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im-not-corrupted · 7 months

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Part 1/6 of my merman Hob au (also on ao3 here!), of which I previously posted a snippet of here. Chapters two and three are half done so far so updates may take a bit? I’m not sure but we shall see!

Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Merman!Hob, Human Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, the fantasy is very vague but like. mermaids., Dream of the Endless | Morpheus has Depression, Grief/Mourning, deals with the death of Orpheus, and Dream and Calliope's divorce, Brief suicidal ideation, Near Death Experiences, Drowning, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, POV Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Arranged Marriage, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Saves Hob Gadling, Developing Friendships

—————

The first time Morpheus de Endeles steps foot on a ship, it is with the intention of sailing to his wife’s homeland—the place of her birth, the place her parents rule, the place their son once knew far greater than he does now.

Ex wife, that is. They are no longer married now, because he had thoroughly ruined whatever the two of them had. The divorce had been a swift affair, and he is glad for it, despite the uproar it caused amongst his parent’s court and the disappointment his parents expressed in the face of such disaster. Last they saw one another, Calliope’s parting words had been scathing things, weapons made to kill and maim and cause the most damage possible while doing so.

She hates him now. This he acknowledges distantly as he steps on board the ship, feeling a little like he walks towards his own death. More than once, he bore witness to the end of a criminal’s life with the distinct impression that justice had been served, brutally and efficiently. Now he wonders if this is how they felt, facing their own end.

A bleak thought to start the trip off on, but that seems appropriate. If the knowledge of Calliope’s hatred for him is a distant thing, that is only because his mind remains occupied by other recent events. Namely, his son’s death.

The first time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, he does so with the intention of sailing to his son’s funeral.

Calliope insisted—over letters, written in elegant, swooping hand that did nothing to hide the sharp edges to her words—that Orpheus be buried in her homeland. And though the knowledge of her hatred is a distant thing, and has been since she spoke her last parting words, there was room inside him even then for the ache that arose as he read that letter.

There was more than enough room inside him for the guilt, too. There still is. You sent our son off to his death, Calliope hissed at him. This, he knows, is true. It is a different kind of agony, this knowledge. To know his son is dead is one thing. To be the one to blame, to have Orpheus’s blood stain his hands however indirectly—well, that is another thing entirely.

It was also this knowledge that prompted him to grant his past wife this wish and agree that Orpheus should be buried in her homeland. It was, he figures, the least he could do. He had subjected her to the same pain that currently sits inside his chest, an agony he thinks he won’t be rid of for as long as he lives. If this would soothe some of that agony for her, then he will gladly make that sacrifice for her.

On this ship is Telute, too. As Morpheus stands by the railing, looking out at the sea and the sky with a sense of detachment he has not felt since dear Del’s death, she stands beside him. She is dressed similarly to him, in mourning regalia. This is not so different to either of their typical styles—black suits them both well, and they each prefer the darker, drearier colours to those Epithumia tends to don.

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. It is a comforting weight. His shoulders bow underneath it. He does not deserve this comfort—She is dead, he told Orpheus, unsympathetic as he wept for his lost love Eurydice, and yet you live. So live.—but he is a greedy thing, and therefore does not push her away.

She does not speak. She does not move away, either. Not as the sails are raised, commands shouted across the deck of the ship. Not as they begin to leave the harbour, and any sense of familiarity. She remains there, standing beside him, in a show of solidarity as the ship begins to move.

The swaying motion leaves him feeling ill. He pushes it down insistently. It is a feeling he must bear—a punishment, for all he has brought upon both his own family and Calliope. The disappointment in Nyx’s eyes, the rage in Cronos’s, and Calliope’s final words are not things he is likely to forget. He holds them close to his chest, a reminder of his own failures and regrets. Perhaps this way, he will not make them again.

A foolish thought, that. He has always been particularly resistant to the idea of change.

”It’ll be alright,” Telute tells him softly.

It is not a comfort. He nods stiffly anyway.

The two siblings remain standing for a while, silent and still as statues, and the feeling of dread doesn’t leave him for the duration of the trip.

+++

It is a quiet affair, the funeral. The hushed air, the grief that seems to live in it, do not disguise the looks he receives from both Calliope and her sisters. They hate him too. He does not begrudge them this, and tries his best to ignore them.

They are not his concern. His concern is Orpheus—his dear son, whose eyes were the same lovely brown as Calliope’s, whose raven hair curled at the nape of his neck. Orpheus was a joy, with a grin made for laughter and a voice made for singing. His affinity for music made things all the brighter back at home—there was no way to be miserable, even under the shadow of his parents, when Orpheus sang or played the lute. It was his own joy that made it so lovely, Morpheus thinks. It had been infectious. He had been made for music, and that became apparent with every string he plucked and note he hit.

This reminder made the funeral all the more painful. It is spent mostly in silence, broken only by the weeping of immediate family members and speeches made by Orpheus’s Calliope’s family. Not himself—he adamantly refuses when Calliope offers him the chance. It disappoints her, he sees it in her face, but how is he supposed to put words to the grief he felt over his son’s death? How is he supposed to speak and remain composed while reliving the death of one he loves more than he has loved anything or anybody before?

The silence is a mournful thing, sorrowful and weighing heavy. He thinks, for a moment, that he should’ve liked to hear Orpheus play at least once more before his death.

He does not cry. He is too scraped raw for that, for tears to come to his eyes. (Later, Calliope admonishes him about it. They are the last two standing before his grave, the sight o the name Orpheus carved into his headstone a knife in his chest. You did not even cry, she murmurs, her voice a terribly brittle thing. And Morpheus stands there and wishes he could turn back time, that the names they were given meant something more than abstract concepts. You do not even care.) He wants to cry. He wants to shed tears over his son’s death, to rage and agonise and scream at the sky. It all seems terribly unfair.

