#eternal life: the only answer to the tragedy of time

[brown-little-robin]

Homesick

Home is something you somehow haven’t to deserve

Edmund Pevensie clinging to Aslan’s mane

pale green flowers around his bare knees

Thad Thawne sobbing in Max’s arms

Jason Todd sleeping in the Manor again

Even death does not separate forever

Home is heaven, love forever even in separation, home is time, home is knowing other people with the deep intimacy of ten thousand breakfasts

you always have time you always come back

Laurelin and Kaylie are sitting under a jlanket (jean blanket) miles and miles away and improbably together and I am so happy for them

I will sit under a blanket with them someday

Love is learning that Elle eats light and grows wings and sleeps in the hollow of a tree and understanding only one of those metaphors bone-deep

Love is learning that Rebekah’s favorite color is that exact shade of red and thinking: if I ever meet her I will give her something that shade of red

Thinking: when I meet her

A bedroom, blanket messy, heavy sunlight melting in it

Love is learning that Laurelin is reading the book I recommended for her miles and miles away

She is reading it under the jlanket

Heaven knows that time can’t separate forever

Heaven knows we won’t be homesick forever

Heaven knows we won’t be homesick for each other any more

[doliacuddles]

SHADOWS OF A MARRIAGE.

𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇.

𝖧𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇! 𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

❝In our gazes lie the secrets of a love that never had its chance, trapped in a silence that screams the tragedy of what could have been and never was.❞

Yes, I longed to be that woman, the mother of your children, and together walk hand in hand towards eternity. But in the end, what can I say? You have shattered me, an "us" was never real. That woman fell into an abyss, and you are not the one who promised to be my hero at the altar.

I stood in front of the mirror, observing my reflection. The woman I saw there was not the same one who once dreamed of a future full of love and fulfilled promises. My gaze was empty, my eyes dull, as if my soul had been slowly torn away, day by day, with each fake smile and each lonely night.

"Does this have an end? Will we become strangers to each other? Maybe the day will come when I forget you and you forget me…" I thought aloud, my voice barely a whisper. I wanted to believe that someday this pain would fade, that I could look back and feel that all this had been nothing but a nightmare.

I wished my father had been right, that there was that magic button that transported you to happiness, to an eternal honeymoon, a pastel pink world, full of clichés and sweet nonsense. But life was not a fairy tale, and my reality was a dark labyrinth from which I did not know how to escape.

I remembered the early days after our wedding when I still had hope that everything would get better. I tried to be the perfect wife, the woman I thought Alastor needed. But nothing I did seemed to be enough. His coldness, his distance, were like daggers piercing my heart again and again.

At some point, I lost count of the times I cried in silence, wishing he would notice my pain, that he would extend his hand and save me. But Alastor remained unchanged, trapped in his own world, a place I would never have access to.

The radio continued playing in the background, a melancholic melody that perfectly reflected my mood. I walked to the window and looked at the dark garden, remembering that night at the party when our words finally broke the silence. Yet even then, nothing changed. His words were like empty promises, as fleeting as the mist that dissipates with the first light of day.

"When did we lose ourselves?" I wondered. The answer was obvious, though painful to admit. We lost ourselves the day we stopped being ourselves, the day we let expectations and appearances come between us.

I looked at my reflection again, trying to find in my eyes some trace of the woman I once was, the woman Alastor had met in that distant childhood. But all I saw was a stranger, a shadow of what I once was.

"Maybe, someday, you'll remember who I was to you. Maybe, someday, you'll understand how much I loved you and how much I suffered for you," I thought, hoping that my thoughts could reach him somehow.

With a sigh, I turned away from the mirror and headed to the bed, the place where the distance between us was most palpable. I lay down and closed my eyes, letting the tears flow freely. I knew that, although the pain was unbearable, I had to find a way to keep going, to survive in this reality that I had to live.

Because, in the end, even if I was never the woman Alastor loved, I had to be the woman who clung to herself with desperation, to keep fighting without hope, vainly seeking a spark of light in the midst of crushing darkness.

And so, with the echo of my thoughts tormenting my mind, I sank into a restless sleep, fearing that, upon waking, the new day would only bring more strength to face a reality that was becoming increasingly unbearable.

Intellectual property of @doliacuddles.

𝖳𝖺𝗀𝗌; @seraphiccharlie @catticora @verosikavibes @mo-0-o @alastorthirsty @its-a-dam-blue-brick @speedycoffeedelight @mantumuncher223

[deicidis]

I Have Trembled My Way Deep

Morpheus x Naiad!Reader

Summary: The God of Dreams assists you in escaping Poseidon's obsession.

status: Completed One-shot

wordcount: 15.9k 

warnings: Implied non-con (not Morpheus), slow burn ish? 

18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.  

 I have trembled my way deep into surrender

I have stretched my aching body across the world

I have stood at the threshold of your wonder

Bid me enter, Lord, allow me to unfold

—

You remember

that it was a game for Poseidon. A sport. Something to fill his spare time in his eternal life. For you? Your ruin. 

The god of the sea appeared one day, at a beautiful dusk, where you had lain in your lake and watched Astraeus paint the sky. He declared his love so casually, smiling wide with his sharp teeth. Claimed he fell at the moment when you had visited the shore of his domain, and offered you a place to sit amongst his many mistresses of court.

But you never met him, and you were put off by his leery eyes on your skin. You heard the way he loves, cruel and unnatural and impetuous. He‘d confirmed the rumour himself when he seized you by the arms then forcefully attempted to take you to the sea after you refused. But your nails were sharp, and it had sunk into his cheek. You recognize the disbelief written all over his face, that a lesser being dared lay his hands on him. Then he grinned as he saw the blue blood running from the wound. Your stomach coiled in fear as you ran, but he ripped a lock of your hair first, then he’d let you go. Because he likes toying with his food. 

In fear, you came to your mother for help in any way she could. To look into the future. But your mother only gave her tears and a sole advice; run far from here, if all else fails invoke the name of dream god, Morpheus. Pray to him and he shall ease your suffering. 

Of course she would not risk an open war with the Pantheon and the death of her other children for you. She was not as young, as short-tempered as you remembered. This fact left bruises on your heart, even though you understood. 

What good does a dream do, mother? You asked incredulously. 

Everything, my sweet. She answered. 

It was an absurd notion. Since when does a god give their kindness so easily without expecting something in return? But your mother had never given you false counsel before, so you kept her advice close to your heart. 

You kissed her cheek and kissed her hands, then gave her your tears. She, in turn, steadied your hands that trembled in anger and sorrow. Kissed your forehead for a very long time as she held you close you almost couldn’t breathe. Her tears overflowing, her rivers and streams are hissing. 

This felt like the tragedies you used to watch when you went into the city with your sisters.  

Go. I will buy you time. Remember, call upon his name should all else fails.  

It was a heartache to leave your Lake, your friends, and your sisters without so much as a farewell. Always moving during the night, sleeping during the day between the ravines, under the river, inside dark caves. Your cheeks are always raw, streaked with tears. Your heart never rests from beating in wariness. There was never a moment of respite. You ran until your feet hurt, your soles blistered. Your mind was a beehive, its queen in fear that infects the colony.  

