaking of the skeletal trees as they swayed in the unseen currents of Hell's air.

"Does this seem like the way to the palace to you, Boss?" Matthew asked quietly, his voice barely a chirp, his tiny eyes wide with primal fear.

"A demon has a hundred motives for anything he does," Morpheus replied, his voice low, addressed to both Matthew and Nora, a cold certainty in his tone. "All of them malevolent."

As they continued to look around, the oppressive silence was broken by a quiet, feminine voice calling out from behind them, soft but clear in the desolate air. "Kai'ckul?"

The trio turned, their gazes drawn to the source of the voice. They saw a structure that was more prison than home, a grim, organic architecture seemingly grown from the very rock of Hell. It was a low-slung, almost squat hut, but its walls appeared to be a twisted, petrified wood, interwoven with sharp, gnarled branches that emerged like spikes, creating a menacing, skeletal facade. Heavy, rusted iron bars covered the single, small window, making it clear that this was a cage, not a dwelling. The scent of despair seemed to emanate from it, mingling with the ever-present brimstone.

A female form approached the barred window. Her deep chocolate skin appeared drawn and pale in the dim light, framed by a slightly compressed afro that sat close to her head. She grasped two of the cold, iron bars, her knuckles white, her face almost touching the rusted metal. "Kai'ckul?" she whispered again, her voice raw with a desperate hope. Then she breathed out heavily, a visible plume of cold air. "Dream Lord?" A gasp escaped her lips, and then, a breathy, choked whisper: "It is you."

At this, Morpheus took a very small, almost imperceptible step towards her. "I greet you, Nada."

Nora, who had harbored a small, gnawing suspicion of the woman's identity given their environment and Morpheus's prior confession in the glass cage, remained utterly quiet in the background. The confirmation from Morpheus solidified her fears, a heavy weight in her chest. As he spoke Nada’s name, she slowly lowered her arm towards the ground, extending it to Matthew in a silent gesture for him to hop on. Once he had settled, a light, familiar weight on her forearm, she took a few silent steps backward, maintaining a proximity close enough for safety, as she had promised she would stay near Morpheus earlier, yet still far enough away to afford them a semblance of privacy. She wasn’t sure if Morpheus was truly ready for this interaction, or how he would navigate the treacherous currents of this ancient pain. But she was ready for whatever he decided to do, a silent vow of unwavering support echoing in her mind.

"How I have prayed for this day," Nada breathed, her voice a fragile whisper, yet filled with an almost unbearable hope. She looked at Morpheus, her eyes, even in the dimness, radiating love and a desperate yearning. "I knew you would come."

"It pains me to see you like this," Morpheus responded, his voice a low, somber murmur.

Nada pleaded, her voice rising slightly, infused with a raw, desperate need. "Then free me, Lord! Only your forgiveness can free me." After a weighty pause, her voice dropped, hushed and vulnerable. "Do you not still love me?"

Morpheus took a moment, a long, agonizing beat, to collect his thoughts. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken history. "It has been ten thousand years, Nada." His voice was soft, laced with an ancient weariness. "Yes, I still love you. But…" He paused, turning his head just slightly in Nora’s direction, not quite looking at her, but acknowledging her presence. He thought for a moment, a brief, internal reflection, recalling Nora’s poignant observation from the glass prison: Her fear of that life... it was not a rejection of you, but of what it would mean for a mortal. The truth of it, the simple, devastating truth of his own blind pride, settled deeper within him. The raw, recently endured pain of his own imprisonment, of being judged and confined for what he was, echoed Nada's ancient plight, granting him a profound, bitter empathy.