Telute remains by his side. Their arms are interlocked, now, his sister’s hand on his arm, and he is glad for her. For the steady, comforting presence she offers—for the ability to lean on her, to let himself succumb to despair while she remains the strong one. He has always looked up to Telute, to his dear sister Death, and he is more grateful than he thinks he can ever put into words for the fact that she didn’t leave him to face this by himself. He does not know if he would’ve coped otherwise.

She leaves him eventually, as those gathered begin to disperse. “You should say your own goodbyes,” she tells him, head tilting towards Orpheus’s new grave. Calliope sits before it, a motionless study of sorrow and mourning.

She is wise, dear Telute. He knows this. He knows this well. Always, she has had the answers, the right words to say. She is right about this, too.

But he stares after Calliope and yearns. Yearns to reach out, to offer a comforting hand on her shoulder or his own shoulder to cry on. Neither of those are things she will welcome. He does not blame her for this, but the yearning does not follow any kind of logic he knows of. They are nothing now, their relationship little more than ashes between them. His memories of their time together is soured by grief, by frustration and rage aimed at this entire damned situation, the hopelessness he feels so keenly.

He loves her still. Would offer her comfort despite it all, if he knew she’d accept it.

”I should,” he agrees softly. He doesn’t move. He isn’t sure he can. Grief has made his heart a cold, hardened thing. He is chilled with it, his blood like ice in his veins.

Telute offers him a terribly sympathetic look. It grates on him, makes him clench his jaw. He does not need pity.

Yet he would not dare say such a thing to his sister, and so she ignores the affronted expression he knows he wears and urges, “Go.”

He does. Calliope speaks to him only once, and it is as painful as the funeral itself. (I care, he wants to tell her. He wants to scream it, wants to make sure she knows. I care. He was my son, too.) She leaves him standing by their son’s grave.

He does not cry even then. He leaves a flower atop the gravestone instead, knowing it will be a while until he sees it again, and returns to Telute. (His eyes sting as they make their way back to their accommodations. He cries then. A single tear, but it is something.)

+++

The second time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, it is to return to his own homeland. It is to turn his back on his son, on the woman he once called wife and still loves as one despite her thorough abandonment of her. (There is a slowly rising anger there, too, as he thinks of her hardened eyes, once so gentle, as she accused him of not caring. Does she not know him better than that? Did their five years of marriage amount to nothing, for her to know him so little?)

It is also to face his first storm at sea, and to nearly drown.

It happens after a week and a half on the sea. They are nearly home, the captain tells him. He is a prideful thing, this captain, sure of himself and his abilities. I have not steered this ship wrong before, my Lord, he says, and this is enough for Morpheus, who only wishes to return to his home and immerse himself in the library so he might escape the horror of the last couple of months. He finds himself too tired to ask further questions, and simply leaves to return to his own cabin. His body has mostly acclimated to sea travel now—his stomach no longer feels like it is about to betray him at any given moment, and he is able to walk steadily.

A day later, they are hit by a storm.

It is a brutal, savage thing. At first, it is just the rain—the sky opens up above them to drench them in rain, the event so sudden it comes as a surprise. The skies were overcast before this, yes, but not bad enough for a storm so terrible, surely.

The sudden winds rip at them fiercely. The tides, which had been gentle for their journey so far, turn violent, larger than he ever imagined the sea capable of. His own fault, that—there are many stories about the brutality of the ocean, the fury that hides within its depths. He simply forgot about them, distracted by the beauty of the sun glistening on its calmer waves and the knowledge of why he stands atop a ship on the sea. He chose to see the beauty instead of the danger—he knows, in that moment, that he will not do the same a second time.

If he lives to see a second time. He is suddenly unsure he will—both sea water and rain drenches the deck. The crew hurries to obey the captain’s shouted, panicked orders, only just heard over the roaring winds. The ship tips and rocks and sways precariously. Morpheus grips onto the railing, tight enough his palms ache, and finds himself filled with a loud, insistent fear.

People die in the ocean all the time. The sea is not kind—it is full of rage and it is vengeful, determined to drown those who try to conquer it. He knows this. He knows this and yet he had let himself be distracted. And now he will die here, so soon after his son’s own death.

It is not that idea that terrifies him. Death does not scare him. He does not think it ever has. He believes not in any kind of afterlife—death, he believes, is simply nothing. To die is to no longer exist. There is beauty in that, he thinks. He is tired of existing already, and the grief that only swells within him makes that exhaustion all the more unbearable.

He does fear for his sister, though. His sister, whose eyes shine brightly, who treated his son kindly. Who had been there for him during his younger years, when misery clung to him like a parasite and sucked him dry of all desire for life. She does not understand him properly and often says the wrong things, but Morpheus doesn’t think that’s the point. She tries. She cares, offering him soft, fond smiles that are sometimes exasperated. She loves him, and even made this journey for him.

He thinks she does not deserve to die. He thinks, too, that he would do any number of things to ensure she makes it out.

There are shouts on the air, growing more urgent by the second. This is, surely, proof that this storm is far stronger than the rest of them, and he grits his teeth. Insistently, he surveys the crew as they rush back and forth, only—only he cannot see Telute anywhere. She doesn’t seem to be on the main deck, or perhaps he isn’t looking hard enough. The ship rocks and sways and his stomach lurches with it—he is not used to so much violent movement, and it is distracting.

But he steels his spine and stumbles across the deck, shouting as loud as he can, “Telute!”

”My Lord,” somebody says behind him, and he whirls—too fast, for his stomach lurches and he fears then that he will throw up, which would certainly be a reaction to have here and now—to find Lucienne standing behind him, her expression panicked and concerned. “My Lord, we must get you onto one of the boats.”

”No,” he denies immediately. The worst of his nausea dissipates but his voice still feels weak. He looks past Lucienne, ignoring the rain drenching his clothes and his face and his hair, and tries desperately to find Telute. “No. I must—I must find my sister.”

