phythius

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 12:

Fractured Chord

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

Eirene materialized in a past drenched in honeyed light. Orpheus knelt before Hades and Persephone, his lyre trembling. Eurydice’s ghost hovered behind him, her form flickering like a dying candle.

“You ask the impossible, mortal,” Hades intoned, his throne of bones creaking. “The dead do not return.”

“And yet,” Eirene sang, stepping from the shadows, her voice weaving through the marble hall like vines through cracks, “you returned, Persephone. Season after season.”

The Queen of the Underworld stiffened. “Who are you to speak of my path?”

“Harmony” Eirene said, lifting her hands. Golden threads spiraled into the air, resonating with the buried ache in Persephone’s sigh, the grudging respect in Hades’ gaze.

“Let Orpheus’s song be the bridge, not the burden. Let Eurydice walk beside him, not behind.”

The rulers exchanged a glance heavy with millennia.

“You… reframe the terms,” Hades grumbled, but his grip on his scepter loosened.

Persephone rose, pomegranate juice staining her lips like old blood. “A compromise, then. Eurydice may depart… if she chooses to leave your side each dawn and return here each dusk. Balanced. As all things must be.”

Orpheus’s breath hitched. “Eurydice—?”

The ghost-woman stepped forward, solidifying. “A half-life with you… or a half-death without. I choose the dawn.”

Their hands clasped. The Fates’ shears cracked.

Eirene’s eyes snapped open to a throne room she barely recognized. Gone were the tapestries she’d woven for their joined realms—scenes of starlit vows and entwined hands. In their place loomed jagged obsidian pillars, their surfaces reflecting her fractured silhouette. The air smelled of ash and iron, not jasmine.

Morpheus stood at the foot of his throne, his back rigid, his hands clenched behind him. When he turned, his eyes were twin storms. “You.” The word was a blade.

She staggered to her feet, her golden threads instinctively reaching for him—only to recoil as he stepped back, his lip curling.

“How dare you,” he hissed, “cross into my realm after what you did? After centuries of silence?”

The venom in his voice stole her breath. This wasn’t the cold detachment of before—this was rage, raw and unbridled. Their rage, the kind that once would have dissolved into soft kisses and whispered apologies. Now it hung between them, poison-tipped.

“Morpheus, please—”

“Please?” He laughed, sharp and hollow. “You begged please then too, as you defied me. As you crawled to Hades behind my back, playing savior to my son!”

She flinched. In this reality, that’s all he remembered: her trespass into his family’s cursed fate. Not the blood he’d spilled for Orpheus. Not the vows they’d made.

“I only wanted to spare you the pain,” she whispered.

“Pain?” He surged forward, his cloak billowing like a raven’s wings. “You think me weak? That I needed your charity?” His fingers twitched as if aching to seize her, to shake the defiance from her bones.

“Orpheus’s fate was mine to bear. His choices, his suffering—mine. Yet you stole that from me. Reduced my son’s tragedy to a puzzle for you to solve.”

Eirene’s vision blurred. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her cheeks, his breath mingling with hers as he’d whispered, “You are my balance, Eirene. My counterweight.” Now he looked at her as if she were a stranger—worse, a traitor.

“You rewrote his story,” Morpheus snarled, “and called it mercy. But you know nothing of mercy. Only pride.”

Her knees buckled. “And if I hadn’t? If I’d let him die? Would you hate me less?”

“He did die!” The roar shook the throne room. “In every way that mattered. You gave him a hollow half-life with Eurydice—a mockery of what they were. You think your meddling saved him? You made him a prisoner of hope!”

She recoiled. This was the cruelty of the old Morpheus, the one who’d exiled lovers and cursed gods—but never her. Never them.

“You’ve haunted me for centuries,” he said, quieter now, lethal. “Not in my dreams, but in my waking hours. Wondering when you’d return to fix what wasn’t yours to break.”

Eirene’s threads coiled protectively around her, their glow dimmed. He doesn’t know, she realized. The Kindly Ones’ siege, Loki’s schemes, the Dreaming’s collapse—none of it had happened here. In this reality, her interference averted disaster. But it cost them each other.

“Leave,” Morpheus said, turning away. “Before I forget I ever called you friend.”

The dismissal lanced through her. Friend. A word so small, so pitiful, for what they’d been.

“Morpheus—”

“Go.”

She left, but not before she saw it—the flicker in his eyes as her threads dissolved. A fragment of a memory, perhaps, of a life where her name had been a prayer on his lips.

Alone at Serenhollow, Eirene clutched the hollow space where her wedding ring had been.

Time’s warning coiled in her mind like a noose:

“You alone will recall the silence.”

The silence of a love that never was.

Didn't even wanna drop this cus it hurts

MY POOR EIRENE

tag list

@deniixlovezelda @villain-in-the-dark @universallyrascaldreamercookie @totallysocially

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world.

Chapter 11:

Harmonious Defense

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

The days that followed were shrouded in a grim silence, a heavy pall cast over the Dreaming. Morpheus retreated into himself, his grief a palpable presence in their chambers, a suffocating weight that even Eirene’s unwavering love couldn’t fully dispel. She respected his need for solitude, understanding the depth of his sorrow, the crushing weight of his loss. But the silence was a constant, gnawing presence, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy that usually filled their lives. The golden threads of her throne pulsed with a subdued sorrow, mirroring the somber mood that had settled over the Dreaming.

Meanwhile, the realm braced itself for the inevitable. The news of Orpheus’s death, and the knowledge that Morpheus had been involved, had sent ripples of fear throughout the Dreaming. The Furies, ancient and unforgiving embodiments of vengeance, would undoubtedly come for him, their wrath a storm that threatened to consume the entire realm.

In the training grounds, Nuala, her usual fiery spirit tempered by a grim determination, practiced her archery, each arrow a testament to her fierce loyalty. "I would build him an army, Lady Harmony," she suggested, her voice low and serious, as she notched another arrow. "A force of faeries to stand beside him, to shield him from the Furies' wrath."

Eirene watched her, her heart heavy with sorrow and a growing sense of helplessness. "You know he would not approve, Nuala," she replied, her voice laced with weariness. "This is the Dreaming's fight, not the faeries'. It's a battle of laws, not armies."

Matthew, perched on a wooden post, chirped his agreement, his usual playful demeanor subdued. "Besides," he squawked, leaping onto Eirene's shoulder, "we've got a literal personification of peace and harmony here. I don't think it'll come to outright war."

Eirene sighed, her gaze drifting to the dimming light of her throne. "Would I really be enough to stop the Furies, Matthew? The laws of the Endless... they're not above me." Her voice was laced with a defeated resignation, the weight of her responsibility pressing down on her.

A sudden, sharp voice cut through the somber atmosphere. "That's it! The law! He can go to the lawmakers and ask for a reprieve!" Nuala exclaimed, her eyes flashing with a newfound hope.

Mervyn, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "Lawmakers? I thought these were just unspoken rules, not literally made entities?"

"Yes, and no," a voice answered, seemingly emanating from the very air itself. It was Fiddler’s Green, the vibrant heart of the Dreaming, its usual cheerful melodies replaced by a somber resonance. "Time and Primordial Night, the Endless parents… they go beyond the Endless. The ones who shape the very fabric of existence. They are the ones who can decide Morpheus's fate."

The weight of that revelation settled heavily upon them, a glimmer of hope amidst the gathering storm. The path to salvation might not lie in armies or in Eirene's threads of peace, but in a plea to the very source of the Endless' existence. The journey would be perilous, the outcome uncertain, but for the first time in days, a flicker of hope ignited in the hearts of those gathered, a fragile flame against the gathering darkness.

The bedroom's dim light cast long shadows across the sheets as Eirene turned onto her side, studying Morpheus's profile. His eyes remained fixed on the gauzy curtains fluttering near the ceiling, moonlight painting silver streaks across his troubled expression. She let the silence stretch a moment longer before breaking it, her palm coming to rest lightly on his chest.

"How are you feeling, my love?" she asked, the words hanging like incense smoke in the still air.

Morpheus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. When no answer came, Eirene shifted closer, the linen sheets whispering beneath her movement. Her arms slid around his torso with practiced gentleness, fingertips pressing lightly against the tense muscles of his abdomen as she molded herself against the curve of his back.

"Nuala suggested you go to your parents, ask for their aid," she murmured into the space between his shoulder blades, lips brushing the thin fabric of his sleep shirt.

A humorless chuckle vibrated through him. "They would not help me." His voice sounded rougher now, as if dragged through gravel. "I have not seen them in ages." One hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture Eirene recognized from countless restless nights.

She pressed her forehead between his scapulae, breathing in the familiar scent of bergamot and worn parchment that always clung to his skin. "You can still visit," she insisted softly, tracing idle patterns over his heartbeat. "See what they say or what they offer." Her palm stilled suddenly against his chest. "Or to simply just see them again." The plea lingered like an unspoken prayer. "Tommorow." he whispered with the winds.

Morpheus materialized at the gates of the Dreaming like smoke condensing into bone. The realm’s usual kaleidoscopic skies hung dull as tarnished silver, reflecting the weight in his chest. Sand whispered beneath his boots as he strode through the throne room’s shifting corridors, where murals of forgotten myths cracked at their edges.

Eirene awaited him atop the dais, her loom abandoned mid-weave. The golden thread pooled around her feet like liquid sunlight. “You’ve seen them,” she said, not a question. Her voice carried the quiet dread of one already mourning.

He stopped before her, hands clenched at his sides. “My father offered a path.” The words tasted bitter. “To unravel moments. To step into the past as if it were a reflection.”

She rose, her gown of starlit gauze trailing behind her. “But you refused.”