For every single day that passed, your resentment brewed towards the pantheons. They surely watched this misery caused by their blood. The Olympians were silent, the Olympians let it all happen. 

Only sleep was the moment of peace to be had. It didn't come easily at first; you were always startled awake by the smallest sound, the snapping of a twig.The splash of a fish. Sprinted from your hiding spot at every little noise. You almost grew mad from the lack of sleep, the dark under your eyes increased by the day. So you swallowed your pride and you finally prayed to the god of dreams to give you a swift fall. A sweet dream where you are home among your sisters and friends free from your tormentor. He never fails to grant you one. Your mother was always right, you admitted bitterly. 

You tried to prolong his blessings, but you had nothing to offer except feathers from some birds, little carvings you whittled with your small knife, ripe fruits you picked from the tree, your thanks and prayer every time you wake. For you are always awake at the right time. Strangely refreshed and fulfilled. Never a second too late for Poseidon to sink his teeth into your skin. 

You thought Poseidon would grow weary of his chase. But a day turned into weeks, into months. A year turns into three, then four. And five. You weaved between cities and forests, found love but had to leave them, hiding in other Nymphs' habitats, betrayed by some. Somehow, you are always at the right time to move. Knew when something wasn’t right, when the air started to brine with salt. Mostly your dreams inspired your caution. And you thank your benevolent god for his omens. 

But fleeing alone is not enough. Though your calves are stronger, your lungs endured, you were exhausted beyond what your heart could take. You want Poseidon to stop, to rot where he stood.

You want him to suffer and tremble just as much as you did, you want to plunge your pocket knife into his eyes and see his blue blood in his cracked open skull leaking into the ground. 

So was the reason why you sat at the edge of a river bank and watched the twilight sky instead of running when you could sense that he was growing closer and closer. You were ready to end it all, and you will let it end on your terms, fresh water always feels like home. Let it be fresh water the last thing you see. Not one formed with salt. 

"I know you’re here, little Nymph." His rancid voice bellowed out in the distance, Your resolve crumbled by the second. The knife you held to your throat trembled as your tears warmed your cheeks, and you feared it would be etched like a mark. Your body shivered instantly as you closed your eyes. Despite having nothing to lose, despite convincing yourself that meeting Thanatos is a better choice, there is a part of you that still clings to life and its abundance of delight to be found. Mother to be seen again. Sisters to hold once more. You realised you were never ready to toss the Obol in your pocket for Charon. So you dreamt of a better future as you did one last desperate attempt. You prayed to your God.

"My benevolent god, lord Morpheus, if you could hear me, I beg of you. Help me. Take me far where he couldn’t find me and you will always have my service." you whispered. It was a foolish attempt. Poseidon would’ve found you to the edge of the living world. Moreover you were no one, minor spirit of no import. No Olympian nor a daughter of one. Why should a god such as Dream meddle in your affairs? Still, the god of dreams was a salve to your burden, more than any other gods. Perhaps the only god. 

"Your prayer is heard." Your eyes jolted open at a voice that was not Poseidon’s. You snapped your head to find the Dream God beside you, behind you, but he was nowhere to be found. Your heart palpated twice as fast. The hairs on your neck stretched upwards.

"Return from whence you came." He continued, and your body instinctively leaned into the water, finding the river had turned as black as the night, as still as one. 

"Reach into me, and you shall hide no more." Once more, Dream God’s deep and quiet voice enticed and you paused, digesting his words that felt too good to be true. You turned to see how close your oppressor was and you could see the outline of his form between the trees. Your heartbeat was a hummingbird trapped in your ribcage, you felt like vomiting all over the water. There might be a greater sacrifice to be made by exchanging with Dream god.

But you would give Dream god your limb for that opportunity.

So you took a deep breath, steeled yourself, and plunged into the cold, dark water. Then unfastened the Peplos around your skin weighing you down. You swam deeper, deeper and deeper. It was a Sisyphean effort. There is no direction, no life could be sensed, no surface to return to, only a bottomless river. Your arms ached from carving the water in the endless dark, there was no way of knowing where it is above or below. Like swimming into the bowels of the earth where there is only Kronos, waiting for you with his primaeval emptiness. 

It was hours. The darkness was suffocating and you were terrified beyond your mind, afraid of making an irreversible mistake.  

Then, a speck of light can be seen. Pale blue, glimmering like a star. 

You swam into it, almost in a frenzy, desperate for something tangible. It expanded as you swam, blinding and comforting, and when your body had passed its threshold, you had fallen wet onto the earth that was not from whence you came, but the homeland of a god.

 —

You lay flat on your chest on the wooden plank of a bridge that stretched into the far distance, its foundation stood in the middle of blackened water. Your body limped, bare, devoid of energy. Your arms pulsated with shooting ache. But all of that was eclipsed by your silent wonder, for you are greeted with a night sky sprawling with  billions of star clusters, its light shining pale blue layered with an iridescent sheen. 

Is this where Dream God resides? So close to the stars and the very heavens.  

As you drank all the splendour of Dream god’s domain, the dots in your field of vision expanded, until you realised it was not dust, but figures coming your way.  

When they had reached where you laid, you met a beautiful pointy-eared woman, with black and white clothes you had never seen before. Behind her, a figure with unruly black hair wore a black chiton draped over one of his pale shoulders and the other fastened under his arm. 

He bears that otherworldly beauty that seems to be reserved only for Primordial gods. A paradox of youth and antiquity.  

"Here, let me help you." The woman said as she helped you to sit, she had taken a black fabric from the figure’s pale hand, which you swore was not there mere seconds ago, then wrapped you with it. The fabric was so warm. You sighed, melted into the cloth. 

"It’s alright, you’re safe now. He can’t follow you anymore, the wretched beast." she said, mumbling the last part. Her eyes bore an irreplaceable warmth and kindness. As if she had known of your misfortune and suffering, familiar with it.   

While he watched you silently with his bright eyes. His gaze was sharp and rigid.  

As you clutched the blanket over you, he stepped closer, and you gazed upon him. 

"(y/n), daughter of Nemea, blood of Potamoi, for as long as you are in the Dreaming none shall harm you and none shall enter my realm with the intention of one." he declared to you, his voice dark and low. But you think he mostly declared it to his realm, binding his words into the Dreaming.

And his words bind you.

Words that made you safe and secure. You felt it in your lungs, the air tasted light in the back of your tongue. You felt it in your blood, hummed gently and numbed your fingertips, all encompassing.  

Your eyes stung and your lips trembled. It was a relief like no other and you could not contain your tears, murked by bone-deep exhaustion, 5 years of anguish and unchanneled rage. At the same time, you felt like sleeping for the rest of your life, never to wake to wash away this engraved weariness. You sobbed so hard, madly. You must have looked pitiful in their eyes. But you reckoned they won’t care what you looked like anyway. 