”My Lord, Jessamy is looking for her,” Lucienne informs him. When he returns his attention to her face, there is a quiet devastation there, and he regrets how harshly he spoke to her. She is a patient advisor, dear Lucienne. She does not deserve his harshness. Not now and not ever. “You must come with me now.”

He would trust Jessamy with his life, if it came to that. There is nobody more steadfast, nobody more loyal, than her. If she searches for Telute, there is little chance that she will stop until she inevitably finds her. Her stubborn streak runs bright, as does her loyalty to the Royal Family.

It is enough to inspire relief. Enough to make his shoulders slump for a moment—and as he says, “Very well,” he sees Jessamy escort a rather worried-looking Telute, who glances over her shoulder frantically, desperately. She will be safe, then.

“This way, my Lord,” Lucienne urges him, and he makes to follow.

He takes nothing more than a single step before the ship crests another wave violently, the winds driving them in the wrong direction, and it suddenly tips.

There is nothing for him to grab immediately, save Lucienne. Only, as he loses his footing and watches as Lucienne quickly regains hers, he doesn’t think that would be fair. If he falls—and he is, he realises belatedly, he is falling and falling and the violent, beautiful sea has never seemed quite so close—if he falls, he knows he would only drag her down with him. He is unaccustomed to this, to being upon the sea like so. He was not made for this. He was made for a throne to sit beside his parents’, and then beside his elder brother when his time eventually comes, just like the rest of their siblings. If not that, then marriage to another kingdom, to keep their ties strong, to keep trades between countries going. His fate was never supposed to be this.

He loses his footing and he falls and there is railing behind his back, digging in, and panic flares inside his chest. The ship is righted quickly, only to be assaulted again, and he does not cling tightly enough to the railing behind him to stop himself from falling overboard.

Then he is in the ocean. It is frigid, freezing, and he gasps loudly when he breaks the surface. It is the kind of cold that could seep through to bone, that could freeze him all the way through until he is nothing but ice.

He never really learned how to swim properly, but he knows enough to keep himself afloat. The winds whip his hair, soaked through with rain and sea water both, into his face, and he is not sure how he can make it out of this. The ship he fell from is being pushed away from him, the winds terrifyingly strong, despite efforts of the crew and the captain. With some deep-rooted instinct, he tries to swim forward, cursing inwardly at himself and his younger mind’s insistence on finding pleasure in things other than his lessons.

For a moment, it seems like he may be capable of making it back. It seems like he could truly do it, could make it close enough to the ship they could help him back up, or close enough they might be able to pull him back up.

Then a wave crests behind him, shadowing him, a great, looming giant, and falls atop him without a care in the world.

He is pulled under the surface of the ocean and holds his breath intently. It is dark down there. The sea pushes him from seemingly every direction, with the same ferocity as the storm, and try as he does to push against the currents, he is unable to do much at all. The surface remains terribly distant, and that distance seems suddenly insurmountable. He knows, with abrupt and perfect clarity, that he is not making it out of there.

Morpheus de Endeless does not often contemplate death. Not truly.

There are thoughts, of course, that sneak past his own defences. They boil down to this: If I were to die today, I do not think I would mind. Ultimately, that is easy to ignore, to push away. He does not truly want to die, the way he knows some people do. He has his duties to his family, after all. He simply would not mind if death caught him in its clutches.

Now, with his lungs burning and his frantic struggles against the damned ocean proving futile, he thinks this may be preferable. Beneath all the pain of oxygen deprivation as he stubbornly refuses to try to take in a breath only to swallow the ocean into his lungs lies the grief, the ache, the knowledge that he so thoroughly ruined everything good he somehow managed to make his own. His Calliope. His Orpheus. His loves. One hates him now. The other is buried in the ground at only nineteen, hardly an adult and far too young to lose. His parents’ disappointment is an easy thing to conjure up in his mind, and he hates that just as much as he does his losses. What is there left for him, above the surface? At home?

When he frames it like that, he thinks—he thinks it would not be so terrible to face death. He thinks it might be better than rising another day only to remember his son is gone, to see another sunset and acknowledge the fact that Orpheus will not get to see one again.

When he thinks about it like that, it is remarkably easy to stop struggling. Involuntarily, he tries to suck in a breath only to choke on ocean water, and now he is stuck in an endless cycle of pain as he slowly drowns. His head feels…fuzzy, his vision full of little black spots. Distantly, he knows this isn’t good. Knows if he doesn’t do something, he will not make it out of this alive.

He does not want to. The ocean is not violent, he realises now. It is kind, and offers him a reprieve as his body slowly sinks, weighed down by the rich fabrics he wears, as his vision grows hazy and dark and keeping his eyelids open seems like an insurmountable task.

Before he closes them properly, he thinks—he thinks he sees something in the water. A figure, moving towards him. A person, perhaps, only—only that looks like a fish’s tail, fins and all.

Then his eyes fall shut, blocking out everything around him, and he loses himself to the void and the cold and the blissful, welcoming nothing that waits for him beyond.

+++

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped on board the ship. His mind had been occupied then, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, he realises after a moment, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird.

“Who are you?” Morpheus asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his joyful face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now, an alluring song. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall whether he has seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it makes his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving Prince Morpheus de Endeles’s life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him expectantly as though waiting for something more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares in the moment–and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who has a fish's tail instead of legs.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and tender, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not? "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression ever-serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does, anyway.

Whatever energy allowed him to carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearns for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever comes first. He doesn’t mind either way.