“It was not even considered, would you have me revisit his death?” Morpheus’s voice splintered. “Watch Orpheus’s blood spill again? Hear his screams twist into silence? Time’s gift is a blade—it carves the same wounds, no matter how I wield it.”

Eirene cupped his face, her thumbs brushing the hollows beneath his eyes. “You fear the futility.”

“I know it.” He caught her wrists, gentle but firm. “Even if I bargained with Hades himself, even if I rewound every second… the Fates’ shears still cut. My son’s tragedy is woven into the tapestry. And I—” His breath hitched. “I would spill family blood again. For him. Always for him.”

The admission hung between them, raw and bleeding.

Lucienne called them, her spectacles cracked. “They’re close, my lord. The Kindly Ones… they’ve found fissures in the realm’s walls.”

Morpheus traced a crack in the marble floor, ichor seeping upward. “Then we prepare.”

“Prepare?” Matthew cawed from the rafters. “They’re goddesses of vengeance. You can’t just—!”

“We. Prepare.” The Dream King’s tone brooked no argument.

The Kindly Ones breached the Dreaming at dawn.

They came as a storm of talons and teeth, their tripartite shrieks unraveling dreams into ash. Eirene stood at the heart of the maelstrom, her loom now a weapon. Golden threads erupted from her fingertips, weaving barricades of light—a bridge here, a shield there, each strand humming with the resolve of lullabies.

“Peace,” she commanded, her voice resonating through the chaos. “This is a realm of hope.”

The Furies hissed, their claws slicing through her threads. “Blood calls for blood,” they chorused, their voices like rusted chains.

"Dream of the Endless must pay.”

Morpheus battled amidst the ruins, his sand morphing into swords, then wolves, then storms. Each strike bought seconds, not victories.

“Eirene—!” He caught her arm as a Fury’s blade grazed her shoulder.

“It’s not enough,” she gasped, blood blooming through her sleeve. “Their wrath… it’s endless.”

In the eye of the storm, Eirene turned to him. “Take me to your father.”

Morpheus stiffened. "No. What—?"

“I am peace” she snapped, her eyes blazing with borrowed starlight. “I am Harmony. And while you cannot sway Hades… I can.”

“Persephone’s grief is a chasm. You’d drown in it.”

“But I can sing across that chasm.” She gripped his cloak. “You told me Time offered you the past. Let him offer it to me. Let me weave a harmony even the Underworld cannot ignore.”

Morpheus stared at her—his wife who’d spun solace from his shadows—and hesitantly nodded.

The chamber of Time existed outside linearity—a vertigo of spiraling gears and suspended hourglasses, their sands flowing upward and sideways. Time’s form shifted ceaselessly: a child’s hands emerging from an old man’s sleeves, galaxies spinning in their pupils, skin translucent as parchment mapped with rivers of eras.

Eirene’s threads of harmony frayed at the edges here, the air itself resisting her melody. “You would tread where even my son dared not,” Time spoke in layered voices—a lullaby overlaid with funeral bells.

Morpheus stood rigid beside her, his cloak billowing in non-existent winds. “She insists on this madness.”

Eirene stepped forward, golden thread spooling from her palm. “Let me walk the path you offered him. Let me speak to Hades before Orpheus’s walk failed.”

Time’s laughter cracked like ice splitting stone. “Goddess Harmonia, you know the cost. To shift one thread in the tapestry, you unravel another. Return to your present… and you may find no thread binding you to him.”

Their gesture encompassed Morpheus, who stiffened. "My son is gone. You are all I have. I will not lose you as well."

“You will not. Do it.” Eirene whispered.

Time’s many hands closed around her thread. “Sing well, little Harmonia. But remember—when the song ends, you alone will recall the silence.”

A whirlpool of centuries swallowed her.

All 10 chapters built up for this decision.

Will Morpheus lose her? or will she lose him?

tag list

@deniixlovezelda @villain-in-the-dark @universallyrascaldreamercookie @totallysocially

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of Peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 10:

Bloodied Fate

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

The Dreaming, once a vibrant tapestry woven with starlight and whispered secrets, now felt like a suffocating shroud. Days felt like an eternity since Morpheus had gone with Delirium, leaving Eirene to reign alone. The golden threads of her olivewood throne, usually a source of comfort and strength, hummed with a low, anxious thrum, mirroring the unease that gnawed at her heart. She tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, a queenly composure that masked the growing terror that consumed her. But the silence, the absence of his brooding presence, was a constant, gnawing reminder of his absence.

She threw herself into her duties, a whirlwind of activity designed to distract from the creeping dread that threatened to overwhelm her. She held court in the Hall of Whispers, her voice firm and resolute as she addressed the concerns of her subjects, but the forced cheerfulness felt hollow, a thin veneer over the gaping chasm of her anxiety. She mediated disputes between warring factions of nightmares, her sharp wit and empathy as effective as ever, but the effort felt monumental, each successful negotiation a small victory in a larger, losing battle against her own fear.

Sleep offered no respite. Her dreams were a chaotic jumble of fragmented images – fleeting glimpses of desolate landscapes, the chilling emptiness of Destruction’s absence, and Morpheus’s grim determination etched on his face. The golden threads of her throne, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a constant reminder of his absence, each shimmering strand a painful echo of his touch. She found herself staring out of the windows of her chambers, gazing at the swirling nebulae, searching for some sign, some glimmer of hope in the vast expanse of the cosmos, but the vastness only amplified her sense of isolation.

Days bled into weeks, each sunrise bringing a fresh wave of anxiety, each sunset deepening the shadows of her despair. She sought solace in the familiar routines, in the comforting presence of her loyal advisors. They rallied around her, offering support and reassurance, but their words were little comfort against the relentless tide of her fear.

"He'll be back, my lady" Lucienne reassured her, her voice soft but firm. "Lord Morpheus is strong. He will not be harmed."

"But what if he doesn't?" Eirene whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the Dreaming. The fear in her eyes was palpable, a stark contrast to her usual regal composure. "What if something happens to him?"

Mervyn placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Boss prepared for anything. He's faced worse than this."

"But this is different," Eirene insisted, her voice cracking with emotion. "This is… personal. It's not just the Dreaming at stake. It's… him." The unspoken words hung heavy in the air – It's our love.

The usual playful banter with her advisors felt forced, the laughter strained, the lightheartedness absent. The Dreaming, once her refuge, now felt like a gilded cage, confining her to a silent vigil, a prisoner of her own anxieties. She longed for Morpheus's return, not just as her king, but as her lover, her anchor in the turbulent sea of her emotions. The emptiness of his throne beside hers was a constant, aching reminder of his absence.

Then, one moonless night, a figure emerged from the swirling mists at the edge of the Dreaming. It was Morpheus, his usually stoic features etched with a profound weariness, his eyes shadowed with a grief that went beyond the usual burdens of his kingship. He was alone, the crimson stain that marred his hand that stole Eirene's breath, a stark, horrifying contrast to his normally pale skin.

Before she could speak, before she could even fully process his return, she ran to him, her heart pounding in her chest, the golden threads of her throne seeming to vibrate with her fear. He stumbled, falling to his knees before her, Lucienne, Mervyn, Matthew, and Nuala gathering around them, their faces mirroring her own shock and horror. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a broken whisper, barely audible above the humming of the Dreaming. "Orpheus," he choked out, his voice thick with grief, "my son… he's dead."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of tragedy. Lucienne gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Nuala looked away, her face pale. Matthew squawked in shock, his eyes somehow filled with a mixture of shock and sorrow. Mervyn's eyes were wide, his expression unreadable. Morpheus had spilled family blood. The Furies, ancient and unforgiving, would come for him. The Dreaming itself seemed to shudder, sensing the impending storm.

Eirene knelt beside him, her hand reaching out to touch his, her touch lingering on the crimson stain, a silent acknowledgment of the shared grief that bound them together. The weight of silence pressed down on them, heavy and suffocating, a prelude to the storm that was to come.

Eirene, her own shock and worry a tidal wave threatening to engulf her, gently took his hand, her touch a silent promise of support, of unwavering love. Without a word, she helped him to his feet, her strength a stark contrast to his utter collapse. She led him away, their silent procession a stark contrast to the usual vibrant energy of the Dreaming.

Their shared chambers, usually a haven of peace and intimacy, felt cold and empty. The golden threads that usually pulsed with warmth now seemed to dim, their light fading as if the Dreaming itself mourned the loss of Orpheus. Morpheus moved mechanically, his actions devoid of their usual grace and precision. He went to the basin, the ornate silver gleaming under the dim light, and began to wash his hands. The water ran crimson, the blood clinging to his skin as if mirroring the grief that clung to his soul. He scrubbed furiously, but the stain remained, a persistent reminder of his loss, a stark symbol of his pain.

The water ran red, the blood clinging to his skin as if mirroring the grief that clung to his soul. He scrubbed furiously, but the stain remained, a persistent reminder of his loss, a stark symbol of his pain. Each drop of water that splashed onto the basin seemed to echo the tears that streamed down his face, tears that were not just for his son, but for the shattered innocence of his own heart. The crimson stain was not just blood; it was the visible manifestation of his grief, a testament to the depth of his sorrow.

Eirene watched him, her heart aching with a pain that mirrored his own. She wanted to comfort him, to hold him close and shield him from the pain, but words felt inadequate, hollow gestures in the face of such profound loss. She stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her touch a silent offering of solace, a testament to the unwavering love that bound them together. The silence between them was thick with unspoken emotions, a shared grief that transcended words.

The Dreaming itself seemed to dim, its vibrant colors fading, its usual melodies replaced by a low, mournful hum. The golden threads that wove through its fabric seemed to dull, their light fading. The very air felt heavy with sorrow, a palpable grief that permeated every corner of the Dreaming. The usually playful imps moved with a somber grace, their mischievous laughter replaced by a quiet sadness. The nightmares, usually a source of fear and chaos, seemed subdued, their usual ferocity replaced by a sense of shared mourning. Even the usually vibrant Fiddler's Green were draped in a veil of sorrow, the luminous flowers drooping as if burdened by the weight of grief.