 —

The first week, you asked Lucienne where you should put the offerings for the God of Dreams. Wreaths of sweet-smelling flowers to scent his chamber and your best carving of Acanthus were in the basket you weaved. Lucienne informed you that Dream God desires no more offerings. You frowned at that. You admit that your offerings were modest, but you had always given him your best. Did he always detest your craft? Although you did not pry. You would only follow what he bid you, as his faithful servant.  

In your spare time, you visit other dreams and nightmares, assist Lucienne with her books, and in exchange, she teaches you to read and write in a variety of other languages. She was pleasantly surprised by your new-found talent in linguistics. You absorbed everything remarkably fast.  

Then you read. So many cultures with so many religions and gods you had learned, to find that Dream god and his family are beings older than the Olympians, even the Primordials. Consorting themselves not only to the gods of Hellas, but all over the world, was biting into a forbidden fruit.

Your entire life you thought the gods of Hellas were the only true gods. And it has left you in some form of existential dread. 

Moreover, walking in the Dreaming and taking everything around you made you heave occasionally. Its infinite and ever-changing nature spins your head. But you are a highly adaptable being, and you adapted quickly, for survival's sake.  

The Dream god was seldom seen, the first year of your stay your few glimpses of him were scarce, the number of times you see him when you were helping Lucienne in the library can

practically be counted with your fingers. The quiet flutter of his Chiton swept the floor. Often he didn’t even realise you were there, you didn’t make yourself be seen either.

When he saw you, you considered exchanging pleasantries, but you seemed to clam up whenever you mustered the courage. In truth, you wanted to be invisible. You wanted him to forget your existence so you could always be at the brunt of his indifference. You don’t know if he is as volatile as the other gods of Hellas, and should his wrath descend upon the Dreaming, let him forget that you exist. 

So you stayed silent and arranged the books as he read quietly on one of the many intricate wooden chairs placed at the long table. You scattered all over the library except where he sat. When you truly needed to work where he resided, you waited as long as you could before he departed. Or silently arranged the books. You’d bow your head to him before leaving. He acknowledged you with a flick of his gaze.  

 —

 It’s hard to keep track of time in the Dreaming when there is new splendour to be found every day. Like the Sirens you befriended in the frozen sea, the desert Golems you met on the barren wasteland, flora and fauna that do not exist in the waking world, or how one of Dreaming’s many meadows is filled with herbs grown from babies’ first tears. Not to mention Fiddler’s Green, where mirth is eternal and beauty is in its core nature. 

Yet the dull ache inside you persisted. Stubborn and sore. There is no splendour in the Dreaming as comforting as your home. Your Lake. 

A Naiad neglecting their habitat is not a Naiad. Do not ever forsake all-mother Gaea’s gift . Your mother used to remind you when you were but a tadpole of a water spirit. 

When you closed your eyes, you could still feel its connection in the Waking World.Tranquil, one bank shaded by a great Willow tree, its tendrils leaning over the water, protecting your domain. Vast and wedged deep in the forest.

But you adapted, for survival’s sake. 

So you trudged to the Dreaming’s many forests, trying to find a pattern in nature that resembles your Lake, even just a little. After days of searching, you found it in a clearing with a willow tree, taller and grander than yours back home. 

You couldn't tell which was your luck or the kindness of the Dreaming. You were grateful all the same. When you touched its coarse bark, you breathed in deep. It reminded you too much of what was. Then you watch over the clearing for days, waiting for it to change at the necessity of the Dreaming, but it never did. 

So you laid there to sleep under its overreaching branches every night. In a week, you had moved in completely there to live. Carved many woods from the branches that would fall whenever you wanted them to fall. Slept under the glimmering pale blue stars. 

Like a blink, your second year passed.  

You stretched like a cat on the grass after you had just woken up. The pink trickled in the sky, and soon the bright pale blue would follow. The Dreaming was pleasantly cold at that hour, and one of your favourite things is to watch Fenghuangs flying past the sky. They too like to stretch their wings when the sun is coming.  

But your morning was interrupted by the stir of the wind, and you noticed the branches of the Willow slouching by inches. You did not know then that they were anticipating the coming of the Dream God, who had apparated silently into the clearing.

You stood abruptly—almost knocking yourself—and approached him, then bowed your head. 

"My lord." You greeted him. Your heartbeat paced a little faster. 

He regarded you with his bright, cold eyes. His black chiton swept the dewy grass.   

"Is there anything I could do for you, my lord?" 

"The question is, is there anything I could do for you ?" His voice was sharp. 

"My lord?"  

"Your mother reminded me to fulfil my end of the bargain. Have I not done that?"  

"Bargain?" you still can’t understand his meaning.  

"The bargain we made on the spring equinox. Of my Dream." he sounded somewhat impatient. Irritation laced the edge of his voice. 

"My lord, I'm afraid I don't follow." you almost stuttered out your answer. Utterly lost. Your mother? Bargain? His Dream? You look at Dream God as if he grew a second head. Which is not that impossible in the Dreaming, you remembered. 

For a moment, silence has passed as he scrutinised you. In that span of time you dug your nail into your thumb. And you focused on the bridge of his nose instead of his eyes because you couldn’t stand the pressure of his gaze. 

"Do you know why you’re here, (y/n)?"

"Because of your kindness, my lord." you answer with a thought you used to have before he approached you with this business. Now, you’re not entirely sure. 

  Since when does a god give their kindness so easily without expecting something in return?

He sighed quietly. Closed his eyes for a second.

"Your mother did not tell you." 

"If there was something to be said, she couldn’t. We- I was running out of time." There was a sharp prick in your chest. Your body remembered the fear of that day. You steadied your breath.

"Would you kindly tell me what it is, my lord?" you pressed further. 

He ambled then stood beside you, his eyes swept around the clearing. You followed his line of vision. 

"It was centuries ago, a rogue Dream had found their way into your family’s domain. Made themself a part of one. Fell in love with one her blood. By now you must have learned that the waking world is no place to inhabit for Dreams or Nightmares." he said, and you latch on to his every word. 

"Nemea claimed that I could never have Basalt back without her blessing."

"She bound them." you murmured. Recognise your mother’s magic all too well.

"If I forcefully transport them into the Dreaming, Basalt would cease to exist if she didn’t sever the ties." he continued. 

He had made her sound uncharacteristically cruel to you. She was not as young, as short-tempered. You reminded yourself. 

"What did she want, lord? What did she bargain for?"

"Aid for her kin, should one ask for it. I granted her a life for a life. A Dream for a Naiad. Whatever aid they prayed for."

How convenient. You thought. 

"She is a seer, lord." there is something bitter at the back of your tongue. Has the Dreaming always been exactly where you belong? Until when?

"Thank you, Dream Lord, For telling me. I would never know otherwise."

He pursed his shapely lips, the edge twitched slightly.

"I had assumed you inherited her abilities. That you passed your words once you settled here." 

Blood rose to your face. Not for a lack of trying, the Dreaming is, thankfully, impregnable. But you have always been the runt of the litter, not entirely talented in magic or sorcery. The best you could do was cultivate your domain to the best of your abilities and heal injuries of the body. Nothing more, nothing less.

"No lord. Her talent did not pass to me." 