Then the merman speaks again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It takes a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thinks, and the thought is almost blissful—and then he is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too, maybe. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he says slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is truly an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from death at the hands of the ocean.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #morpheus dream of the endless #dreamling fic #the sandman fic #merman au #eris writes things #death of the endless

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windsweptinred · 1 year

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The fact that Desire's classical name is Epithumia. Thus Unity's nickname for them could be Epi....Tis too cute. That is all. ❤️

#desunity #unity x desire #desire x unity #unity kinkaid #desire the endless #No deep thoughts this time #Just fluff #friday night rambles

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scarlet-ancunin · 2 years

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✞ঔৣ۝Sandman/Quantum leap Master List۝ঔৣ✞

Request: Temp Closed

Unless stated or requested by Reader, Desire's pronouns will always be they/them, but for nsfw purposes, they will be male unless stated otherwise by request of the reader.

Also, If I reach a certain amount of requests I will temp close the request in order to fulfill the ones received. Also i clearly dont own Sandman lol this is just to satisfy the Unhinged hoes here.

~ ♡ ~ ♡ ~ ♡ ~

⚠️Please Read ⚠️

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

The Sandman - Desire

Hold On

Meeting Desire For The First Time

Meeting Your Parents

My Personal Hero

Sneaking Off

A Jealous Endless

Desire Edging The Reader

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

Changing It Up

Wrong Realm

Desire Helping You Through Doubts

You Are Perfect

An Endless Soulmate

Desire Dating A Werewolf

I’m Always With You

Dancing With Desire

Its Me You Feel In Longing

Desire Dealing With A Nightmare

A Twins Experiment

Desire Of The Endless

Your Belong To Me

Beautiful Just The Way You Are

Not Again

First Kiss Butterflies

Shhh Your Sleeping

No More, I'm Sorry

Desire Reacting To You Passing Out From Pleasure

Don’t Test Me

Desire Dating A Vampire

Meow Meow

Not This Time

Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

2 Times You Saw Them, 1 Time They Saw You

I'm Not Giving Up

Business Meeting

It Started With A Song

What Do You Desire?

Red Stained Kisses

Simple Distractions

Who Would Win

Desire Helping You Through Head Pain

Tolerable

Family Dinner

It's Just A Dream

Starting A Family

Desire Dating An Ace S/o

Come Back

Desire Dating A Tall S/o

Look At You

I'm Right Here

What Do You Desire

Desire Punishing The Reader

Epithumia & Their Immortal Lover

Hush Love, I'm Here

My Cat Is An Endless

That Won't Work

My Werewolf Lover

My Perfect Munchkin

I'll Fix Your Broke Heart

Nice Underwear~

Desire Dating Lucifer Morningstar Child

Rocky Horror Night

Please Don't Forget Me

Desire dating the god of mischief

Desire Dating A Neko Reader

Taming My Werewolf Lover

Will You Join Me

Quantum Leap - Ian Wright

Teaser Fic: To Help You

Teaser Fic: Wasn't A Suggestion

The Cutest Thing Every

Giving Ian Nicknames~

I Told You Not To Overdo It

Shut Up, Let Me Kiss You

I Can't Think Of Anything But You

Dating Ian Wright~

Hold My Hand Please (Spooky Fic)

I'm Trying To Seduce You!?

Never Letting Go

It's Time to Wake Up

Please Contact The Manufacturer

Come Back Please

A Kiss Solves Everything

Stay With Me

My Rock' n Roll Lover

A Touch From You Is All I Need

Spending A Rainy Day With Ian Wright

Losers Win To -

Maybe You Want All Three

How You Know When They Are Horny

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thepaintedlady00 · 2 years

Text

Oneshot: Desire x Soul Bound Reader

All She Desired

Requested by @erynion-rogueofthegreenwoods sorry for the wait! 😅 I hope you enjoy it! I used Desires Greek name in this and also had her refer to the reader as Briar as a sort if pet name. 🥰

TW: fluff, angst, minor depictions of blood and violence, character death

"I can offer you anything you desire." The words were ones they'd said so many times before, it was their job after all, but this time was different. She was different. They meant it this time. Meant it in a way that they hadn't been capable of understanding before. It was terrifying, thrilling and it had them completely at her mercy.

The beautiful woman smiled down at them, tall and muscular with a smile that could capture one's heart in an instant and eyes that could do so in less time. She held Desires hands, encompassing them completely in just one palm. "You are all that I desire, my lovely Epithumia."

Their heart swelled at the sound of their old Greek name rolling off her tongue so easily. Desire flashed her a wide grin, pulling them into her wide chest. "My dear Briar, what a fair creature you are."

Though their soulmate was a warrior in every sense of the word she was so soft, her skin and her touch… It was like being held by a mighty goddess of silk and sunshine. She blushed, nuzzling her head against Desires with a blissful sigh. "Cease your flattery, golden minx, or I'll be forced to toss you over my shoulder and whisky you away!"

"Is that supposed to be a punishment?" They laughed, arching a brow. "If so I'll have to be on my worst behavior."

Briar rolled her eyes and lifted their chin. "You're impossible."

"For you always," Desire replied, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, teasing as they always were, until she pulled them in completely.

It had been nearly a year since Desire had met the woman that now held their heart completely. Nearly a year of passion and love and being absolutely consumed by the sensations they'd never even been able to imagine before. Desire was so accustomed to making others feel these things, lust and love and passion and wanting… They'd never truly understood their function in this dreary universe before, but their thorny and sweet Briar had changed that. She had helped change them.

When Lucifer's demonic messengers had come to Desire asking them to align with the Legions of Hell and the formidable Lightbringer to rise up against Dream and bring their dear brother to his knees once and for all, Desire was surprised to find themselves reluctant. Before it was all they'd ever wanted, to see that self righteous and always stuck up Dream to fall. But now, the offer, one of undeniable violence and bloodshed, held little spark to it. The relationship between Desire and Dream was still nearly nonexistent, but when Briar had been plagued by terrible nightmares it had been Dream that accepted their less than humble request for them to cease. Since then there had been a rare moment of understanding between the two. Desire declined the Morningstar's offer. Declined the very thing that had driven their games and manipulations for eons. They didn't need that anymore, not when they had her.