Eirene felt the Dreaming’s sorrow as her own, the pain of its collective mourning resonating deep within her soul. She knew that Morpheus's grief was not just his own, but the grief of the Dreaming itself, a shared sorrow that reflected the depth of his connection to his son, to his realm, and to her. She held his hand, her touch a silent vow to stand by him, to support him, to help him navigate the darkness that had descended upon them. The tears continued to fall, staining the basin, staining the floor, staining the very fabric of the Dreaming, a testament to the profound loss that had befallen them, a prelude to the storm that was yet to come.

What will Eirene do? How will she help?

I'll be dropping the next chapter a few hours after this:>>

tag list

@deniixlovezelda @villain-in-the-dark @universallyrascaldreamercookie @totallysocially

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 9:

Under the Meadows

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

The Dreaming hummed a lullaby woven from starlight and whispered secrets, a melody that echoed the quiet rhythm of Eirene’s heart. Weeks had melted into a comfortable routine, a shared rhythm established between the Queen of Serenhollow and the King of Dreams. Serenhollow’s ashes had settled, leaving behind a quiet strength in Eirene, a strength reflected in the vibrant pulse of her olivewood throne, its golden threads shimmering like captured sunlight. The threads, she mused, were a perfect metaphor for their relationship – intricate, interwoven, sometimes tangled, but ultimately beautiful and strong.

Her days were a whirlwind of duties, each thread carefully woven, each decision a testament to her growing understanding of the Dreaming and its inhabitants. She’d mastered the art of navigating the labyrinthine politics of the Dreaming, her empathy and sharp wit allowing her to resolve conflicts with a grace that often left Morpheus both impressed and slightly irritated. "You make it look too easy," he'd grumbled once, watching her effortlessly soothe a particularly fractious group of nightmares. "It's not easy," she'd retorted, a playful glint in her eyes, "It's efficient."

Their banter had become a familiar rhythm, a comfortable dance between their contrasting personalities. He was the brooding king, steeped in ancient lore and burdened by the weight of his responsibilities. She was the vibrant queen, brimming with life and a mischievous sense of humor. Their differences, once a source of tension, had become a source of strength, a complementary balance that enriched their relationship.

He'd learned to appreciate her quick wit, her ability to find humor in the darkest of situations, her unwavering optimism in the face of overwhelming odds. She, in turn, had come to admire his quiet strength, his unwavering dedication to his people, and the depth of his compassion, hidden beneath layers of stoicism. The stolen glances across crowded halls, the brief brush of their hands during council, the lingering warmth of his gaze—these were the silent declarations of a love that blossomed in the heart of the Dreaming, a love as intricate and beautiful as the threads that bound their realms together.

Their private moments were a sanctuary, a refuge from the relentless demands of their duties. The Meadows of Mirth, bathed in perpetual sunlight, had become their favorite retreat. They’d spend hours wandering through fields of luminous flowers, their laughter echoing through the sun-drenched landscape. "Remind me again why we're not ruling the world from a hammock in this place?" Eirene had teased one day, sprawled lazily on a bed of iridescent poppies. "Because," Morpheus had replied, a rare smile gracing his lips, "Someone has to deal with the nightmares who keep trying to unionize."

Fiddler’s Green, with its vibrant music and untamed joy, was another of their sanctuaries. They'd dance amongst the unseen fiddlers, their movements as fluid and effortless as the music itself. "You're surprisingly graceful for someone who spends half their life moping on a corner," Eirene had commented, laughing as Morpheus stumbled slightly. "And you're surprisingly clumsy for someone who weaves magic with threads," he'd retorted, his hand reaching out to steady her.

Their shared chambers were a haven of intimacy, a space where their love blossomed beyond the confines of their royal duties. The quiet evenings they spent together, filled with whispered confidences and shared dreams, were the most precious moments of their lives.

He’d started leaving small gifts for her—a single luminous flower, a strand of shimmering moonlight, a feather from a dream-bird—each a testament to the depth of his affection. "Are you trying to bribe me into liking you?" she'd teased one morning, holding up a particularly luminous flower. "Only the finest bribes for the finest queen," he'd replied, his eyes twinkling.

One starless night, as Eirene sat by the window of their chambers, watching the swirling nebulae of the Dreaming, Morpheus entered. His usual brooding aura was replaced by a strange restlessness. His eyes, usually pools of starlight, held a flicker of something akin to anxiety.

“Delirium seeks an audience,” he announced, his voice low and grave. “She… requires my aid.”

Eirene raised an eyebrow. Delirium, the capricious anthropomorphication of madness, rarely sought anyone's help. Her presence always hinted at chaos.

“A quest?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Morpheus nodded, his gaze distant. “A… family matter. She intends to find Destruction.” Morpheus murmured, a hint of sadness in his voice.

The name hung heavy in the air, a forgotten shadow cast by the sun. Destruction, Morpheus’s wayward brother, the Prodigal of the Endless, had vanished from the Endless Realms long ago. His absence had always been a silent wound, a void in the fabric of the family.

Morpheus took her hand, his touch sending a shiver down her spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between them, a love as vast and mysterious as the Dreaming itself. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers, a tender kiss that sealed their fate, a promise whispered on the wind.

The golden threads around Eirene’s throne pulsed, reflecting the intensity of their shared emotions, a testament to the threads of destiny that had woven their lives together. The Dreaming held its breath, anticipating the storm that was to come, a storm that would test not only their individual strengths, but the strength of their love.

2nd conflict is now on its way. im sure you all can guess what it is but how will Eirene help Morpheus? will she be able to help or is this when she finally fractures for good? or both? 👀

@deniixlovezelda @villain-in-the-dark @universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 8:

Joined Realms

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

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This chapter is set a week after the events at Queen Eirene's realm and the throne room.

[Please also note that there were (very very) minor changes to the very last part of chapter 6 to match this chapter better]

The chamber smelled of ozone and parchment, the air humming faintly with the afterglow of reconstituted realms. Eirene stirred, her fingers curling into silk sheets that shimmered like liquid starlight. For a disorienting moment, she forgot where—or when—she was. The last thing she remembered was the sear of Serenhollow’s collapse, the crackle of her own threads snapping as the realm frayed… and then Morpheus’ arms, colder than moonlight, catching her mid-fall.

He left you to die, a bitter voice in her mind hissed. He let your realm burn.

But the weight of the bedding was real. The warmth lingering on the pillow beside her—his pillow—was real. And when she turned her head, there he was.

Morpheus, King of Dreams and her infuriatingly inscrutable husband, sat rigid in an armchair of twisted obsidian, his chin propped on one fist. His usual raven-feather cloak was absent, replaced by a simple indigo robe that made him look almost… mortal. His eyes were closed, but she knew better; he hadn’t slept in eons.

“How are you feeling, my wife?” His voice was gravel, low enough to vibrate in her ribs.

Eirene sat up, wincing as her muscles protested. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you here?”

His eyelids lifted, revealing galaxies swirling in his pupils. “This is our chambers. My chambers. Is it not?” A flicker of something—amusement?—ghosted across his face.

“Since when do you linger after sunrise?” She gestured to the window, where the Dreaming’s false dawn painted the sky in bruise-like purples. “You’re usually off brooding in your throne room by now.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You’re observant today.”

“And you’re deflecting.” She leaned forward, the sheets pooling at her waist. “What’s gotten into you? Where’s my Morpheus? Did someone replace you with a nicer nightmare?”

The faintest blush crept up his neck. He stood abruptly, robes swirling as he turned toward the arched window. “I was ensuring you rested. Serenhollow’s fall… taxed you. You were asleep for a week.”

“Taxed me?” She laughed, though it came out brittle. “You mean taxed you. You hate change.”

He went very still. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost lost beneath the sigh of the Dreaming’s winds. “I hate seeing you bleed.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as a cobweb. Eirene’s throat tightened. She’d spent weeks interpreting his silences, but this—this was new.

“So you watched me sleep?” She arched a brow, desperate to shatter the tension. “How dreadfully mortal of you.”

“I watched,” he said, turning back to face her, “because I needed to be certain your stubbornness hadn’t overruled your survival instincts. Again.”

“Ah, there he is.” She smirked, though her pulse quickened. “My broody hen.”

His lips twitched. “Hen?”

“Clucking over your nest. It’s endearing.”

“Endearing,” he repeated flatly.

“Adorable, even.”

He drifted closer, the temperature dropping with each step. “You are… insufferable.”

“And yet you suffer me.” She tilted her head, her smile sharpening. “Why is that, I wonder?”

For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to her mouth. Then he was gone, dissolving into shadows and raven feathers.

But the imprint of his hand remained on the chair’s armrest—a perfect frost-edged silhouette in the stone.

Eirene traced it, her own fingers trembling. He stayed, she thought. He stayed.

The throne room’s vaulted ceilings swallowed sound, leaving only the faint echo of Eirene’s slippered footsteps as she entered. Weeks of absence had not dulled the chamber’s majesty—nor its uncanny stillness. Pale light filtered through stained-glass windows depicting forgotten dreams: a child’s first flight, a poet’s unfinished verse, a soldier’s last embrace. The air smelled faintly of petrichor and parchment, undercut by the sharper tang of Morpheus’s ink.

Her gaze drifted first to the twin thrones. Gods, they really did it. Her olivewood seat, still alive enough to sprout silver-green leaves at the armrests, sat entwined with Morpheus’s obsidian monstrosity. Golden threads pulsed within her throne’s grain, reacting to her presence like hounds recognizing their master. His, all jagged edges and trapped starlight, seemed to bleed shadows onto the marble floor.