His reply was silent acknowledgement, then his eyes travelled around the clearing, finding some of your carvings resting on the tree. 

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Oh this-this is where i sleep." 

He looked at you with a slight pinch of his eyebrows.

"The city’s room is extraordinary my lord but-i feel closer to home in the open air." you continued.

Only silence follows, and you wait for him to depart. 

But he lifted his hand instead, his fingers clawed and the Dreaming gave a subliminal sigh. 

The wind that tasted familiar beckoned to you. At the same time, the clearing that was small, filled with only grass and a single tree, had turned into a perfect replica of your home. From every blade of grass, the Willow that stretched over the side of the Lake and its hanging leaves gently brushed the clear water, to the patches of Hellebore and Crocus around the bank, the water lilies dotting the water’s surface. Your heart squeezed at the sight. 

"My subjects should feel at home in my realm." he claimed. 

"Thank you, my lord." You said, barely able to contain the tears brimming in your eyes. 

He only stared at you with an expression you could not recognise. Then left, leaving traces of sand behind.

You took off your ivory Peplos with a roaring sense of urgency. Then you ran, jumped into the water that caused a tall splash, swam and glided all over the Lake until your arms ached.

 —

 When you met Dream God in the library again, you didn’t hesitate to greet him. You don’t know how much he would tolerate you, but you found it quite liberating to know you didn’t have to cautiously tiptoe around him, relying on his kindness alone. Surely a simple greeting wouldn’t hurt. 

Sometimes he approached you. You have become an efficient staff in the library, able to memorise all sorts of books from your new found love of reading, and Lucienne referred to your good work. Perhaps you spoke to him more than the last 2 years combined. After all, the number of times can be counted with your fingers. 

And now, 

The sun has set, the hush descends upon the Dreaming. You chew on Saffron from the many Crocus dotted around the lake as you sit bare on the shore. Day by day you wonder what your mother saw in the tendrils of your many futures. Tears have found their way burning your eyes. An underlying fear of the Moirae almost chokes you. The Fates spun, measured, and cut, pushed you into the Dreaming, pushed Eros to strike Poseidon with his arrows, and it was all too much for you to bear. You almost die because of it. 

What could possibly be the fates weaved for your imminent future, you hope that it is an easy one. Your tears land on your thigh as you decide to whittle into dusk. You manage to convince yourself that this is a temporary solution, a temporary home. You will count the days until you can return. 

 —

 Abel had invited you for cheese and sweets, and you had invited Lucienne to come with you. It was a Herculean effort to convince her because the royal librarian never seemed to take a day off for herself. But she finally relented because she couldn’t stand hearing your incessant whining about how much you would be heartbroken if she didn’t come.

What Abel didn’t mention was that he had wine, and all three of you drank the jugs empty, an ice breaker of some sort that made for an absolutely wonderful time with the two of them. You exchanged stories between the alcohol and laughed until you gasped for air. Moreover, you had never eaten such foreign delicacies before and you were pleasantly surprised by the explosions of flavour melting in your mouth. 

"You must let me teach you! Let’s do it weekly so we can spend more time with each other!" Abel had kindly offered. 

"I’d love to." was your answer, you’re genuinely excited to learn.

When you say your goodbyes to Abel and wave to Cain, it is already night. Even in your drunken state, the sight of the stars tumbling down at intervals astounds you. Falling towards the mountains, the forest, one finding its way in Abel and Cain’s residence. You notice dark grey clouds hanging around the moon. The Dreaming temperature is plunging cold and it mists your breath. There’s a lot of things that you can’t make sense of in the Dreaming and most of the time you ignore it, you’re positive you’d go mad if you try to keep up with each and every event. But these stars, on this particular day, feel menacing, ominous. As if it could scourge the Dreaming into ruin. 

You wonder why at this exact time of the year this keeps happening. So you asked Lucienne. 

"At this time of the year the lord will be in his chamber the entire day, mourning the day Maenads tore apart his child." 

"No... Orpheus was his son?"

"He was." Lucienne said, staring into the sky. 

"I can't-can’t imagine his pain." 

"Nor i. One of these days reminds you that the Dream Lord is not unfeeling."

"Who can be unfeeling when you lose a child in such a way." You murmured. 

Your train of thought screeches to a halt when you hear Abel screamed from inside the greenhouse. When you try to make sure he’s alright, Lucienne blocks your way. And explains that it is a very normal thing for Abel to scream. 

The Dreaming belongs to hers and you always trust her words. Thus, you reluctantly choose to go home at her bidding.

"Can you walk?" Lucienne’s endearing concern warms you. 

"Ha! Can I walk?"

Can i?

"Can you?"

"It’s very hard for me to get drunk." Lucienne clarifies.

"That’s… luck and a curse." You chuckle, and she gives you her sweet smile. 

As it turns out, one has found their way in the shallow water of your lake. Drifting on the surface of the water. Pulsating with raw power, angry. Bright and beautiful. The tranquillity of your dwelling shattered by its motion.

And it pulls you, a clarity between your overlapping visions. Causes you to descend carefully into the water to collect them. 

"Leave it." His dark, rigid voice stops you in your tracks. Dream God appears silently. 

"Apologies lord." your speech almost slurs as you retract your hand and take a step back, rippling the water. You can barely see the outline of his form, but his eyes glimmer bright in the dark. 

Like cats. You mused.

He does not acknowledge you, merely brushes past to wade in and gather the stars. Then disappear in a blink.

You fall to the shore and retch violently on the earth. Then, to rid of the bitter aftertaste of the vomit left on your tongue, you pick some Crocus and chew on some Saffrons.

 __

 The Dreaming has taken you in completely. Quieten your anger and despair, lulled you into complacency. Despite time refusing to blunt the edge of your bouts of melancholy, you don’t cry as much. The Dreaming turns time a little faster. Keeps you dancing to its tune until you are too tired to think. Sways you into your 13th year with ease.

You have waited long enough, and you muster enough courage to ask for news of the waking world, if it’s possible at all to return. Whether your tormentor’s dark shadow looming over your consciousness wanes and forgets. 

You ask Lucienne if she has any information pertaining. But her mouth holds a shadow of a frown as she pulls you to sit beside her on the palace steps. Both of you just finished with your work. 

"Lord Morpheus does keep an eye on the Olympian, and he bade me to watch over this situation’s development. He even tried to... inspire him away. But the Olympians are powerful. And your hair would make it so easy once you step into the waking world. I'm afraid not yet my friend." 

You nod. Swallows thickly. 

"Just a little longer." she whispers as she enfolds your hand gently in hers. You closed your eyes before she could see your tears, and held her fingers tight. You don’t know what you would do without her. 

Just a little longer. 

For every decade you set yourself up for disappointment. For every decade you ask Lucienne. And her answer is always the same.

I’m afraid not yet.

Just a little longer, my friend.

By the fifth decade, you stopped asking altogether. You no longer have the stomach to face those four simple words. 

You choose to wait for as long as you could. 