Desire often watched her train. Her broad shoulders glistened with a sheen of sweat, the muscles of her arms and legs bulging with every dodge and strike and block. Their warrior was a formidable force. It took five grown men to give her even a challenge! Though Desire knew they were stronger than her, they enjoyed letting the beauty manhandle them with those soft hands and enticing grunts. But in truth, Desire's favorite moments were the ones of peace, quiet. They ran their fingers through her hair, her head laying in their lap. Their eyes drank in the heart that stood out against the skin of her wrist, their mark. Hers, a rose, flashed in the corner of their eyes as they continued their light touches.

Desire's mind twisted darkly, a familiar and ugly thought filling their body with a moment of painful dread. You'll only hurt her in the end. It was something Desire feared more than they let on. Old rules and, well, just their nature for consuming things entirely did not bode well for their odd pairing. Briar opened one eye and looked up at her lover with a questioning gaze. "What are you thinking about?"

"The usual debauchery. Why?" They answered, pushing the unpleasant fears away with a grin. "Do you have similar thoughts plaguing that lovely brain of yours?"

She smiled. "You've seemed different. Lighter."

Desire's face scrunched, a hand flying to clutch the pearls that appeared around their neck. "Are you insinuating I was heavy?"

"You know what I mean minx." Briar laughed, running her fingers through their soft hair. "You seem happy."

"I am happy," they admitted. "How could I not be when I've captured the strongest, most beautiful and sensual creature in the world?"

Briar's eyes gleamed as she raised her brows. "You never cease to come up with new titles for yourself."

"I was speaking of you my love."

"Oh!" She feigned shock. "Apologies, dearest, you're just so vocal about how magnificent you are."

Desire held her face in their hands and shook their head. "Don't be cruel, my flower."

"To you, never," she answered. "I am glad you are happy, Epithumia. You deserve it."

"I don't."

Briars hand hit their shoulder, such a blow would have probably taken a normal human out, but Desire just chuckled, rubbing the area lightly. "No fussing now. Just enjoy the moment, my enduring heart."

I enjoy every moment with you, they thought to themselves, closing their eyes and quietly wishing this blissfulness could last forever. Then they had been unaware of just how little time was left.

Blood coated the ground below their feet as they moved through the carnage that had consumed the town. Desire was no stranger to such things, war and violence and death, it was all simply part of humanity. They were, however, new to the fear that settled in their gut as they searched for their lover's silhouette in the rising smoke. "Briar!"

A flash of steel caught their eye just in time for them to step back as the blade came sweeping down towards them. Desire sneered at the demon that welded the weapon and dug their fingers,I told its shoulder, throwing it out of the way. "BRIAR!"

They had to find her… Had to get her out of this place. Desire searched for what felt like hours. They fended off every demon that dared cross their path, searching with an ever growing fear. They heard it before they saw it, steel singing as it sailed through the air, but when the spear should have impaled them it didn't. Instead the sharp point dug into Briars back, the sharpened tip of it sticking slightly out of her chest. Harsh garbled breaths escaped her lips… The lips they'd kissed only a mere few hours ago as she fell to her knees in front of Desire.

"There you are…" She whispered with a weak smile. Her hand cupped their cheek, wiping away tears they hadn't even felt. "I've been looking everywhere for you, my golden minx."

"No…" Desire said quietly, as though the word would have the power to undo what had happened. Their hands steady her as she began to falter. "Why did you do that?!"

"I told you… I was willing to die for you," Briar answered, speaking the words she'd once said, back when they were nothing more than two strangers forced together.

Desire clamped their eyes shut, cursing themselves for not telling her of their true nature. For not warning her of the coming danger, but most of all for not letting her go as they knew they should have from the start. "I do not want you to die. Not ever. Not for me."

Briar chuckled softly. "Look at me. Please, my heart."

Their golden eyes stared down at her as the color of her cheeks began to drain, but even now Briar only smiled. "You have been all I could have ever desired, my love, my Epithumia... All I desired."

Desire held her until the very end, guilt and pain and longing consuming them as Death laid a warm and gentle hand on their shoulder. "I am sorry, sibling. I promise to guide her along her coming journey."

"Don't bother," they whispered, stroking her cheek and placing one last kiss on her lips. "She will insist on doing it in her own way." Their eyes looked down at the rose, now consumed with black veins and then they stood, carrying her body away from the wretched blood soaked earth. Desire found the hilltop where they'd met and buried her there beneath the thicket of roses and thorns, the memory all they had left to comfort them.

Her sword kissed their skin as she held it to their neck. All they could do was grin at her. "What have you done to me, witch?"

"Witch?" They mused. "Quite a formidable title to give a stranger."

"You are no mere stranger. I've seen you change faces, heard you speak in different voices… And now this!" She gestured to her arm.

Desire ignored how they filled with pride and longing at the sight of their mark on her. "It looks lovely on you, even if you are being quite unreasonable."

The woman scoffed. "Is it unreasonable to assume you mean to harm me with whatever this is?"

"Yes." They purred. "I would never hurt a creature as beautiful and strong as you."

Her lashes fluttered, a rosey blush rising to her cheeks and neck. She'd not been expecting such a forward response. "If not to harm me then what is it for?"

Desire shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose the most simple answer would be to bind us… You and I."

Her grip on the sword loosened as she took in their words. Desire hit the blade away, driving it into the rose bushes and watched as this woman… Their soul bound regarded them with an impressed look. "Bind us?"

They pulled her sword from the thorny bush. "No more questions, sweet thing." They handed the weapon back to her with a smile.

"Who are you?" She questioned.

"You may call me Epithumia." Desire plucked a flower and held it out to her. "For you, my thorny and beautiful Briar."