Morpheus didn’t glance up from his scrolls, though the quill in his hand paused mid-sentence. She noted the furrow between his brows, the way his free hand absently traced the arm of his throne—a nervous habit he’d deny possessing.

“Any problems, husband?” Eirene asked, her voice bouncing off the distant walls.

He waited three deliberate heartbeats before answering, as though weighing whether to indulge her. “A group of your bard subjects wandered into the Anguish Plains,” he said, the words clipped. “Played songs and grew rainbows.”

She pressed her lips together, imagining the scene: her Serenhollow bards, all velvet doublets and sunflower optimism, serenading his gnarled nightmares with lutes and lilting laughter. The Anguish Plains, a wasteland of weeping willows and ash-gray skies, hadn’t seen color since the first mortal nightmare of abandonment.

A snort escaped her. Then another. Soon she was laughing freely, the sound too bright for this somber hall. Morpheus’s quill snapped.

“You find this amusing?”

“Immensely,” she wheezed, clutching her ribs. The movement tugged at healing muscles, but she didn’t care. “They’re just… enthusiastic. I’ll remind them the Plains are your domain.”

He set down the shattered quill with exaggerated care. “See that you do.”

She climbed the dais slowly, her fur-lined robe whispering against steps inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Each one bore a mosaic of pivotal dreams: a baker’s first perfect loaf, a sailor navigating by starfish, lovers meeting in a field of dandelion clocks. Her subjects’ joys, immortalized underfoot.

“Aella made Gourmand the Glutton eat a salad,” Morpheus added, as if confessing a war crime.

This time, Eirene’s laughter dissolved into hiccups. “Oh, no—”

“He’s taken to weeping in the kitchens. The chef imps are drawing unflattering murals.”

She collapsed onto her throne, the olivewood sighing as it embraced her. Golden threads rose like sleepy serpents, coiling around her wrists. “I’ll talk to her.” she managed, though tears of joy blurred her vision.

For a moment, Morpheus simply… watched. His gaze traced the way her threads danced, the way her borrowed robe slipped off one shoulder to reveal the faint scar at her collarbone—a relic of Serenhollow’s fall. When she spoke again, her voice had softened. “Are you certain about this arrangement? Is this not too much change for you?”

Morpheus stilled. The question was a stone dropped into still water. She studied their thrones—hers vibrant and stubbornly alive, his a monument to beautiful desolation. Two realms, two rulers, one impossible knot.

“I do not mind, my love. We are one.” He reached across the gap between their thrones, his fingers brushing hers. The contact sent a shiver through the hall; the stained-glass dreams flickered, momentarily dyed gold.

“But you have to get your subjects in line. I still don’t know how to talk to them. They scatter when I come near, playing instruments rapidly as they flee. As if to… drown something.” he muttered under his breath.

She grinned. “They’re scared of you. They don’t mind another ruler, but they’re not used to a scary one. You need to lessen your storm. Less brooding, more… smiling.”

“I don’t—”

“—smile, yes, we’ve established.” Her threads deposited the scroll into her lap, its contents detailing a dispute between a Serenhollow muse and nightmare over picnic rights in the Meadows of Mirth. “But you could try. For me.”

Morpheus studied her, his gaze lingering on the way her threads curled protectively around the parchment. “And if I fail?”

“Then I’ll compose a ballad about it. Sung by bards. In the Anguish Plains.”

His thumb grazed hers—a concession. “I will keep it in mind.”

Outside, the Dreaming’s false wind stirred, carrying the distant notes of a lyre. Somewhere, a bard was composing a ballad. Eirene leaned back, her threads weaving idle patterns in the air. Morpheus returned to his scrolls.

And if his next sigh sounded suspiciously like a laugh? Well. The thrones would never tell.

i think this took longer than the others to write. I couldn't quite think of a good transition to the next conflict but i finally wrote it. this is just pure fluff cus im setting yall up for heartbreak😈

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 7:

History of Threads

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

flashbacks

Birth of Harmony

In the shadow of Mount Lycabettus, where three tribes—the iron-clad Aetolians, the sea-faring Thessalians, and the nomadic Arcadians—clashed for generations, an olive tree grew. Its roots drank the blood of fallen warriors, and its branches stretched skyward as if pleading for mercy. Legends claimed the tree was born from the tears of Gaia herself, grieving for her fractured children.

The olive tree’s roots pulsed like veins, cradling Eirene in a womb of sap and shadow. When she opened her eyes, the world shimmered—not with light, but with threads. Thousands of gossamer strands drifted through the air, connecting the clashing tribes below: a soldier’s guilt to a widow’s grief, a child’s hope to a chief’s doubt. The tree’s voice, resonant and ancient, vibrated in her bones. “They are fraying. Mend them.”

When Eirene stepped into the sunlight, her feet left imprints of clover. She plucked an olive and split it open, its pit was a miniature world, maps etched in gold. Harmony is not the absence of war, a voice hummed. It is the choice to listen. You are the pause between heartbeats, the breath before the scream. Now go—weave them back to themselves.

Eirene reached for a thread binding two warriors mid-strike. As her fingers brushed it, the strand thickened into a rope of shared memory: the Aetolian had once saved the Thessalian’s son from a wolf. The men froze, their spears trembling. “You see it now,” Eirene murmured. The thread glowed gold, and the warriors lowered their weapons, their rage dissolving into uneasy silence.

The mockingbird, perched on her shoulder, chirped, “They’ll forget by dawn.”

“Then I’ll weave again.” Eirene said. Sap dripped from her fingertips, hardening into a shuttle carved with olive leaves.

Confrontation of Siege

The River Spercheios ran black that day. Not from pollution, but from the weight of unspilled blood. Two brothers—Lycus, broad-shouldered and sunburnt, and Phelix, wary with a poet’s restless hands—stood knee-deep in the shallows, their shouts carving the air like axes. The object of their fury? A toy boat, its mast snapped, its hull gouged by fingernails.

“Thief!” Lycus roared, his voice cracking. “Father carved that for me!”

“Liar!” Phelix shot back, tears mingling with river sludge. “You left it to rot in the barn!”

Eirene watched from the bank, her bare feet sinking into mud that squirmed with half-formed memories. The riverbed was a graveyard of such squabbles: rusted daggers, shattered urns, a child’s sandal encased in sediment. She knelt, plunging her hands into the water. The current stiffened, threads of light rising like steam to form a loom of liquid gold.

“You soften their spines, Weaver.”

Ares materialized in a plume of charred myrrh, his armor glinting like a fresh wound. At his hip hung a sword forged from a thousand shattered treaties, its hilt wrapped in the hair of traitors. “War is their birthright. Their purpose.”

Eirene didn’t look up. “And what is yours? To drown their songs in drums?”

The war god’s presence scorched the grass black, his spear dripping with phantom blood. “You think a few threads can unmake me?” he taunted, his voice cracking the air like thunder.

The war god smirked, kicking a stone into the water. Ripples spread, morphing into visions: Lycus as a general razing cities, Phelix as a bard strumming lyres made from enemy ribs. “See? Even in peace, they crave conflict.”

“No.” Eirene said. “They crave meaning.”

Her fingers danced across the liquid loom. Threads erupted from the brothers’ chests—Lycus’ thread the color of stormclouds, Phelix’s a flickering campfire. They collided mid-air, weaving into a tapestry of shared history. “I don’t need to unmake you.” she said. “I need only remind them what they were before you bent them.”

The threads revealed Lycus teaching Phelix to swim, Phelix sharing his first fig. Ares roared, slashing at the vision. The blade arced toward the tapestry. Eirene flicked her wrist, and the threads hardened. Ares’ sword clanged against them, sparks raining into the river. The visions didn’t waver. “Your lies are brittle.” Eirene said, rising. The loom surged, threads coiling around Ares’ wrists. “Truth is a tide. Try to outrun it, and you’ll drown.”

The god snarled, thrashing against his bonds. But the threads tightened, flooding him with sensations he’d long buried: the ache of his first defeat—a Spartan boy outmaneuvering him at dice, the sting of Athena’s laughter, the wet warmth of a mother’s kiss—his mother, Rhea, before Kronos devoured him.

“Stop.” Ares growled, his voice unsteady.

Eirene stepped closer, her breath frosting his armor. “You fear this, don’t you? That peace isn’t weakness—it’s a weapon you can’t wield.”

With a roar, Ares shattered the threads, vanishing in a sulfurous cloud. But not before Eirene saw it—the tremor in his sword hand, the sheen of sweat on his brow.

On the river, the brothers sat side by side, their shoulders touching. Lycus handed Phelix the boat. “I could fix it...” he mumbled. “Carve a new mast. Maybe a dragon figurehead?”

Phelix grinned. “A dragon? You’d scare the minnows.”

Eirene smiled, gathering her loom back into the river. As the water stilled, she spotted a glint in the mud—Ares’ dagger, abandoned in his retreat. She pocketed it. A reminder that even gods can bleed.

The Treaty of Threads

The Hall of Whispers smelled of dust and dried tears. Tapestries of broken alliances lined the walls—their frayed edges twitching like restless ghosts. Queen Callista of Mycenae stood in the center, her son’s bloodied treaty clutched to her chest like a stillborn child. Her gown, once the color of pomegranate seeds, hung faded and torn, its hem crusted with ash from the pyres of her fallen kingdom.

“They called him a traitor." she said, her voice raw. “For wanting peace. For this.” She thrust the scroll at Eirene. The parchment reeked of smoke and iron, its wax seal split by a dagger’s edge.

Eirene unrolled it gently. The ink blurred where Callista’s tears had fallen, transforming clauses into stains. “Words alone cannot heal.” she said, tracing a smudged line. “But memories can.”