__

On a bright sunny afternoon, under the Willow, you are whittling the likeness of a rabbit you met at the bridge leading to the palace. Frida, she had introduced herself. The bunny with a perpetual childlike soul and voice. Whenever and wherever you think about her, a smile will find its way to you, a precious little grey furball tumbling about the Dreaming. So you’re trying your best to capture her likeness. So absorbed by your craft you don’t even realise the coming of Dream god. 

"My Lord." You stand as you dust off your Peplos from wood shavings. The other holding tight to your Frida.

"Anything you need my lord?" you offer. 

"Your mother pleaded that I deliver her message."

Pleaded. her longing represented in those 3 syllables and it pierces you. 

"What is the message?" your voice almost whispers. Quickly you find your chest getting tighter and you dig your nail into the unfinished carving.

"That she begs forgiveness for her lack of action in the waking world."

You can’t exactly pinpoint when your tears were falling. Your mother is not an intense occurrence like it was for the first years of your stay. Shortly, Poseidon’s cruel visage wormed his way into your head and your heart feels heavier, faster. Breathing is becoming harder. With a violence your state of mind is thrown into those years. Your legs become as limp as the days you ran through the years of evading the Olympian and you lean against the oak tree, sliding down. Gasping for air. The last time this terror occurred was 419 days ago. You remember because you counted them. 

The terror persists even for decades. 

The dream god paces to your side, kneeling before you and clutching your free hand tightly in his.

"He can’t follow you anymore. Never as long as you're in the Dreaming." he said calmly. Kindly. 

You swallow thickly, breath stutters in and out. Your tears leaking down your chin as you focus on the way his tight grasp steadily anchors you down, it’s strange because he is the very Dream and you had expected his hands to feel hazy and washed, merely a blur. A memory of a dying Magpie in your arms when you were a child.

But his hands are as vivid as your tears, as warm as your breath. Flesh–like as your own. 

He holds your hand until you feel too tired to feel anything, until you unclench your jaws and steady your breath.

"Thankyou, for delivering her words." something passes on Dream God’s face.

"The guilt torments her." 

"You’ve seen it?" formed her dreams too?

He gives you a nod. 

Silence hangs in the air as you gently remove your hand from his. Not quite uneasy, not quite comfortable either. 

Dream God flicks his gaze to the carving on your other hand. 

"Who’s that supposed to be?" 

"Frida, my lord."

"May I see?" You hand him the almost finished carving. Frida's imprint can be seen on your palm, indenting your skin, almost bleeding. You didn’t realise that your grip had been iron tight. 

You notice that he observed your injured skin for a moment, then to Frida. 

"You have a way with your hands." he murmurs. 

So why did you turn it away?

"My lord? Can I ask you something... callous?" 

"Ask, then." his eyes still on the miniature.

"Why do you reject my offerings?"

He ruminates on the carving, runs his thumb on the wood, then returns his gaze back to you.  

"You are not here because of your devotion, but a pact from a very long time ago. There is no need for it"

"But I would still like to give you offerings." You confess. In truth, you feel the need to do something for him. He let you stay in his Dreaming, made you a perfect home. Never forced you into labour or harmful endeavours, even if he could. You almost feel like a parasite, gorging yourself on the Dreaming’s splendour and refuge. 

"You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to." he replies quietly. 

"What makes you think I don't want to, lord?"

He contemplates for a moment. 

"Know that none of my subjects have any obligation for that."

He returns Frida back to your palm, then stands as he bids his farewell. Before he leaves, you plead for a favour.

"Please tell her… tell her I love her. Tell her I understand."

__

You try to be as silent as possible as you walk to the throne room, holding a recently carved statue close to your chest. You placed the wood carving at the front of his doors on top of freshly weaved flowers, hoping he would accept the likeness of beautiful Jessamy. 

You don’t know if it’s an offering or a way of saying thankyou for his help amidst your bouts of terror. You hope he can see that it’s both.

 __

"I suppose you are the one who made little Jessamy." 

You almost drop the book in your hand as you swallow your scream. Sometimes the Dream god is silent to a fault.

 "Yes, my lord. Do you like it?" your heartbeat races. 

"It is beautiful." He said appreciatively. You let out an imperceptible sigh. The mere thought of his displeasure towards something that came from your craft—practically an extension of your being—would eat you alive. 

"Do you need anything, my lord?" You offer him a smile you’re trying to contain.   

"No, it’s fine." He says as he settles into his usual reading seat. You continue to busy yourself with shelving the rest of the books.

 —

 Once every couple of weeks, you whittle and weave more for the dream god. Most of the time he would show up the next day at the library. He would remark on your carving here and there, but he always comes to read on the long table, occasionally asking you to bring him the books he needs, or the many ledgers dusting on the shelves. 

At one point, when his eyes are no longer on the book in his hand, lost in his thoughts as he sits on the long table, he ropes you into a conversation. 

"How did you learn how to carve?" he asks out of the blue and it stuns you. He never asked anything about you before.  

"Oh, well, one of my sisters taught me." 

You realise he’s expecting you to continue. 

"She’s much much older than me, wiser too. Photine is a delight." You explain. Thumbing the edge of a leather-bound book in your hand. A sharp tug at your heart has you breathing in deep. 

"The Naiad with the brown hair." he follows, and you nod. 

"I guess you know of her dreams too."

"Including you, once." He notes.

Oh, well, in that case...

"My Lord, what was the inspiration for giving me a dream where I was getting chased by a giant mango with serpent legs?"

He huffs a small laugh. An unfamiliar sight. The first time you’ve seen him and it almost feels odd. Like looking at a featherless bird you guess. A strangely beautiful featherless bird.

"My nightmares are imaginative creatures, but it wasn’t me who made it so."

"I see." you nod. Appreciating his candour.

 __ 

 You didn’t hear the dream god enter the library, but you’re getting better at noticing his presence. You can feel him nearer and nearer, his magic shifts the air wherever he is. Light and rife with something indescribable. It has a burning wood scent to it, which reminds you of a ceremonial pyre humans usually throw for your great cousin in her domain.

Your work is finished, but you are so used to seeing Dream God after your offering that you find yourself waiting for him. Passing the time by watching the glory of the Dreaming through one of the many window panes. Almost lost in its beauty and restlessness.  

"Your craftsmanship is very beautiful too." You profess to him, who stands behind you, following your line of vision. 

"Aeons of practice." He answers, his voice light and low. 

"Do you see it as I do, your own creation? Or do you notice every little mistake you’ve made?" 

He tilts his head slightly, digesting your words.

"The Dreaming is what I am, all of its flaws and beauty. But my dreams and nightmares are the progeny I wrought that can only be reared instead of control. They breathe into their own life. There is a marvel at the way they flourish to become their purpose." 

Him and his boundless abilities, it’s hard to digest that he would even look in your direction, a thought you contemplate many times over. You inhale deep of that smell of embers, swirling pleasantly in your lungs.

"Why do you help me?" As you turned to face him, the words left your tongue before you could fully process them.

"Because it is a pact." He tips his head down at you. 

"But you could just-ignore my pleas and she would never know, she could do nothing."

"And risk the fury of one of the first Naiades? Mother of the whole Pegaeae in southern Hellas?" His lips tugged upward. "There is no need for conflict, is there? It is a good-natured wish, and I am a being of my words." 