He turned his head back towards Nada, his gaze filled with that understanding of deep pain, but also softened by the wisdom of his own suffering. He took a hesitant step closer to the bars, his pale hand rising slightly as if to reach out, then faltering. "Nada," he began, his voice a low rumble, searching for the right words, a visible struggle in his features. "Your choice, born of fear for a life you could not embrace… It was my anger… my hurt… that compelled my actions. My judgment was… " He paused again, a deep furrow forming in his brow, wrestling with the unfamiliar exposure of his own vulnerabilities. "It was... unwarranted. Wrong of me to punish you for such mortal fears." He took a second, collecting his thoughts, his eyes fixed on hers. "After all this time, I do… I forgive you for those fears. And I hope, in time, you can forgive me for the unjust punishment I inflicted upon you."

Nada gasped, a sharp, choked sound of pure shock and surprise. Tears, shimmering streaks on her dark cheeks, began to pour from her eyes. Her mouth fell agape, trembling, yet it was subtly upturning at the corners, a nascent, fragile curve of joy amidst her sorrow. "Forgive… me?" she whispered, the words barely audible, as if the concept were too immense to comprehend. "Oh, Kai'ckul… my Dream Lord..." She reached out instinctively, her hand pushing through the bars, desperate to touch him.

Morpheus took a swift, subtle step back, a clear, unspoken boundary. His gaze remained sorrowful, but unwavering, a silent testament to his decision. He nodded to himself, a definitive movement. He looked Nada in the eye once more. "I will speak to Lucifer," he stated, then paused, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, "regarding your imprisonment."

Nada slowly pulled her arm back in through the bars, her hand falling to grasp the cold iron once more. She nodded, tears still streaming from her eyes, her gaze fixed on Morpheus. She seemed to want to say more, her lips parting slightly, but no sound emerged. She simply held his gaze, a quiet, earnest acceptance in her eyes.

Nora, from her position, felt a quiet awe settling over her. A couple of tears escaped her own eyes, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She had felt the intense struggle Morpheus had undergone, the sheer effort of exposing himself, of articulating such deep, personal vulnerability. A powerful warmth spread through her chest, an overwhelming pride and happiness that he had made this choice, that he had extended such forgiveness and understanding to Nada.

Morpheus took several steps back, creating a small distance between them. Nora, still carrying Matthew, made her way over towards him. Just as they reached his side, before either of them could utter a word, the demon guard, Squatterbloat, suddenly materialized beside them, his massive form appearing from the desolate landscape with a low grumble.

"Follow me," Squatterbloat grumbled, his voice like grinding stones, and the trio began to move, the demon's massive, heavy footsteps crunching loudly on the desolate ground several paces ahead of them. They walked for what felt like an eternity, the grey, barren landscape stretching endlessly under the bruised, perpetual twilight of Hell. The oppressive quiet, broken only by their footsteps and the distant, unseen groans of the damned, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the acute sense of desolation and isolation. The air remained frigid, biting at exposed skin, heavy with the cloying scent of death and brimstone.

After several minutes, as the monotonous trek began to wear on them, Matthew finally piped up, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "So, that woman back there. Anything you want to share with your best friend Matthew?" His tone was carefully casual, almost conspiratorial, despite the inherent danger of their surroundings.

After a moment, Morpheus turned his head, his gaze distant, lost in eons of memory, though he continued to walk forward, his tall frame cutting a silent silhouette against the dim horizon. "Her name is Nada. She was the ruler of a tribe that called themselves the First People. We were in love." His words were soft, almost a whisper, laden with an ancient sorrow.

Matthew paused for a second, then hopped agitatedly on Nora’s arm. His tiny head swiveled directly to Nora, then back to Morpheus, then quickly back to Nora, and then back to Morpheus. "So what did she do? How did she end up here?" He seemed almost afraid to ask, yet his curiosity outweighed his fear.

"She defied me," Morpheus replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet the weight of the statement hung heavy in the cold air.

Matthew's feathers ruffled, his small body tensing. "Wait, you put her here?" The accusation, raw and incredulous, hung between them.

Before Morpheus could explain further, the demon guard in front of them stopped abruptly, his immense bulk suddenly still. Squatterbloat then stepped with surprising agility to the side, his massive, gnarled hand gesturing forward with an almost impatient motion, revealing what lay beyond.