She led the queen to the Loom of Echoes, its frame carved from the same olive wood that birthed her. The loom’s shuttle glowed faintly, humming with the vibrations of a thousand unresolved grievances.

“Give me your hands.” Eirene instructed. Callista hesitated, then placed her palms over the treaty. Eirene pressed her own atop them. “Now. Breathe.”

The hall darkened. Threads erupted from the scroll—crimson for betrayal, gold for lost hope, silver for the queen’s son’s last breath. They coiled around the loom, weaving into a tapestry that pulsed like living flesh.

“What is this?” Callista whispered, recoiling as the fabric rippled with scenes of her kingdom’s fall: her son’s throat slit mid-speech, olive groves torched, children barricaded in temples.

“Truth.” Eirene said. “The kind that cannot be burned.”

But as the loom thrummed, shadows thickened in the corners. Ares’ laughter slithered through the hall. “You think cloth can stop a war, Weaver?”

Eirene’s fingers tightened on the shuttle. “Watch.”

She plucked a thread from Callista’s sleeve—a memory of her son as a boy, offering an olive branch to a Spartan envoy. The thread fused with the tapestry, and the grim scenes shifted.

A Mycenaean general lowering his sword, disarmed by the scent of his daughter’s hair oil—jasmine and sage, woven into the thread.

A Spartan elder finding a childhood toy—a clay horse—in the rubble, its maker a Mycenaean potter he’d once called friend.

Callista’s son, alive in the weave, laughing as he pressed a fig into his killer’s palm.

“This is cruelty!” Callista sobbed. “To show me what cannot be!”

“No.” Eirene said, her voice sharp. “To show you what could. Now take it to their halls. Hang it where they feast. Let them see their hunger reflected in the light.”

The queen left, trembling under the tapestry’s weight. That night, in the Spartan warlord’s hall, the cloth writhed above the fire. Warriors jeered, hurling wine and knives, until the tapestry moved.

A thread snapped, spilling the scent of citrus into the air—a Spartan’s long-dead wife’s perfume. He froze, goblet slipping from his hand. “Althea…?”

The tapestry seized the moment. It showed his wife, not as a ghost, but as she’d been in life: braiding their daughter’s hair, humming a Mycenaean lullaby.

“Lies!” the warlord roared, but his voice broke.

By dawn, the tapestry had migrated to the Mycenaean citadel. A young soldier, tasked with burning it, instead found himself tracing the olive groves of his childhood—groves now tended by Spartan hands in the weave.

“It’s sorcery.” he whispered.

“No.” said an old scribe, his eyes wet. “It’s a choice.”

Ares returned at the waning moon, his sword sheathed in a Mycenaean rebel’s blood. “Your tapestry falters, Weaver.” he sneered, tossing a scorched scrap at her feet.

Eirene knelt, touching the fragment. The threads screamed—a village elder had torched it, screaming, “We choose vengeance!”

“You see?” Ares loomed over her. “They’ll always crave the knife.”

Eirene stood, her loom flaring to life. “And I’ll always offer the thread.”

She unraveled the burnt scrap, spinning its ashes into a new strand: the elder’s grandson, years later, planting olives in the scarred earth. “You cannot kill a memory.” she said. “Only delay it.”

The war god left, but not before Eirene wove his frustration into the loom—a black thread that hummed with his grudging respect.

Decades later, an old woman entered the Hall of Whispers. Her hands, gnarled from years of digging, placed a clay horse at Eirene’s feet. “From the Spartan warlord’s grandson.” she said. “The olives have bloomed.”

The tapestry, now faded but still humming, shuddered. In its threads, Callista’s son waved, his fig tree casting shade over both kingdoms.

“You see?” Eirene murmured to the empty hall. “Threads outlive swords.”

flashback is here! i hope this helped all of you understand her power better. Ares is of course her long standing 'enemy'. She doesn't really consider him an enemy cause it would contradict her purpose but also not really cause she also governs animosity as there are always two sides of the same coin.

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 6:

A Shift

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

They anchored the loom in the throne room. Morpheus’ obsidian spire bent to make space, vines of starlight curling around the golden beams. Morpheus raised a hand, and the obsidian spire split cleanly down the middle, not in ruin, but invitation. Eirene’s golden loom slid into the gap, its beams aligning with the Dreaming’s architecture like a key finding its lock. No chaos, no screaming heavens—just a low hum of recognition, as if the realm had waited millennia for this. Eirene’s subjects chanted as she lifted the first thread—a shimmering strand pulled not from mortal treaties, but from the dream of treaties yet unbroken.

“It’s working,” Lucienne breathed, adjusting her glasses as the library’s shelves bloomed with new volumes: Compromise of the Drowning City. The Ballad of Shared Wells.

She seized the thread—a scream from the Waking World, a mother begging for ceasefire—and pulled.

“Again,” Morpheus commanded, though his voice wavered.

Eirene wove.

A weft of soldiers laying down arms.

A warp of treaties signed in dream-ink.

With each pass, her hair whitened, her eyes dimming to smoke. Morpheus fed the loom his essence—sands that had birthed empires now reduced to grit beneath her nails.

“You’re unraveling,” he growled, catching her as her knees buckled mid-stitch.

“So stitch me back,” she laughed, bloody and bright, yanking a thread through his palm to tether herself.

He did not flinch.

The loom sang, its rhythm birthing new constellations: The Compromiser’s Knot. The Mercy Nebula.

She lifted the another thread—not torn from her soul, but spun from the Dreaming’s own sands, now gilded by her touch. As she wove, Morpheus did not hover. He observed.

“The nightmares resist,” Lucienne noted, watching shadowy tendrils lick at the loom’s base.

“Let them.” Morpheus flicked a wrist, and the nightmares stilled. Not out of fear, but curiosity. They coiled around Eirene’s ankles, their edges softening into housecat shapes. “They will adapt.”

And they did.

With each pass of the shuttle, the Dreaming shifted—subtly, stubbornly. Libraries grew windows. Courtyards sprouted olive trees where only thorns had been. Morpheus ran a hand over a leaf, its veins pulsing gold.

He stood beside her, sand swirling not to correct her threads, but to underline them. When she stumbled, he did not catch her. Instead, he lifted a strand of his own—a nightmare of isolation—and wove it into her pattern. The blend held.

“Huh” Matthew said. “Boss learned to share.”

In the palace’s oldest wing, where he’d once buried Nada’s name in a box of onyx, he now placed Eirene’s threads—not locked away, but displayed. A plaque read, in his precise script: Harmony, Vol. I.

When Lucienne found it, she smirked. “Sentiment, my lord?”

“Archival necessity,” he replied, too quickly.

Matthew swooped into the throne-loom nexus with a scroll clutched in his talons. “Complaint from the Nightmare Division, boss. Says the ‘excessive rainbows’ in the Anguish Plains are killing the vibe.”

Morpheus took the scroll. Beneath his palm, the ink shifted from gothic script to something… jauntier. Comic Sans.

“Eirene’s subjects doing,” he sighed.

“Yep. Aella also gave Gourmand The Glutton a salad.”

“Explain.”

“The ‘Eat Your Regrets’ buffet? Now 50% kale.”

Against all instinct, Morpheus laughed—a short, sharp sound that startled a flock of dream-pigeons into existence.

This is a bit short. I just wanted to explain what happened after they moved Eirene's Realm to the Dreaming and how the whole dreaming adapted to it. I will extend this more in the next chapter so it's definitely more fluff.

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 5:

Weaving Threads

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

Eirene woke to the taste of rust. Her fingers, once luminous, were veined with cracks like shattered porcelain. The bed—their bed—felt cavernous, the sheets still starched with Morpheus’ absence.

She found Lucienne in the library, her usual composure fraying at the edges. “Where is he?” Eirene demanded, leaning heavily on a shelf that creaked in sympathy.

Lucienne wouldn’t meet her eyes. “He’s gone to Hell, my lady. To free Nada.”

The name hung between them, sharp as a guillotine. Nada. The lover he’d condemned to eternal torment, the ghost Eirene hadn’t realized still walked his halls.

“Why now?” Her voice splintered.

“He said… it’s time to sever the past.”

Eirene laughed, a brittle sound that scattered dream-moths from the rafters. “Of course. What better way to forget one wife than to bring back another?”

“My lady, I don’t think—"

“Don’t.” Eirene turned, her reflection fracturing in the library’s mirrored walls. Pathetic, she thought. A harmony goddess unraveling over a man who communed with voids.

Her palace lay in ruins. Mortals had scorched the olive groves, strung peace treaties as nooses, and drowned her sacred springs in blood. Eirene knelt in the ash, her hands clawing at the soil.

“You’re a fool,” she hissed—to herself, to Morpheus, to the fates that bound them. Golden threads spooled from her fingers, tangling into discordant knots. Each weave cost her: a lock of hair turned gray, a breath that rattled like dry leaves.

He chose her, the threads taunted. You were never enough.

But Eirene wove on.

Morpheus stood before Lucifer’s throne, the air reeking of sulfur and regret. Nada’s chains clinked at his feet, her eyes wide with a hope he no longer recognized.

“Why?” she asked, voice raw from millennia of screams. “Why free me now?”

He stared past her, toward the distant shimmer of Eirene’s realm. “I made a vow.”

“To her?”

“To myself.”

As the gates of Hell sealed behind them, Morpheus cast Nada into the mortal coil—a soul unshackled, a debt erased. Only then did he feel it: the Dreaming’s tremor as Eirene’s presence faded.

“No,” he whispered, sand swirling in panic.

She collapsed at the foot of her shattered altar, threads of harmony fraying in her grip. The mortals’ wars raged on, but her voice—once a clarion call—could barely whisper.