#desire of the endless #desire #Desire of the endless x reader #Desire of the endless x you #the sandman series #sandman netflix #the sandman fanfic #the sandman #the sandman 2022 #desire the sandman #the sandman desire #death of the endless #dream of the endless #angst

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therealtruealiyah · 24 days

Text

NOVA - dancing devils

"Alright, deal." an impatient Dream roared in response to his little sister's proposition. He snapped his fingers and Despair's soldiers released Raine shortly before she scurried to Nova's side. "Now, enough of this nonsense. Shall we?"

"How long do we have to prepare?" Nova asked, grabbing hold of and squeezing Raine's hand for comfort.

"We leave in ten and two Earth hours and not a second later." Dream said firmly.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a gods damned minute. Why is she going with you and not one of us?"

"Obviously because she's the most capable of us all, you twat." Desire rolled his eyes.

"One more word from you and I'll—"

"You'll what? Cry? You're weak, Despair. In fact, you're the weakest of the Endless. I fight with fuck and I'm still stronger than you."

"Desire, don't." Destiny chimed in.

"You know I'm telling the truth, Pot. You all know it."

"Don't bring me into this bullshit." Destruction's baritone voice rumbled through the air.

"Will no one defend me?" Despair scoffed, angry tears brimming her silver eyes.

"I've truly had enough! Go home. I got what we came for. You are all released." Dream flicked his hand in a dismissive manner.

"So, you used us?!" Despair roared, face red with anger.

"It's over, Aponoia. Pack it up and go home." Destruction suggested before turning and heading for the exit followed by Destiny and Desire.

"You all are just going to leave? What about what was promised to us?"

"You will get what was promised to you." Dream's voice boomed. Not in a yelling type of way, no. More like a firm, authoritative way. Nova had always admired how he could project his point without having to holler or strain. It was a page she had longed to take out of his book.

"Now, Dream. I want what was promised to me now. I traveled the realms, I delivered Death to you, I've played your little game. Now, I want my second land!" Despair demanded, soliciting a hearty laugh from Desire. Everyone turned to look at him in unison. "And just what the hell are you laughing about again?"

"A second land? Why, you can't even manage the first one without falling to pieces, let alone a second one. What will be the rules there? Wail all day? Wallow by night?" He mocked.

"I've had just about enough of you, Desire! You traitorous scum. You've been on Death's side the whole time, innit? What a waste of skin you are. I'm disgusted to think we were in the womb together. Mother should have tossed you into the Sea of Black when she had the opportunity."

"You leave my mother out of this." Desire's tone was firm. For the first time, Raine saw the cold side of Desire as his face fell to stone and his body tensed up.

"Aponoia, that's enough." Destiny grabbed her arm gently to which Despair responded with a sharp pulling away.

"No, you know what? I've had enough of all of you!"

"Here we go." Nova flashed an evil grin, pulling Raine by the waist closer to her side.

"Go the fuck home. Get some fucking rest. You're not thinking clearly." Destruction said, nonchalantly picking at his black painted fingernails.

"You know what, Olethros, for the first time in my very long, very miserable life, I think I am thinking clearly." Without any warning or hesitation at all, Despair summoned her roped dagger and flung it in Desire's direction. Epithumia did not blink or flinch as he turned his body to the side, dodging the dagger. Once he straightened his body back up, he looked up at his twin with cold, yellow eyes.

"You'll live to regret that." Desire growled, summoning his long, black leather whip with a solid golden handle.

"Finally! I've been longing for a good fight." Despair laughed manically as she pulled her weapon back toward herself and swung the blade around by the rope.

"Here we go." Dream sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Are they really about to fight right here and now?" Raine whispered to Nova, who was watching adamantly with a wicked smile splayed across her beautiful face.

"Yes, my dear. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do." Lucifer did not take her eyes off her siblings as they circled each other, looking like snakes preparing to strike their prey.

"Ever since we were little, I've despised your little self-righteous act! You honestly thought that you were better than me for coming out of mother's vag fourty-five seconds earlier? How pathetic."

"While we're on the subject of being pathetic, let's take a look at you, shall we? Poor Despair who thinks everyone else's lives are far better than her own. Boo hoo that nobody else has issues to deal with. Grow the fuck up!" Desire cracked his whip on the concrete floors of the Black Court, causing a loud clap to echo through the walls.

"And poor Desire... all he knows how to do correctly is fuck!" Despair swang her blade around quicker on the end of the rope, causing a whooping noise to flow through the air.

"It's they now! You would know that had you not been wearing your ass as a hat all these years and you actually got to know me!" Desire roared, this time with a single tear running down their face.

"You— they?" Despair softened up a little, ceasing her blade-swinging activities abruptly.

"Yes, they. They/them/their. That's me. Nice to fucking meet you, twin sister." Desire spat.

"I—"

"You know, for so many years, you've been so full of hatred. Hate for me, hate for Death and for no good reason."

"You know why I hate Death." Despair shot cold dagger eyes in Nova's direction.

"Actually, I don't. None of us do! So, please, enlighten us." Desire took a seat in the nearest chair to them, crossing their legs and placing their laced fingers atop their knee.

"Are you kidding? It's her fault our mother killed herself!" Despair pointed her desperately-in-need-of-a-manicure(d) finger at the being who was Lucifer Nova Morningstar.

"Nonsense!" Destruction interjected.

"Come, Raine. I will not listen to this rubbish any longer." Nova grabbed Raine by the hand and whisked her quickly out of the courtroom.

"Why in the hell would she think your mother's suicide was on you?" Raine asked, voice wavering as she was being jolted down the long corridor by the hand of her lover.

"Drop it." Lucifer replied coldly.