"Why are we stopping?" Matthew asked both Nora and Morpheus, his voice a bewildered, slightly panicked chirp, his tiny head craning.

Nora looked ahead, past the hulking, shadowed form of the guard, and her eyes widened, a slow gasp escaping her lips. "I think we're here."

-

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

Next Chapter

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 20: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Constantine’s Farewell~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 19: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Unforgettable Tune~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 18: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Call of Nature~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 17: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~London Calling~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 16: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Crossroads of Fate~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Next Chapter

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 15: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~A Painful Price~

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

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

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

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

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

“Cain,” Abel insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cain,” Lucienne cut in sharply.

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

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

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

“The answer is no,” Cain stated simply.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not fair,” Abel choked out.

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

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

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

“Come. We have work to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Next Chapter

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 14: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Hope in the Ruins~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucienne looked confused. “Your tools?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 13: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Weight of Absence~

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

Then she looked to her right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

You Teach The Nightmares Crafts

MASTERLIST

For what felt like eons, you, y/n, had been a welcome, if unusual, visitor to the Dreaming. Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, had, in his own reserved way, grown accustomed to your presence. You had explored the boundless library, shared quiet moments with Cain and Abel in their macabre garden, strolled through the vibrant fields of Fiddler's Green, and wandered the labyrinth halls of the Dream King's palace. Your visits were always to the brighter, more pleasant facets of his realm, and Morpheus had never felt the need to introduce you to its darker corners.

One twilight, as gossamer clouds drifted across the Dreaming's perpetual dusk, Morpheus found himself with a rare moment of repose. He decided to take a walk, and by unspoken agreement, you accompanied him. The path wound through shimmering gardens, where flowers bloomed with the light of forgotten stars, their petals catching the soft, diffused glow of the sky. You spoke of mundane things—a book you'd recently read, a curious incident in your waking life—and Morpheus, to your endless amusement, offered surprisingly insightful, if somewhat somber, observations. His voice, a low, resonant murmur, was like the turning pages of a very old, very wise book.

As you rounded a bend in the path, a shift in the very air caught your attention. To your left, the vibrant hues of the Dreaming faded into a muted, almost oppressive grey. Shadows seemed to deepen there, coalescing into indistinct, shifting forms that writhed at the very edge of perception. It wasn't menacing, not precisely, but it held a tangible sense of unease, a stark contrast to the gentle beauty surrounding you. A chill, like the whisper of forgotten fears, seemed to emanate from that direction.

"What's over there?" you asked, a note of curiosity in your voice, pointing towards the shadowy expanse.

Morpheus's gaze followed yours, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—like distant galaxies briefly aligning. "That," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate with ancient knowledge, "is where my nightmares reside. They typically remain in their own domain, separate from the more… placid parts of the Dreaming."

You nodded slowly, your expression thoughtful, a subtle intrigue in your gaze, but you didn't press the matter, and soon you both continued your walk, leaving the shadowed lands behind, a silent question hanging in the air between you.

Days, or perhaps nights, later in the Dreaming's fluid timeline, Morpheus found himself strangely… unsettled. You hadn't appeared in the palace, nor the library, nor any of your usual haunts. A subtle current of absence rippled through his realm, an unusual void in the quiet rhythm of his days.

"Haven't seen y/n around, have you, Matthew?" Morpheus asked his raven, who was perched on a crumbling balustrade, pecking at a stray thought-crumb with an almost philosophical air.

Matthew ruffled his glossy black feathers, then looked up, his beady eyes bright with a knowing glint. "Oh, yeah, Boss. Saw 'em a while back. Headed straight into the nightmare side. Looked like they were on a mission, too."

Morpheus paused, a rare moment of indecision clouding his eternal features. The nightmare realm. He hadn't felt any disturbance, no surge of fear, no desperate calls for aid. Yet, the thought of you, a mere mortal, amidst his more… gruesome creations pricked at something akin to concern within him. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a subtle tightening in the vast emptiness of his being. With a soft, rustling whoosh, he dissolved into a flurry of golden sand, reforming moments later in the oppressive gloom of the nightmare realm.