A shadow fell across her. Not Morpheus, but a memory: his hand brushing hers in the throne room, the un-crushed rose, the way he’d lingered at the Leech’s border to ensure she walked first.

“Fool,” she repeated, softer now.

In the soil beneath her palm, a single sprout pushed through ash—obsidian petals veined with gold. A flower born of two realms.

Eirene smiled, even as the dark closed in. Endure, she thought.

And somewhere, in the space between Hell and hope, sand began to fall.

Her hands were ruins. Golden cracks split her skin, threads slipping through her fingers like water. Around her, the grove echoed with screams—not of war, but of absence. Peace cannot thrive where hope has been exiled.

“It won’t hold,” she whispered to the ashes. “Nothing holds. It doesn't work—”

A gust of night-kissed wind. Sand stung her eyes. Then—“Eirene.”

Morpheus knelt beside her, his usual grandeur stripped to raw urgency. "Why won't it work." Eirene weeps, tears fast as a river flow. He reached for her, hesitated, then cradled her ruined hands anyway. Sand fused with gold, a grotesque mosaic.

“You left,” she said, too weary for venom.

“To sever. To offer myself to you whole.” His thumb brushed her wrist, where her pulse flickered like a dying star. “The Dreaming can sustain you. Let me—”

“No.” She wrenched free. “I won’t be another thing you cage.”

“Not a cage. A covenant.” He stood, pulling her with him. The sand swirled, carving a portal where her subjects gathered—weavers, spinners, mortals who still whispered her name in the dark. They carried the golden loom, its frame splintered but glowing faintly.

“The Dreaming is their memory, the Waking” Morpheus said, voice fraying. “Weave your threads there. Let harmony live in the space between waking and sleep. Let them dream of peace until they crave nothing else.”

Eirene stared. “You’d let me alter your realm? Let my power touch your precious dreams?”

“They are yours,” he said, simple as a vow. “As am I, my love.”

Love this chapter so much. I hope u like it too!!!!

<33 Just comment or dm if you wanna be added to the taglist!! xoxo

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

oh i love love love that bonus episode of death. made me tear up honestly. the perspective offered. the humbleness. it is honestly mind boggling how this series worded out concepts that we would never have been able to word out. i honestly think everyone needs to watch this bonus episode.

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 4:

The Dissonance

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

The castle stairs were made of obsidian and sighs, their edges sharp enough to slice through pretense. Morpheus stood at their midpoint, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, as the horizon rippled with false dawns.

“Whatcha doin’ here, boss?” Matthew landed on a post, his feathers ruffled by the Dreaming’s caprice.

“Waiting,” Morpheus said, too quickly.

“For…?”

A glare. The post sprouted thorns. Matthew hopped sideways, squawking. “Okay, okay! But if you’re aiming for ‘brooding sovereign,’ you are not nailing it. You're gushing like a tomato."

Morpheus’ jaw twitched. “Silence has virtues, Matthew.”

“Sure, but so does admitting you’re waiting for your wife.”

The stair beneath Morpheus’ boot cracked, spiderwebbing into a map of fault lines. “She is late.”

“She’s not. You’re early. By like… three existential crises.”

Wind swept through, carrying the scent of Eirene’s perfume—honeysuckle and steel. Morpheus turned, his cloak billowing with forced drama. “You are dismissed.”

“Dismiss this,” Matthew muttered, flapping toward a suddenly materialized fig tree.

When Eirene appeared at the stair’s base, sunlight gilded her hair. Morpheus noted, with clinical detachment, that her smile could unravel centuries of carefully curated gloom.

“Waiting long?” she called.

“No,” he lied.

The stairs flattened into a path, the Dreaming itself rolling out a carpet. Eirene’s laugh echoed. “Liar.”

He offered his arm. Not because he wished to, but because the alternative—letting her see his hands tremble—was unthinkable.

The border between Dreaming and Waking hung like a rotting tapestry—threads of reality fraying, colors bleeding into sickly gray. Eirene’s breath crystallized in the air, though no cold touched her skin. This place eats warmth, she realized. Eats hope.

Morpheus stepped forward, black sand swirling around his fingers. “Stay close.”

“Or what?” Eirene matched his stride, her own power humming beneath her ribs—a chord only she could hear. “You’ll miss my dazzling commentary?”

He didn’t smile, but the sand coiled tighter. “Or you’ll become its next meal.”

The nightmare revealed itself in increments: a shadow pooling too thickly, the stench of burnt hair, a sound like teeth grinding on bone. Then—form. A hunched thing with too many joints, its skin a mosaic of indecision—faces frozen mid-scream, hands clutching at void.

“Ah,” Morpheus murmured. “A Leech of Ambivalence. It gorges on those who cannot choose.”

“Charming.” Eirene’s fingers twitched, plucking an invisible string. The air shivered. “Shall we harmonize?”

The Leech lunged. Morpheus’ sand became a blade, severing one grasping limb. Eirene sang a single note—clear, piercing—and the creature recoiled, its many mouths wailing in dissonance.

“Fascinating,” Morpheus said, sidestepping a flailing tendril. “It hates your melody.”

“It’s not the melody.” She dodged, her gown tearing as claws grazed her hip. “It’s the certainty.”

He froze. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d lost him to some abyss of thought. Then his hand closed around hers, cold and unyielding. “Then certainty we shall wield.”

The sand surged, black and liquid, as Eirene’s voice rose in counterpoint. The Leech unraveled, its form dissolving into ash and whimpers.

When silence fell, Morpheus still hadn’t released her hand.

“Well,” Eirene breathed, blood singing with adrenaline, “that was almost…”

“Collaborative?”

“I was going to say romantic.”

He dropped her hand as if scalded. “Do not mistake necessity for sentiment.”

But as they crossed back into the Dreaming, she noticed—he walked slower. Let her linger.

The path back to the castle blurred at the edges, the Dreaming’s colors leaching into sepia. Eirene counted her breaths—seven, eight, nine—to distract from the weight in her bones. Her fingers, still humming from the battle’s resonance, had begun to transparent. Just a flicker, there and gone.

“You lag” Morpheus said, not turning.

“Merely savoring the view.” She forced a smile, kicking a pebble that dissolved mid-arc. “Your realm has a flair for melodrama, husband. All these wilting roses? A bit on the nose.”

He halted, finally facing her. “The roses are unchanged.”

Ah. So the decay was hers alone to see. She pressed on, her gown snagging on thorns that hadn’t existed moments before.

“Eirene.” His voice sharpened. “You bleed.”

She glanced down. A crimson bloom spread across her hip where the Leech had grazed her. No—not blood. The edges shimmered, golden and wrong. Divine ichor.

“A scratch,” she lied, plucking a honeysuckle vine to wrap around the wound. The flowers withered instantly, their petals crumbling to ash.

Morpheus seized her wrist. “You are no nightmare to fade with the dawn. What is this?”

For a heartbeat, she considered truth: Every war-monger’s oath gnaws at me. Every treaty torn unravels my thread.

“Fatigue,” she said lightly, pulling free. “Even goddesses tire of your brooding.”

The castle gates loomed ahead. Eirene’s knees buckled.

Morpheus caught her before she struck the earth, his arms rigid with reluctance. “You are… diminished.”

“And you are warm,” she murmured, cheek against his chest. “Who knew?”

He stiffened. “This is no jest.”

“No.” Her laugh frayed into a cough. “But I’d rather laugh than mourn.”

When he lifted her, the Dreaming itself recoiled—a queen cradled like shattered glass, her hair streaked with sudden silver.

“You will explain this,” he said, more plea than command.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

But as the gates closed behind them, the first mortal gun shot in the Waking. Somewhere, a thread snapped.

Eirene did not flinch.

I'm quite excited for the next chapters hehe. I can't wait for you to see it:>

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

next three chapters are ready. didnt have classes yesterday and today so i had a LOT of time. these are the first climax of the story, there's gonna be one more final conflict before this series ends.

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 3:

Search

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

The morning mist smelled of honeysuckle and dew-kissed roses, a stark contrast to the storm-wracked atmosphere of the previous night. The oppressive weight of the Dreaming had lifted, replaced by a lightness that felt almost… hopeful. Queen Eirene emerged from the bed, her movements fluid and graceful, a smile playing on her lips. The chamber doors swung open before she could reach them, revealing Aella, her face etched with concern. The servant had witnessed the explosive argument at the Endless’ table, the raw animosity between Eirene and Morpheus.

“Did something… transpire last night, my lady?” Aella ventured, her voice soft yet hesitant.

Eirene’s laughter was light, almost giddy. “Oh, dear Aella, it was nothing. Nothing at all. Well, something did happen, but not in the way you fear.”

Aella frowned, her confusion deepening. “But… the argument? The shouting?”

Eirene’s eyes sparkled, a mischievous glint in their depths. “We… reconciled. He apologized! Can you believe it? An Endless? Apologizing?” Aella’s jaw dropped, her surprise palpable.

Eirene stepped into the waiting bath, warm water swirling around her like a comforting embrace. As Aella poured fragrant oils into the water, the queen recounted the events of the previous night, her voice animated, her laughter echoing in the spacious chamber. There was no need for the soothing oils. Eirene looked remarkably refreshed, the exhaustion from the wedding and the emotional turmoil seemingly shed along with the night. It was a new day, a new beginning.

Aella, still slightly bewildered, continued her ministrations, her own worries easing under the radiant optimism of her queen. The tension between Morpheus and Eirene had been a dark storm, but the dawn had broken. The scent of roses was a promise.

The library stretched endlessly, shelves rearranging themselves like a living labyrinth. Eirene lingered by a table piled with star charts, her fingers brushing a constellation that pulsed faintly at her touch.