"Nova, I'm just trying to understand—"

"Enough!" Nova cut her off, suddenly stopping to turn towards Raine, "I will hear no more of this! One more peep from you and you will be sleeping in the dungeon with Tsularis!"

"You're an asshole, you know that?!" Raine yelled out of anger before starting off toward the exit.

"Raine, please. Wait." Nova grabbed her hand before she made it too far. Raine spun to face her, yanking her hand away from Nova and crossing her arms across her chest.

"What?" Raine asked with a sigh.

"I'm sorry. I should not have said that to you, my love."

"How do you expect for us to be wed when you keep pushing me away?" She threw up her hands, letting them come down on her thighs with a gentle smack.

"I'm sorry, I just—"

"Why can't you talk about it?"

"Raine, I—"

"Why are you running away?"

"Because I'm afraid it may be true! Fucking hell!" Nova did a 360, one hand on her nearly red forehead, the other hand on her hip. Raine watched as Nova's demeanor changed from hard and rigid to soft and relaxed.

"But you don't know if it is true?" Raine asked.

"No, I do not."

"Well, let's find out." Raine held out her hand to Nova who hesitated for quite a bit before she realized what she must do. She grabbed Raine's hand tightly and replied...

"Yes... let's."

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onehundredandeleventropicalfish · 1 year

Note

So, if Dream looks like how whoever is seeing him expects a dream-king to look, what do you think happens when someone who has no equivalent cultural figure looks at him? Would they see just a normal person or nothing at all? I'm curious because my family never told me the Sandman myth (nor any equivalent myth about a sleep/ dream deity-- it was all very scientific in the house growing up) and therefore I had no idea people even told their kids such a legend until I was an adult!

oh that's an interesting question, thank you for asking!

it's not even a question that has a definitive answer, i don't think

but my best guess is that it would default to the closest appropriate dream. you may not see specifically oneiros, kai'ckul, the sandman, but as a human you will see a human dream (which may be the version we see most commonly, it may not, that's never confirmed)

(and while a lot of the time it seems to be out of dream's control, the form people see him in, he does seem to have a certain preference towards some over others - the fact that he still uses morpheus, for example, despite that being a greco-roman name)

(or even the fact that he collects names at all, like... the other endless have also been known by many names. in one issue in ancient greece we see all of them get introduced by their greek names - potmos, teleute, oneiros, olethros, epithumia, aponoia, and mania. but dream is the only one who keeps all of his, and the comic literally at one point says dream collects names like other people accumulate friends)

(there's also the fact that we get the word morph from morpheus, the fact that he was known as the shaper of forms, the fey still call him lord shaper)

(so while i don't know if any endless can choose the forms they present in, and dream definitely doesn't choose most of the time - i think if any of them have the ability to be selective, it would be him)

#to summarise: idk weird universe rules probably but dream may be able to pick ones deliberately if he's in the mood for that who knows!#dream of the endless #the sandman #ask #meta #mine

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kittynannygaming · 3 months

Text

[The Sandman] Bound - Epilogue

Title: Bound

Word count: 418

Fandom: The Sandman

Pairing: Dreamling, Desunity, Despoe, Hob/Eleanor, Corinthiel, Dream/Past relationships

Rated: T

Warning: NOTHING GRAPHIC BUT Mention of child’s death and adults’ death, mention of suicide, Desire’s scheming

Summary: When you’re 10 (for a human) or the equivalent (for not-human), you’re given (during your sleep) a pet, representation of your soulmate. Thing is, both soulmates need to be born for them to appear. Dream of the Endless thought he didn’t have a soulmate, until a puppy appear near to him while meditating. On Earth, at the same moment, it is the year 1356 and Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling is just born. When he’s 10, he got the poshest, biggest black kitten with a very mean streak. Of course, neither Dream nor Hob see themselves in the other’s pet.

Epilogue: The (many) changes that one little surprise can make.

How having a soulmate and an animal companion changed things for the Endless and Hob.

Things weren’t perfect but they were good.

Let’s begin with Destiny. Everything began with Destiny. 200 years after Dream got out of the fishbowl, his soulmate was born. His companion was a snake-like creature with iridescent scales and 4 eyes the colour of amber named Rainbow. His soulmate (an historian, Mere-phre) was from a planet far from Earth were people could change their gender to adapt to the situation, their companion was a spider named Fatalis.

Death’s soulmate was born a long time ago but they couldn’t met until 2054. Indeed, Death’s soulmate was Hestia, Goddess of Hearth and Home. Death’s companion was her goldfish, Slim. Hestia’s companion was another goldfish named Wandsworth. The two fishes shared an aquarium and their companions, Death’s home. When Death got home, she felt the tension wash away just because of Hestia’s presence.

Dream, the Morpheus version of him, didn’t die. Daniel was always meant to be his successor but now, they could do things at a quieter pace. It was 10 years after the Corinthian was remade that a companion appeared for both him and Daniel. Corinthian had a ram named Cream Puff and Daniel had a wolf named Hunter.

Destruction’s soulmate was a French preschool teacher named Adelaïde Beaubois. When they met, Adelaïde thought his art was his son’s art. It was very awkward but she invited him to teach painting and colours to the 3 to 4 year’s old kids once a week. They absolutely loved him. It wasn’t long before he got an official contract.

Desire’s soulmate, Unity, lived in the Dreaming, after sacrificing herself instead of her dear Rose. She was close enough to Desire’s realm they can meet often. Sugar, the fox met Peacock, the Dove.

Despair’s soulmate was born the 19th January of the year 1809 and was one of Dream’s protegé. His name was Edgar Allan Poe. Despair was surprised when a baby raven appeared near her but she loved Melancholy. Edgar has a very smart rat named Gloom.

Delirium’s soulmate came from a planet not so different of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. She was absolutely smitten with Folly, her white rabbit and Liddell, her soulmate, a metamorph, had a wolpertinger named Hat.