The air was thick with the whispers of forgotten fears and the low thrum of primal dread. Shadows clung to everything, deep and impenetrable, occasionally shifting to reveal glints of unholy light or the fleeting suggestion of monstrous forms. Morpheus moved through it, his floor-length black wool coat blending seamlessly with the encompassing darkness, his dark, windswept hair a further extension of the gloom. He was, after all, the rightful King of Nightmares, and he belonged here. His form barely disturbed the swirling landscape, and he was as much a part of the shadows as the shadows themselves, seeking your unique energy signature. He followed a faint, almost imperceptible thread of… something entirely out of place here. Something warm, and bright, and undeniably human.

And then he found you.

You were seated cross-legged on the shadowy ground, bathed in a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to push back the encroaching darkness. It wasn't a harsh light, but a gentle luminescence, giving you an almost halo-like aura. You were a very obvious spot, a defiant splash of color in the monochrome dread, thanks to your clothes—a vibrant tapestry of reds, yellows, and blues that screamed of sunshine and joy in this realm of perpetual twilight. You sat in the very heart of a circle of some of his most horrifying nightmares. The Corinthian, usually a figure of predatory menace with his skeletal grin and eyeless sockets, sat with a surprisingly rapt expression, holding a tangle of colorful yarn. His tooth-filled eye sockets, usually hungry and cold, seemed almost… focused. Brute and Globals, hulking masses of shifting fear, seemed almost… attentive, their amorphous forms strangely still. Even the Whispers of Regret and the Shrieks of Abandonment, typically formless embodiments of despair and terror, had coalesced into more defined shapes, their ghostly visages tilted with a bizarre focus, their usual cacophony of sorrow replaced by a strange, almost gentle quiet.

You held up a half-knitted scarf, its colors shockingly cheerful—a vibrant mix of yellows and blues—against the dim backdrop. "No, no, sweetie," you said, your voice gentle, yet firm, like a seasoned kindergarten teacher addressing a particularly enthusiastic student. You reached out, your fingers surprisingly unafraid as they neared the Corinthian, guiding his shockingly delicate grasp. "You've dropped a stitch. See? We need to go back and pick it up like this. Easy does it."

The Corinthian, whose teeth were designed to consume eyes and whose very being was a testament to human depravity, was struggling with a dropped stitch, and you were patiently showing him how to fix it. Morpheus stared, utterly baffled, his cosmic mind momentarily unable to reconcile the scene before him. He watched as you, with an unwavering calm, instructed Brute on the finer points of macrame, your hands moving with practiced ease as you showed him how to tie a square knot. Globals, surprisingly, was attempting the intricate art of paper-folding, their formless mass contorting with a strange concentration as they tried to mimic your precise movements. The Whispers of Regret, who normally spoke only of what was lost, were attempting to create friendship bracelets, their usually mournful murmurs replaced by soft, focused hums as they threaded beads onto string.

Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, Master of Nightmares, felt a series of profoundly un-Morpheus-like emotions wash over him. Bafflement, certainly. Shock, absolutely. His nightmares, his terrible, magnificent creations, were… crafting. They were learning hobbies. Profoundly un-nightmarish hobbies. But beneath it all, a strange, undeniable warmth bloomed in his chest. You, a mere mortal, had not only ventured into the heart of his nightmares but had, with an astonishing lack of fear, befriended them. You were teaching them mundane crafts, treating them not as embodiments of terror, but as students in need of gentle guidance. The absurdity of it all, coupled with the undeniable endearing quality of the scene, left him speechless.

He remained in the shadows, a silent, unseen observer. His nightmares, it seemed, had found themselves a teacher.

Some time later, in the comforting hush of the Grand Library, you were perched on a rolling ladder, deep in conversation with Lucienne, the librarian, and Matthew, Morpheus’s raven.