“He’s been gone since dawn, if that helps,” Matthew croaked from his perch on Lucienne’s shoulder, his beady eyes glinting. “Boss is allergic to downtime. You’ll get used to it.”

Eirene arched a brow. “Or perhaps he will learn to tolerate interruptions.”

Lucienne hid a smile behind her book. “The throne room is… quieter these days. You’re welcome to wait there, my lady.”

Wait. The word rankled. Eirene had spent centuries weaving harmony from chaos; patience was her armor, but not her nature. “No need. I’ll find him myself.”

“Respectfully,” Lucienne interjected, too politely, “the Dreaming reshapes itself for its ruler. Without him, even a goddess might lose her way.”

A challenge. A kindness. Eirene smiled, sharp as a blade. “Then I’ll carve a new path.”

She turned, skirts swirling, and nearly collided with a wall that hadn’t existed moments before. Behind her, Matthew snorted. “Told ya. This place hates newbies.”

The castle’s corridors spat Eirene out into a sunlit glade she hadn’t intended to find. Typical, she thought, brushing willow fronds from her hair. The Dreaming reshaped itself like a coy lover, revealing only what it wished.

The garden before her was a symphony of green—vines heavy with jasmine, grass that sighed underfoot, bees drunk on nectar. At its heart stood a man beneath an oak, his quill scratching parchment. He looked up, adjusting round spectacles that caught the light.

“Ah, the queen!” His voice was rich, earthy, like roots cradling hidden streams. “Lovely morning, my lady.”

Eirene recognized him from the wedding’s periphery. “You were with Lucienne last night. Did the festivities please you?”

“Immensely, though I regret not bidding you farewell.” He rose, sketching a bow. “Fiddler’s Green, at your service. Though some call me Gilbert.”

“A pleasure,” Eirene said, meaning it. His aura radiated the kind of peace that could lull wars to sleep. “This place… it’s you, isn’t it? The garden.”

Gilbert’s eyes crinkled. “In a sense. Memories grow here, you see. Even yours, given time.”

The breeze carried the scent of parchment and petrichor. Eirene sank onto a mossy stone. “Have you seen my husband?”

“He passed through at dawn.” Gilbert’s quill tapped the page thoughtfully. “Remarkably… unstormlike. Less thunder, more twilight. Though he lingered by the lake as if fighting a smile. Curious, no?”

Eirene’s pulse quickened. “Curious indeed.”

“Take this.” Gilbert tore a leaf from his book—a map inked in silver. “The quickest path to where he's probably gone. If you hurry.”

She stood, tucking the map into her sleeve. “Why help me?”

“Because,” he said, already writing again, “even the Endless need someone to remind them they’re still men.”

The map dissolved in Eirene’s hands like smoke, its silver ink bleeding into the air. Of course, she thought, bitterness sharp on her tongue. The Dreaming bent only to his will, a realm as stubborn and inscrutable as its master.

She found herself back at the throne room’s entrance, its obsidian doors yawning open in silent mockery. Inside, the vaulted ceiling shimmered with false constellations, each star a captured dream. The throne itself—a jagged spire of onyx—loomed at the center, cold and unwelcoming.

“He does this often, you know.”

Lucienne appeared beside her, holding a tray of tea that smelled of bergamot and regret. “Disappear. It’s not personal, my lady.”

Eirene sank onto the throne’s steps, ignoring how the stone leached warmth from her bones. “Isn’t it? We’re bound now. Shouldn’t that mean something?”

“Binding an Endless is like tethering a hurricane.” Lucienne set the tea beside her, untouched. “But hurricanes have eyes. Quiet centers. You’ll learn to find his.”

A flicker in the air—a shift in pressure, the scent of petrichor. Morpheus stood at the room’s edge, his cloak still dusted with starlight. “You sought me.”

Eirene didn’t rise. “You left.”

“The Dreaming requires maintenance.”

“So does a marriage.”

His gaze flicked to Lucienne, who vanished with a tactful cough. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost weary. “You wish to accompany me.”

“I wish to understand.” She stood, the throne room’s shadows curling around her ankles like cats. “This realm is yours, but I am part of it now. Let me in.”

For a heartbeat, the constellations stilled. Then Morpheus extended his hand, sand swirling in his palm. “Tomorrow. There’s a nightmare near the Waking’s edge. It feeds on indecision.”

“Indecision?” She arched a brow. “How novel. I thought you preferred brooding.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Bring a weapon.”

“I am a weapon.” she said, and this time, he didn’t look away.

I've finally panned out the whole story. The following chapters will be fluff but also angst. I haven't written it properly yet, just a draft. The line below the story title will soon make sense. Not yet, but soon. :>

@deniixlovezelda

@villain-in-the-dark

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

[phythius]

Please, she's so funny 😭😭

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 2:

Reception

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous - next

Eirene had always savored the vibrant hum of after-parties—the laughter, the whispered confidences, the dance of light against crystal goblets. But tonight, the air thrummed with a different energy, heavy with the weight of immortal scrutiny. The candlelights flickered like restless spirits, casting elongated shadows that seemed to lean in closer, listening. Lanterns bathed an ancient willow tree in an ethereal glow, its branches trailing like spectral fingers above tables draped in silvery linens. At the garden's heart, a space lay open for dancing, the polished floor reflecting the constellations above—or perhaps the cold gaze of the Endless, seated in their secluded gazebo like watchers of eternity.

She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her smile a fragile mask. The Dreams and Nightmares bowed as she passed, their whispers laced with curiosity and awe. Yet every step felt measured, every laugh a hair too bright beneath the gaze of Destiny’s unblinking eyes, Desire’s knowing smirk, Delirium’s kaleidoscopic stare. Even the willow’s lanterns seemed to dim when Morpheus drifted near, his presence a storm contained within tailored shadows.

The garden itself was a masterpiece—carnations woven into garlands, their scent clashing subtly with the metallic tang of distant lightning. A string quartet played somewhere unseen, the music curling around the guests like a spell. Eirene’s fingers brushed a petal as she passed, the velvet softness a stark contrast to the cold gemstone weight of her wedding band. At the edge of the dance floor, she paused, catching Morpheus’ reflection in a goblet’s side—his jaw tight, his eyes distant, yet his posture angled ever so slightly toward her. A moth to a flame he refused to acknowledge.

The romance lay buried beneath duty, the mystery in what went unspoken: the way her pulse quickened when their hands had brushed at the altar, the flicker of something raw in his eyes when he’d thought no one was looking. Now, surrounded by splendor and shadows, they orbited each other—a dance far more intricate than any the quartet could conjure. The air between them hummed, not with harmony, but with the charged silence before a storm breaks.

"Come here, Lady Harmony!" Death’s voice cut through the garden’s murmur, warm yet commanding. Eirene turned to see the Endless patting an empty seat beside her at the gazebo’s central table. Morpheus already occupied the adjacent chair, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if willing the stars to rearrange themselves. He hadn’t spared her a glance, let alone an invitation to the table after a wedding dance.

Eirene settled into the offered seat, the silk of her gown whispering against the wrought iron. Destiny nodded his head in her direction—a gesture of acknowledgment, or perhaps collusion. Morpheus’ jaw tightened subtly. Traitorous, he thought, the word a venomous bloom in his mind. This union reeks of their scheming.

“Is something wrong, husband?” Eirene ventured, her voice light, honeyed with the same practiced ease she’d used to placate warring deities. Morpheus turned his head just enough to let the cold gleam of his eyes meet hers. Silence stretched, sharp as a blade. Then he looked away, dismissing her.

Eirene blinked, unruffled but curious. So this is how nightmares are born, she mused, tracing the rim of her wine goblet.

As the night wore on, the garden’s tension softened—or perhaps it was the wine. Eirene, emboldened by her third glass, laughed at Delirium’s nonsensical toast, exchanged sly barbs with Desire, and even coaxed a chuckle from Death with a story about a mortal who’d tried to bargain for immortality with a bouquet of tulips. The Endless, for all their cosmic gravitas, loosened like constellations tilting toward dawn.

Only Morpheus remained untouched by the merriment. He sat like a statue carved from midnight, his wine untouched, his replies to conversation clipped. Yet his attention—subtle, relentless—followed Eirene’s every movement: the way her fingers brushed Desire’s sleeve in passing, the tilt of her head as she listens to Delirium's newest distraction.

Near midnight, Eirene swayed slightly as she stood, the world tilting on an axis of claret and starlight. “You’re missing the revelry, husband,” she said, leaning down, her breath warm and wine-sweet near his ear. “Even stars dance, you know.”

He stiffened. “Stars burn. As do alliances forged in shadow.”

She straightened, undeterred. “Perhaps. But firelight suits you.”

Before he could retort, she drifted toward the willow tree, where a cluster of Dreams had begun an impromptu waltz. Morpheus watched her go, the ghost of her words lingering. His hand curled around his untouched goblet, the silver creaking under his grip.

Destiny, observing from across the table, turned a page in his book. The sound was deafening.

Eirene moved through the crowd with mechanical grace, her smile brittle as she bid farewell to dreams, nightmares and lesser deities. By the time she returned to the Endless’ table, Desire’s smirk was a blade poised to twist.

“Welcome back, sister” Desire purred, their voice syrup and poison. “Done charming every guest here? Ready to warm the Lord of Dreams’ bed?”

Eirene’s laugh was too bright, too sharp. “He can’t even look at me, let alone bed me.” The words slipped out, wine-loosened and reckless.

Morpheus’ goblet clattered against the table. “I’ll not be mocked by a conspirator,” he hissed, his voice glacial. “You and Destiny schemed this union to shackle me.”

“Schemed—?” Eirene’s composure cracked. “You think I wanted this? To bind myself to a man brooding like a hen who sulks at his own wedding? My realm is fracturing, you insufferable prick. If not for that, I’d never look at you twice!”