Do you remember that Calliope had a raven has a companion (whose name is Luka)? Well, apparently, it was because she had a Raven (or ex-raven really) as a soulmate. Dear Lucienne, who had a hummingbird named Lyra.

They lived and had adventures and reunions and children. But this is another story.

Ram

Beta: In progress

For @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang

Masterlist

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milkstoner · 1 year

Text

Title: anthropocene/epithumia

Pairing: Shroudcest, Idia/ortho.

Honey idk what to say atp. Im delusional.

#twisted wonderland #twst #Idia shroud #ortho shroud #shroudcest

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delta-pavonis · 11 months

Note

🥁 7 or 27

Awww yiiiisss. More Drummer/Dancer AU. I am gonna take 27. markets for the prompt because it is actually perfect to help expand a few paragraphs I have been working on. So here it is, the opening section of the next fic in this series. (Yes, you read that correctly. You convinced me.)

"Does all this whispering and staring at us have a more edged feel to it than usual, or am I just going round the bend?" Hob says, leaning over from his place on his horse to speak privately with Morpheus, who is mounted on his own steed.

His lover scans the crowds as they continue down the main road into the central market. Most of the wagons in the caravan have set up camp just outside of the city, but they are bringing two into the square to display some of their wares, like Delirium's intricate lampworked glass and Epithumia's fine jewelry. But, as has been the case for months now, what will likely garner them the most coin will be Hob's drumming and, for the right price, Morpheus' dancing.

News of their little duet on that fateful night out in the Wastes has spread as only gossip can – faster than wildfire and twice as hot. Even as they enter Temenos, a nation Morpheus has never set foot in and Hob has last seen as a teenager, there are murmurs and mutterings of recognition in all but the most rural of hamlets. It is somewhat flattering and a whole lot disconcerting. Hob knows, hypothetically, that messages can be sent over extreme distances in little time via magic, but he has never really experienced the natural consequences of such communication before. It is… quite strange.

But this, here in the capital city of Onar, is something wholly different from previous encounters. These noises are not excited or curious or even admiring – these people seem at once in awe and uncomfortable, almost unbelieving. And there is far more pointing than there should be.

"You are not wrong." Morpheus straightens in his saddle, on high alert to keep his clan safe. "I knew we should have ridden in on Jessamy and Nuala."

Hob grimaces. He had asked not to, had convinced his lover to let them ride into the capital on horses, like sane people, and not on giant fuckoff elk. They did not know how the commonfolk of this place would react to strangers riding in on such large beasts!

See, the thing is that Hob is still very much working on his finesse at riding giant elk. His progress has been strongly inhibited by the fact that the two lovely ladies are very protective of their owner. They pull his personal wagon, after all, and they have heard the distressing array of noises Morpheus has started making from within his vardo now that Hob is here. They are, in short, too smart for their own fluffy britches.

Which would, admittedly, be quite useful right now since they are much more sensitive to threats than the horses.

“I will not question your judgment again.” Hob says and watches as one incredulous eyebrow starts rising on Morpheus’ forehead. “Alright, alright. I will not question your judgment about which animals to use as mounts again. Happy?”

His beautiful, proud Dream smirks as they continue ahead. “Very.”

Despite the strange behavior of the citizens, they are generous with their aid, offering to help both wagons get parked and set up, make sure the horses have food and water, and all the other trappings of setting up for a long day at market.

It is about halfway through the morning when a short, raven-haired man starts pacing through the market stalls, circling their wagons at a distance. It is easiest for Epithumia to step away and gather some information given that they have charisma in spades. They come back barely a quarter hour later with two useful bits of knowledge: the insignia on the man’s tunic indicates that he is an envoy of the Royal Palace and the ring he wears means that he works for the King himself.

“Must be something about you two celebrities… I certainly haven’t done anything in this backwat–I mean lovely country.” Epithumia says as they sit on Hob’s other side.

“Just because you haven’t had time to, I am sure.” Hob smiles at his lover’s sibling and they, in a very adult and stately manner, stick their tongue out at him. It makes his Dream chuckle, which makes it more than worth it.

The sun moves another fifteen degrees in the sky before the envoy decides to finally approach. "Oh, oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. The rumors are true." He mutters to himself, apparently not realizing that he can be heard over the din of the market.

When he gets closer to where Hob, Morpheus, and Epithumia are sitting beneath the large fabric awning that has been extended from the top of one vardo, he makes an aborted little bow to them. "Hello, I bid you welcome from King Morpheus,” he is careful to pronounce the name and title of his sovereign clearly, “the monarch of these lands. He asks that you, the drummer and dancer of recent renown, come to the castle this afternoon before the evening meal, which is taken at the eighth bell. He has heard tales of your skill and artistry and would like to meet you privately, if it pleases you?"

Hob watches as his Dream’s face goes from suspicious to surprised to considering in the space of a breath. It is not often that a King asks for an audience with untitled folk, at least not in any land that Hob has ever traveled to.

He looks over to Epithumia to find that their gold eyes are also trying to catch Hob’s gaze. King Morpheus? they mouth silently. Hob just shrugs.

Their Morpheus, his Dream, stands to respond and he towers over the envoy. “Tell the King that the dancer and the drummer will see him at the indicated time this afternoon.” Hob thinks it is notable that he does not give their names to the envoy, but what does he know, really. He hasn’t ever even seen a King before, let alone been called to be in the presence of one.

Then Morpheus nods and the envoy goes fluttering off into the crowd with a squawk.

All three of them stare into the bustling market for a few moments, silent and stony despite the elderly woman trying to get their attention.

“Hob,” his Dream catches his eye as he speaks, “We are going to need to go buy you a shirt, aren’t we?”

#Dreamling #Drummer/Dancer AU #Hob Gadling #Dream of the Endless #The Sandman AU #Pavonis writes #prompt meme #prompt game

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