"Honestly, Lucienne," you were saying, waving a hand dismissively, "the debate over whether a hot dog is a sandwich is fundamentally flawed. It's an American taco, if anything. The open-ended nature of the bun—"

Lucienne adjusted her spectacles, a slight, amused smile playing on her lips. "An interesting categorization, y/n. Though I confess, my research into 'taco' structures is limited to theoretical gastronomy within the more whimsical dreams."

"Exactly!" you declared, tapping a finger on a thick volume. "It's all about how you define the container. A sandwich needs two distinct, separate pieces of bread. A hot dog bun is a single piece, folded. That’s a wrap structure, fundamentally. So it's more like a… cylindrical quesadilla."

Matthew, who had been preening on a stack of particularly dusty tomes, squawked, interrupting your eloquent argument. "Nah, you're both wrong. It's a culinary paradox. Like a dream that makes too much sense. It exists outside typical definitions. It’s a hot dog. End of story."

You gasped dramatically. "Matthew, you're missing the intellectual joy of it! It's not just 'a hot dog.' It’s a philosophical inquiry into the nature of categorization!"

"And what purpose does this inquiry serve?" Lucienne asked, a twinkle in her eye. "Does it enhance understanding of dreams? Improve the archiving system?"

"It expands the mind! It challenges preconceived notions!" you countered, gesturing grandly. "It's exactly the kind of out-of-the-box thinking that… well, that I've been applying to my other projects!"

Just then, the familiar scent of ozone and starlight preceded Morpheus's entrance. He swept into the library, his dark robes seeming to drink the light, his gaze falling upon the trio. He approached, his steps silent, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"Lord Morpheus!" you exclaimed, immediately abandoning the hot dog debate and almost toppling off the ladder in your eagerness. You scrambled down, eyes wide with excitement. "Perfect timing! You won't believe what happened in the last session!"

Morpheus inclined his head, a flicker of something almost akin to anticipation in his dark eyes, a subtle tension in his posture.

"So, Brute and Globals," you began, a veritable torrent of words spilling out, "they finally, finally mastered the daisy chain! Remember how they kept getting the petals tangled, and it just looked like a sad, floral blob? And they were getting so frustrated, the air would just… thicken with it, you know? Well, after weeks of trying, yesterday, Brute linked that last petal, and Globals formed it into a perfect circle! A perfect, beautiful, little floral ring!" You clasped your hands together, a genuine, overflowing joy in your voice. "I swear, if nightmares could grin without those… teeth, they would have been beaming. They looked so proud! I was so incredibly proud of them, you have no idea! We celebrated with a round of very careful high-fives—didn't want to break any more petals, obviously!"

You took a breath, barely, before continuing. "And Corinthian? He's really getting the hang of his knitting. His stitches are much more even now, barely any dropped ones. He's working on a little scarf for himself, actually! It's a surprisingly tasteful shade of deep crimson. And the Whispers of Regret finally managed to get the knots right on the friendship bracelets. They’re getting quite good at choosing complementary colors, too! It’s really quite touching."

You leaned in conspiratorially towards Morpheus, as if sharing the most profound secret. "Next, I'm thinking we tackle origami. The more intricate folds. I think the Whispers of Regret could really excel at it, given their delicate touch with the friendship bracelets. And I found this amazing book on creating little paper animals. Imagine a paper swan, made by a nightmare! Oh, and I was also thinking about introducing them to beginner's juggling, or maybe even simple magic tricks! I saw this great tutorial on how to make a coin disappear..."