You blink, did he just humour you? 53 years in the Dreaming and you barely scratch the full capabilities of Dream God. You know, not even your mother’s full wrath from the death of her hundred daughters would rival a speck of dust of his power. 

"She knows what I am. Knew the extent of my abilities. Your mother is a clever Naiad. A capable seer in her own right."

"I don’t understand, why did you even bargain with her in the first place?" 

He goes silent for a moment. "Maybe I was intrigued to see where the pact would go." 

"I never thought that anthropomorphic beings could get bored." You deduced. 

A moment of silence passes over him. 

 "Perhaps." was his only answer.

You close your eyes. Trying to recall the face of your mother but it was so long ago, you almost forgot what she looked like. 

"How is she, Dream Lord? What dreams does she have?"

"She dreams of nursing her heart from the pain of losing you. Even in the waking world, she did only that." 

 __

  "Is my mother in the Dreaming, lord?" you ask Dream God the next time you see him. Sitting at his usual seat. 

"She is." His voice is careful, a brush inquisitive.

"Where is she?" you press further. 

"Her dreams are turmoil over you and memories of her days as a sorcerer and a warrior. Or nightmares, precisely. This part of the Dreaming is a much calmer place. You won’t find her here."

"The edge of the Dreaming then? The part with the rusty black gates?"

"Yes." 

A silence crawls its way. Concocting hundreds of scenarios for you to see your mother.

"I-can i-"

"No. The only thing you will find there is pain and suffering. Not who your mother really is. You will only harm yourself." his low voice warns you. 

You nod. 

"I understand." 

 __

 You did not try to find your mother, but a kind Nightmare with dark rounded glasses informs you where Photine’s dream usually takes place. On the construct of Athens, in the heart of the city, toiling away in a workshop with her many carvings and chisels under the supervision of the masters. 

"It’s the one with the blue door. You won’t miss it." he smiles a charming smile that almost puts you under some sort of spell. But the more you observe his smile, the more you realise it is more akin to a grin. 

"Thank you, you don’t know how much this means to me." you return his smile.

"Don’t worry about it. It’s my pleasure, really ." 

It takes days of walking and navigating through the Dreaming’s ever changing state. You have to pass the hanging gardens of Babylon and swim across the frozen sea. But you are determined to see her again, and the Sirens of the frozen sea have kindly accompanied you on your journey. Some of them even confess that they’re bored to tears in the barren region of ice and have nothing better to do. 

When you finally reach the city, and find the woodworkers' workshop, the blue door is ajar. The sight of her long brown curls is enough to mist your eyes, tremble your lips. Suppresses your breath. 

She is carving .

Always her biggest dream to become the very best. Some men and women are pointing at the statue she is sculpting, guiding her. Advising her to do better, she absorbs it all without so much as a complaint. 

There’s a thin layer of iridescent sheen before the door, almost passing your notice. And the realisation of it makes you nervous. Somehow you know that it serves as a threshold. For what, you don’t exactly know, except your intuition is screaming you shouldn’t disturb its peace. 

Your longing trumps your common sense. 

"Photine." you call once you are inside the building. The men and women wouldn’t stop speaking, but Photine dropped her chisel onto the floor. Then turn to face you.

She reaches for your face, holding you between her palms, as if sampling you to see how much of you is real. Drinking in all your features. You struggle to hold back your tears. But Photine fails to do so. Her tears are leaking down her chin. Then her wail is the next thing that comes. Followed by her stuttering sobs. You try to contain her in your arms as her hands are holding on to you. 

For a moment you think it was just a shock of seeing you after so long, and you try to tell her that you are safe and you will always be here. But her crying never ceases, even as you try to comfort her. The advice from the men and women becomes a little too loud, merging with Photine’s lament, her hold becoming a vice-like grip. Bruising. Everything leaps in magnitudes until all becomes too much, louder, deafening, spins you and the room is tipping over like the statue she carved minutes ago. Crashing to the ground and splinters into ashes. 

A gust of wind swirls into the room, and before you know a vortex of sand swallows you whole. 

You land on the shore of your Lake, on your knees as you cough your lungs out. Your throat feels scratchy, parched and painful. You drown your face and drink until you can hear the sloshing of water in your stomach. Then you lay on the shore, on your back, and found the crescent moon already hanging in the sky. A stubborn pulse slithers toward your eye, 

You count the days until you can return to the waking world. You hope the end of the path will come soon. 

You cried yourself to sleep that night. Didn’t even manage to slip into the water. 

 __

 The coming of the dream god can be sensed. By the leaves, by the pattern of the wind, that approaching smell of embers, you know what he is coming for. So you offer the dream lord to sit beside you to enjoy the cool breeze of twilight, to watch the setting sun of the Dreaming. He surprises you when he silently sits next to you, and rests his forearm on his knees. 

The dark purple had swallowed the blue in the sky and you watched silently. The Cicadas wheeze somewhere deep in the forest.

You don’t know what to say, except apologise for your insolence. 

"There is an order of things even in the Dreaming." he reprimands kindly.

"I think… I think I turned her dream into a nightmare." you murmur. 

"The Dreaming is a volatile place, you are not a Dream nor a Nightmare, and you went into a dream unstable."

You nodded. That doesn’t make any sense, yet it does. His dreams and nightmares are the purpose, the order of it, and you went past the threshold without so much as a permission. Disturbing procession. Oh, you hope they don’t hate you for it. 

"I just miss her…" Your voice merely whispers, more to yourself than to him. There’s an annoying pulse on the right side of your temples, and you close your eyes.  

"Am I to be banished, lord?" you ask the inevitable. 

"I understand your affliction. It was a mistake that I'm sure you will not repeat." 

You nod because he is right. That is a feat you will not repeat again. You have no intention of being a ghost that would terrorize your family. 

The dream lord does not leave for a little while, but enjoys the cool breeze beside you in comfortable silence as he leans his other hand behind him. Both of you are lost in your own thoughts. 

The twilight seems to go on forever. It seems the Dream God has willed it so. 

The pain you will always carry. But this time, the ache in your heart ebbs away just a little more, and you feel a little less restless as the wind takes your worries away. 

 —

 When you look at your reflection in the water, you wonder why you have not gained a wrinkle for the past two centuries. It’s true that Naiades live extremely long lives, direct descendants of Thetis and Okeanos are immortal due to the blood of their predecessors, whose blood is intimate to human devotion and beliefs. But your blood has been sorely diluted. A distant relative. 

A minor spirit of no import.

You expect your appearance to change by this time. 

You asked Dream God about this once you stepped foot in the library. A habit of some sort, seeing him there once every few days, his presence no longer hinges on your offerings. And you appreciate the comforting routine. In the way he comes almost weekly and takes place in his usual seat, in the scratching sound of the quill made from your hand filling in Lucienne’s ledger drifting between you. How easy he is to talk to once you know how to navigate his moods. Even his silence is an essential part of it.

But this time is one of many where you plague him with incessant questions. 

"The Dreaming exists in between the universe. Every organism here is bound to a standstill. Time makes an exception for me." 