Silence fell like a guillotine. Even Desire’s smirk faltered.

Morpheus stood abruptly, his chair screeching against stone. “Then you are as much a prisoner as I.” He vanished into a swirl of sand, leaving only coldness in his wake.

Eirene pressed a hand to her mouth, regret souring the wine on her tongue. Gods, what have I done? She fled toward the castle, heels echoing like gunshots.

The castle’s hallways coiled around Eirene like a living thing, their endless curves mocking her haste. She nearly collided with Lucienne at a junction, the librarian’s spectacles glinting with poorly veiled alarm.

“My lady,” Lucienne began, clasping her book to her chest like a shield, “are you… going somewhere?”

Eirene forced a breath, her nails biting into her palms. Gods, even the air judges me here. “I wish to retire. Would you direct me to my chambers?”

Lucienne stiffened. “Ah. We… had not prepared separate quarters.” A beat. “It was assumed you would reside with Lord Morpheus.”

The words landed like a stone. Of course. Why grant dignity to a prisoner of state? Eirene’s smile felt carved from ice. “How efficient. Lead me to his chambers, then.”

“But my lady—”

“Now, Lucienne.”

The librarian obeyed, her footsteps too loud in the suffocating silence. Eirene counted the torches they passed—twenty-three, twenty-four—to avoid thinking of the bed awaiting her, of Morpheus’ scornful gaze stripping her bare.

When they reached the door, Lucienne fled with a murmured excuse. Eirene pressed her forehead to the obsidian wood, its surface leeching warmth from her skin. Harmony, she reminded herself. Breathe. Bend. Do not break.

She stepped inside.

The chamber was a reflection of its master: vast, cold, beautiful. Starlight seeped through arched windows that shouldn’t exist, illuminating a bed large enough to drown in. Eirene traced a finger along its edge. Silk sheets, black as a raven’s throat. How fitting. Morpheus’ chamber defied logic—walls that rippled like ink in water, corners dissolving into starless voids. Eirene stood at its center, her wedding gown pooled at her feet like shed skin. The air hummed against her bare shoulders, alive with the Dreaming’s restless pulse.

A shadow shifted.

“Heavens—!” She snatched a robe, clutching it to her chest. Morpheus materialized from the gloom, his eyes widening before he spun away, spine rigid.

“I was not… expecting your presence here,” he said, voice strained.

“Neither did I.” Eirene’s tone wavered. “But—we are husband and wife.” She tied the robe, silk slithering over her hips. “I owe you an apology. The wine, my temper… I didn’t mean to shame us.”

“You did.” He still wouldn’t face her. “But truth requires no apology. I accused you of conspiracy when we are both… casualties.” A pause. The chamber’s walls sighed inward, as if holding their breath. “My anger was misplaced. For that, I am sorry.”

Eirene stepped closer. Moonlight carved his profile in silver—the sharp jaw, the too-pale throat. “You’ve never apologized to anyone, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it hurt?”

A flicker. Almost a smile. “Excruciating.”

His gaze remained fixed on a point beyond her shoulder, but his hands—those elegant, cruel hands—trembled faintly. “You implied earlier that this need not be a marriage of convenience.”

“I did.”

“What else could it be?”

The question hung between them. Eirene finally met his eyes, black as the void outside. “A pact. Mutual… respect. Perhaps, in time—”

“Don’t.” He touched her wrist. Cold. Always so cold. “Just… stay. Tonight.” she whispers.

He didn’t drop her hands. “I do not sleep.”

“Then watch over me.” She turned toward the bed, its sheets a bottomless black. “Unless you’d rather brood in a corner?”

A beat. Then—“I will stay.”

Eirene slid beneath the covers. Morpheus sat at the bed’s edge, a statue carved from night. Hours passed. She pretended not to notice when his fingers brushed her hair, once, as if testing the texture of a ghost.

Chapter 2 is here! I really hope you like it. My scoliosis back was hurting so bad after a long ass day. I just really wanted to finish this to release some stress.

just comment if you want to be added to the tag list!

@deniixlovezelda

[phythius]

do i review for my test or do i keep writing chapter 2

yes, i'll write. HUZZAAAAHH!!

[phythius]

[phythius]

Harmony's Requiem:

A Dream's Elegy

In pursuit of peace, the Queen of Harmony

fractures. What will it mean for the world?

Chapter 1:

The Wedding

Eirene, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill, the Queen of Animosity, found herself at a crossroads. Her wedding day came, a promise of peace and union, a treacherous deal in the Dreaming. She journeyed into the realm of nightmares and dreams, her heart heavy with the weight of a peace she wasn't sure she could maintain. The obstacles she faced were not merely trials of strength, but riddles of the soul, challenges that even a goddess might not overcome.

tags and warnings: arranged marriage, morpheus x goddess!reader, angst, smut in later parts, fluff in later parts, slowburn

fair warning: this fan fiction series does not follow the events from the actual series.

previous — next

The afternoon breeze, a gentle hand, caressed the hem of Queen Eirene's gown, a melancholic whisper against the vibrant fabric. She stood patiently, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon, awaiting the arrival of her familiar, the mockingbird Estella, her guide to the Dreaming. A sigh escaped her lips, barely audible above the rustling leaves. This arranged marriage—a union she never desired—brew before her, a heavy weight on her heart. Yet, for the sake of peace, she would proceed. Destiny's words echoed in her mind, a chilling reminder of her predicament. "You need this, Eirene," he had said, his voice firm and unwavering. "This union will bring balance to the mortal realm. You, of all people, should understand that we cannot afford another devastating war." She nodded then, her acceptance, a silent surrender to the inevitable. Destiny's ruling were absolute, unbending. No amount of protest could sway his decision. Bound to him by ancient oaths and the very nature of her divine power, the Goddess of Harmony found herself powerless against his will. His words were law, her fate sealed. The weight of responsibility, of countless lives hanging in the balance, settled heavily upon her shoulders.

A sharp rap on the door jolted Queen Eirene back to the present, the lingering echoes of her conversation with Destiny fading into the background. Dwelling in the past would serve no purpose; her decision was made. Submission was her only recourse. "My lady," Aella's soft voice broke through the quiet, "Everything is prepared. We can depart for the Dreaming now." The gentle words were laced with concern, Aella's keen eyes catching the flicker of sadness that still clung to the Queen's expression. Eirene offered a reassuring smile, a carefully constructed mask to hide her turmoil. She didn't want to burden her most trusted servant with her anxieties. But Aella knew her lady better than anyone. She had sensed the Queen's distress even before entering her chambers, the subtle shift in the atmosphere a silent testament to the internal struggle raging within. The worry etched on Aella's face was a mirror to her own, a shared burden of unspoken anxieties.

With ethereal grace, Queen Eirene stepped into the Dreaming, the cool air clinging to her skin like a lingering rain. Dew-kissed grass yielded softly beneath her careful steps as she ascended the ancient stairs. And there he stood, Lord Morpheus, King of the Dreaming—tall, imposing, a brooding figure shrouded in an aura of silent intensity. Dark clouds seemed to gather above his head, mirroring the storm within his eyes. He offered a slight smile, a fleeting, almost unnoticeable curve of his lips, but his gaze remained cold, empty, like the vast, starless sky of his realm. "Welcome, Queen Eirene of Serenhollow, Goddess of Harmony and Goodwill," his voice was a low, resonant tone, devoid of warmth, sending a shiver down her spine. "I awaited your arrival here. I wished to offer a proper introduction before we proceed inside." His words were polite, yet the underlying chill was unmistakable. Eirene responded with a carefully tempered sweetness, a practiced charm she employed with everyone she met. "Thank you for receiving me, Lord Morpheus. Your realm is as enchanting as ever, my lord." The honeyed tone was a carefully constructed facade, a fragile shield against the unspoken tension that hung heavy between them. A familiar ritual, this initial harmony, a prelude to the uncertain future that stretched before them, a future where the sweetness might as well be sour.

Queen Eirene waited, the heavy oak door closing behind Lord Morpheus. She surveyed the Dreaming, finding it less forbidding than she’d anticipated, despite the chill in the air. Dreams and nightmares alike, their forms shifting and indistinct, stole curious glances at their soon-to-be queen. A wave of unease washed over her. Am I to remain here? Leave my realm unguarded? The thought of her subjects, their well-being hanging in the balance, deepened her distress. Then, the castle doors swung open, revealing the Heart of the Dreaming. A breathtaking wedding scene unfolded before her, a meticulously arranged tableau of beauty. A wave of warmth touched her heart; whoever had orchestrated this had clearly understood her fondness for carnations. I must thank them later, she resolved. As she began her walk down the aisle, a gasp escaped her lips. The Endless family—all of them—present, their mere presence radiating power, an almost palpable aura of divinity. Even gods and goddesses seemed to shrink in their presence. The dreams mingled with the seated guests, their expressions a mixture of awe and excitement at the bride's arrival. And there he was, her husband-to-be, his eyes even colder than before, his breathing ragged, as if he were struggling to contain a storm of suppressed frustration. She understood his feelings; this union was a forced compromise, a burden shared. Yet, here she stood at the altar, facing him, her voice a hesitant whisper as she uttered the words, "I do," in response to Destiny's solemn proclamation. Morpheus' reply echoed hers, a curt affirmation strained with deep-seated hesitation and simmering anger. The ceremony felt less like a celebration and more like a binding pact forged in the midst of necessity.

So so sorry if this is short but I put out the prologue just hours ago so you can understand why this chapter is a bit short. I'm still introducing the characters properly and I didn't want it to be exhaustingly long. I might put out chapter 2 tomorrow!

Also, thank you for the excited comments on the prologue! I hope you like this one!