You rambled on and on, your enthusiasm boundless, your voice echoing slightly in the vastness of the library. Lucienne and Matthew exchanged another look, a shared expression of fond befuddlement on their faces. Matthew let out a soft caw, a sound that could have been either exasperation or quiet amusement at your endless, joyful chatter. Morpheus, usually unreadable, stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on you. His lips, so rarely curved, softened almost imperceptibly at the corners. The Lord of Dreams, the King of Nightmares, was listening with an intensity usually reserved for the most profound cosmic truths, as you, a mortal woman, gushed about teaching his most gruesome creations how to make paper cranes and flower garlands, and perhaps even perform card tricks. It was an utterly absurd, utterly delightful scene, and for a fleeting moment, one might have thought that a mortal woman had indeed become best friends with the most terrifying and scary nightmares, and that everyone in the library, including Dream himself, was simply endeared by it all.

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 12: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Alex’s Last Apology~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The circle is broken.

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

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

The air In the sphere felt electric with possibility.

Just a little longer, he thought to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

-

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 11: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Nada’s Shadow~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

The Goose of Underwhelming Life Choices.

Nora snorted with a silent laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

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

[nerdydaydreamer]

You Give Morpheus New Dream Ideas

MASTERLIST

The ethereal, shifting corridors of the Dreaming were Morpheus's dominion, and tonight, they were also the proving ground for your particularly unbridled imagination. You followed in his silent wake, a vibrant splash of mortal chaos against his midnight cloak and the quiet dignity of his stride. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a king surveying his realm, and you, with the breathless enthusiasm of a child in a candy store.

"Okay, okay, Morpheus, hear me out," you chirped, your voice echoing just slightly in the vast, whispering spaces of his palace. "What about a dream where everyone communicates solely through interpretive dance? No words, just… jazz hands and dramatic leaps. Or, for a nightmare, maybe one where all the food turns into sentient, judgmental broccoli the moment you try to eat it."

Morpheus continued to walk, his back to you, a living silhouette against the ever-changing tapestries of his halls. He didn't acknowledge you, not with a glance, not with a twitch of his elegant shoulder. This was their usual dynamic when you found him wandering: you spouting delightful nonsense, Morpheus embodying stoic indifference.

"Oh! Oh! This one’s good," you pressed on, undeterred. "A dream where all the furniture can talk, but they only ever complain about your decorating choices. Imagine your couch sighing dramatically about your throw pillows! And for a nightmare… a relentless jingle, Morpheus, a truly inescapable, infuriatingly catchy jingle that plays on a loop in your head forever."

You paused, taking a breath. "Or how about a dream where you can fly, but only if you hold a rubber chicken? And if you let go, you plummet into a giant bowl of lukewarm noodle soup!" Your laughter bubbled, light and clear in the hallowed silence. "And then, a nightmare: a perpetual queue. You're always in line, but the line never moves, and you're always slightly too far from the front to see what you're waiting for."

Just as you were concocting a scenario involving sentient teacups and tap-dancing squirrels, Morpheus stopped. He didn't turn fully, but he shifted, a subtle pivot of his lean frame, his head tilting ever so slightly towards you. The air in the Dreaming seemed to hold its breath.

Then, in a voice like rustling silk and ancient stone, a voice that rarely betrayed anything beyond profound gravitas, he said, "A perpetual queue. Always in line, never moving, slightly too far to see the purpose." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. "That one's actually not a bad idea."

He then pivoted back to his original trajectory and continued walking, as if the profound utterance had never happened.

You, however, were frozen. Your mouth hung slightly agape. You stood there for a long moment, the echo of his words reverberating in your mind. Then, a slow smile spread across your face. You reached up and lightly brushed imaginary dust off your shoulder, a small, triumphant gesture.

"Right then," you muttered to yourself, your voice now filled with renewed purpose. You quickly realized Morpheus was already several steps ahead, his form starting to blend with the shifting mists of the palace. "Hey, Sandy! Wait up!" you yelled, quickening your pace to catch up. "I've got more ideas! What about a dream where all the animals can talk, but they only speak in bad puns? Or a nightmare where your socks constantly disappear in the wash, but then reappear as tiny, aggressive gnomes?" You continued to ramble, a whirlwind of creative chaos once again hot on the heels of the Lord of Dreams.