"How is that even possible?" You couldn’t fill the gap between his words and your brain. Your quill lay forgotten on the long table. 

"Because I have willed it so. Father Time has agreed." He turns a page of the book on the wooden surface, his eyes never straying from the written words. 

"Father Time? Is... is that your father?"

"Correct."

The idea makes your head spin. The Endless are the children of Time himself? Observing the Dream God powers, that is proper. 

"Is that the reason why in the Dreaming feels much faster and yet simultaneously slower?"

"Yes. Just like sleep feels brief and a dream lasts an eternity." 

"Then I will never age as long as I am the dreaming lord?" 

"As long as you’re here." he echoes. 

You don’t know how to feel about your new found youthful immortality. You don’t even know how long you could stay in the Dreaming. When exactly is it safe for you to return? Does Poseidon even remember you? Would he pursue you still, from his unfulfilled demented inclination? Or you’re just one of many items long forgotten in his growing list of unfortunate victims. 

You willed yourself to ask one more thing. Irrespective of how unprepared you are for the answer.

"Do you know if I can return to the waking world now?"

You see the way his hand shifts slightly on the arm chair, he lifts his gaze to you.  

"No, (y/n). It is unfortunate that it’s still not." a trace of sympathy tinges his voice. 

Your brows knitted together. Your nails dig into your sweaty palm. 

"What, after all these years? Centuries later, he is still... still that? " you whisper. Needles stung the back of your eyes. 

"In a way, you are the unattainable myth. You disappear in front of his very eyes, and seer after seer, oracle after oracle, he cannot locate you. Even the lock of your hair is ineffective. It is an obsession for him at this point, and as cruel as this sounds, it is a treasure hunt for him." A slight frown works his mouth. A hint of revulsion in the way he speaks of the ruler of the sea. 

You grit your teeth until your temples ache. Your nose flares in anger as you try to calm your breath. 

The dream lord scrutinises you with his sharp eyes. 

"Thank you for telling me." you nod and finish your work as fast as you can. Then excuse yourself to return to your lake. Where you drown yourself to cool your burning face, your rage consumes you in bondage.

 __

The Dream god’s revelation haunts you. Plagues you from falling into sleep. You twist and turn inside the water, rubbing your eyes. Biting your nails. And in the end, you return to the surface. Drape your Peplos and make your way into the forest. Weaving between the trees in the night. The grass damp beneath the droplets of your wet feet.

There’s that helplessness again. Your fate slipping away from your grasp as you feel the unbearable resentment simmering, threatening to spill. A dull shooting pain creeps in behind the back of your eye, seeping into your temple. You think you know where the pain comes from, that all the seconds and the minutes and the years of waiting feel pointless and small. That your centuries are nothing compared to the gods' eternal boredom. The end of the line has always been inconceivable. A myth you recite and recite and recite in pretence of a prayer.

That truth has always resided in your head, inside your skull. Becoming an infection that would never kill but torment. The unscratchable itch.  

When is it going to end? When is it going to fucking end?

If there is a purpose behind all this, you don’t want it. You would spit on Moirae’s faces if you could. Carve out Poseidon’s heart if he has one. 

Fine, fine . You will become a myth. You will make sure he will never find you again for the rest of his wretched eternal life.  

The next time you find Dream God in the library, you ask him how long you are permitted to stay in the Dreaming. 

The dream lord studies you with his sharp eyes. There is an underlying suspicion within you that he understands your meaning, knows what you are about to do. 

"However long you want it to be, even for eternity." he answers. 

 __

 The baby lamb with eyes as pale as the sky bleats gently in your arms. Walking through one of the Dreaming’s many meadows, you’re heading to the brother’s greenhouse. A basket slung on your elbow has been filled with figs you have gathered and you can’t wait to dip it in honey and enjoy them with Lucienne, Abel, Cain and Mervyn this evening, along with your favourite berry pie and tea in the midst of your weekly game of Senet.

When you reach the stony gates of the brother’s residence, you can see a familiar Chiton and pale shoulders, Dream God is conversing with Abel and Cain. Mervyn is already there too. Leaning against Abel’s greenhouse a good few paces from the other three. Puffing on his cigars, waiting for Dream God to leave so you all could start the game.

When the baby lamb bleats once more, Dream God turns in your direction. 

"Good afternoon, lovely to see you all here." you greet them.

The turnip head smiles, waves at you and the brothers greet you back.

"(y/n)" there’s amusement in Dream God’s smile when he sees the lamb in your arms. 

"What do you have there?" he asks. 

"Oh, I think she’s lost. I couldn’t find her mother around. Do you know where she is?"

His smile widens, and you should’ve known that was not a good sign. 

"That, is not a lamb, (y/n)"

"What-"

A scream leapt from your lungs as the lamb jerks and turns into a changeling in a flash at the flick of Dream god’s fingers, scurrying away into Abel’s House of Secrets. The little thing has a boar for a head and a baby for a body. Thankfully, your basket still dangles safe on your elbow.

"What just happened?" you ask, bewildered, heartbeat racing fast. You saw Mervin cackling with his hands on his knees while Cain wheezed his laugh. Only Abel asks if you’re alright, but even his mouth curls upwards. 

And then there's the Dream God, chuckling lightly. You stare at him with widened eyes, incredulously, as you realise he is enjoying this. 

"Oh, well, I'm glad that was amusing to you, lord." you feign annoyance. 

He merely gives you a pretty smirk that makes you roll your eyes in defeat, but you can’t help your own smile too. 

"Are you staying, lord?" you say as you hand Abel the basket. 

"No. My affair has concluded."

"Abel and Cain are hosting a lunch. Would you care to join us? Lucienne will come too." 

Abel stares at you approvingly, but Cain and Mervyn, well, their eyes are bulging out of their sockets, if Mervyn had one at least. They’re just begging for you to retract your question. 

Dream God ponders for a moment, stares at you, and there is a consideration behind his thoughtfulness. Until he sees your friends turn still as stone, blanching, anticipating his answer, that he makes his decision. 

"I have matters to attend to." Then he walks away, disappearing in a vortex of sand.

"Goodness (y/n) if you do that again you’re not coming to the next game." Cain hisses at you.

"Oh come on Cain, it was harmless." 

"Yeah, I'm sure Lord Morpheus would be a wonderful guest." Abel, who sees the bright spot in everything, defends you.

"Kid, we all know he’d ruin the mood." Mervin chimes between his puffs. 

Disappointment crawls its way at your friend’s reaction. Perhaps because you wanted Dream God to say yes and enjoy the wine that would make you drunk as the third round of the Senet begins. Or when the jugs of wine are empty the game would be long forgotten and everyone would try to outdo each other with the funniest stories. Sometimes the most dramatic, or the scariest. 

It pains you that there’s a barrier between him and his own subjects, formed by each partisan through centuries of detachment from one another. Not all of his subjects could come to him on a daily basis and talk his ear off and annoy him with trifling questions, you realise.  

Reasons within reasons. Most of all you just want to spend more time with the Dream God.

 __

"Would you like to join me for lunch tomorrow afternoon, lord? Under my Willow. There’d be honeyed Figs and Berry Pie and Olive relish." you ask in the library. It was really spur of the moment question. One that’s been brewed by your constant prognostications, strings of what ifs.

A slight crease forms between his eyebrows. 

"There will be only me, no one else." you add, still remembering how he immediately withdrew when he noticed your friends’ reaction. Your palms grow moist from anxiousness.  

He was silent still, returning to the book in his hand. 

Oh gods, i’ve embarrassed myself… oh gods-

"I will be there." he rasps. His throat bobbed slightly as his eyes never left his book. You almost sigh in relief, smiling widely. Your delight overflowing. 

 __

 It’s too awkward. This is the part you didn’t think through. You don’t exactly know what to say to him, and he seems to be at a loss for words himself. Sitting under the Willow and the food spread out on the grass, you don’t know how to start the conversation as you offer him the honeyed figs. You know some things about the Dream God, but watching him chew and swallow is something so surreal. Like a turtle out of its shell.

Determined not to ruin this event, you opt to say whatever comes to your head first. 

"To be honest I didn't know that the Endless ate at all." You almost stutter over your words.

"There is hunger, but we won’t die without eating." 

"Does it get painful?"

"Not exactly." 

"How long did you go without eating?"

He contemplates for a moment. "A year."

"Gods, you must’ve been busy."

"In a way. It was a time of war. Food is the last thing on my mind."

shit.

"I'm... sorry."

"It was a long time ago." 

"Well-I never know what to do without food. Naiades require very little sustenance as long as our habitat is healthy and humanity tends to us with their beliefs, but I get hungry all the time." you ramble as you stuff your mouth full of honeyed figs. 

It has always been that way between humans and your kind. You feed on their beliefs, bask in your power with it, and in return you would protect Great Mother Gaia’s gift for them. 

"Then it is a good thing the crocus around here is never ending." he remarks.

"The best part is that it blooms every single day! I nearly forgot to thank you for that, I get to eat all the Saffrons in the world. Well, I probably already did."

There’s an easy smile creeping its way into the lord’s mouth again. How you adore his unencumbered countenance as he is now. His usual cloud over his brow and the thin line of his mouth dissolving with the cool, gentle wind gliding along the areas of your lake.

After that, the conversation goes as well as you could’ve hoped for. Better even. He lulls you with stories of his time in the waking world, of other gods and even their dreams, visions of all the creatures that dream. Their subconscious hopes and beliefs, innovations and endless imagination.

"Even some of my Dreams and Nightmares are inspired by them."

"Is this a secret lord?" 

"Don’t jeopardise my integrity." He smirks.

"Never." you press your fingers to your mouth. Biting a smile.

And you tell him the stories of your languid days as a Naiad. The way humans would find their way into your lake if you permitted it, for comfort with various injuries. How you’d grant their prayers with Hornworts and water lilies to soothe their ailing. 

"You’re a healer?" he asks.

"Only for the body. If one consumes something from my habitat, then it will mend their wounds." 

"Was it a gift from your mother?"

"No. But I learned it from her. You’d be surprised by the number of injured people wandering in the woods."

He hums in understanding.

"You’re a healer too, you know." you add and he only answers with a quirk of his brow.

"When it’s hopeless, all creatures that dream, well, dream. Of better things. You’re a balm for all living beings' pain. I’m grateful you’re here for all of us. I'm glad you exist." It was a sentence less eloquent than something you've strung together inside your head. But you appreciate the simplicity of what came out of your mouth, and a smile forms on your lips for him. 

But you must have said something wrong, because there is a pinch between his brow and his lips are pursed thin. His gaze sharp, staring into your eyes. You’re afraid it might bore holes into your skull. 

Your smile falters. 

He stands just as you are going to inquire as to whether anything is wrong, avoiding your eyes, then walks a good few paces away from you as he disappears in a vortex of sand. 

 __

You were hoping you would find him at the library as usual the next week. But his absence is sorely felt when you wait for hours, almost the whole day, and he doesn’t appear. You ask Lucienne where he could be and she informs you that he is in the Waking World. 

"For how long?" 

Lucienne looks at you from behind her glasses, leans back as she clasps her hands on her desk.

"I don’t know. Lord Morpheus doesn’t make it a habit of telling me how long he is leaving."

"Right, of course." you nod. Biting your lip.

"Want me to pass a message once he’s back?" 

"No! It's fine. Thank you, Lucie. Is there any work I could do?" 

She hands you a ledger, then you scurry away before she can ask more questions, avoiding her inquisitive gaze. 

You wait until next week. Then the next week, and then the next. He is nowhere to be found. You don’t want to flatter yourself and think you’re somewhat important for him to purposely avoid you. But it feels that way. You want to apologise for whatever offence you have caused but how can you do so when you can’t even find the traces of his sand. 

Have you been too forward? Have you misread the situation before? Have you misread him?

"You’re out of the loop, kid. Come on. It’s your turn."  The Turnip’s cigar plumes. 

"Oh, sorry Merv." you took your pawn and placed it on one of many squares of the Senet. 

"You behaved like this too at the last game. Getting sick of us?" Cain continues as he examines the board. 

"She is sick for someone else." Lucienne quips, hiding her cheeky smile behind her cup. Nothing gets to pass Lucienne in the Dreaming and you know she noticed your growing agitation by the Dream God’s absence. It was only a matter of time before your friend’s confrontation. 

"Don’t even start, Lucie."

"Now hold on a minute. (Y/n), what’s this about?" Merv chimes in, curious, suddenly intrigued. 

"It’s nothing!"

"You know you can trust us, If you’re in trouble, we will help, (y/n)." Abel chirps.

"To an extent." Cain mumbles.

"Thank you very much, my dear friends. But I am not in trouble."

"Aren’t you?" Lucienne retorts. Her curiosity seeps through her teasing smile. 

"Alright, maybe a little."

"Come on, kid. Spit it out" 

You sigh loudly. Rest your hands on the round table for a moment. Then you start to recount the event. Pouring your concern amidst the blue smoke and yellow candles. 

There’s a knowing look shared between your friends, when you whip your head to Lucienne, she avoids your eyes. 

Oh no…

"What is it? What?"

"Eer… he’ll return. Just give him time." Mervyn scratches his Turnip cheek. Cain busies himself with the board and for the first time in a long while, Abel is silent, watching his own pawn. 

"Oh no. I’ve done something awful, haven't i. Oh gods, he’s going to banish me!" you almost wailed. 

"I can assure you it’s not that. If he wanted to banish you, you wouldn’t still be here." Lucienne laughs and chastises at the same time. Despite her smile, you know her enough to know that she despises the idea of you leaving the Dreaming unwillingly. 

"You know, like I said, just give the big man’s time, kid. It’s fine. It’s not that. You’ll be fine. Now, are we gonna finish this or what?"

Abel suddenly slumps backwards and falls into the ground. Mervyn heaves a loud sigh and Lucienne only stares at Cain vacantly as he drops the knife in his hand.

"Last week, didn’t you promise you wouldn’t kill Abel in our next session?" you remind Cain pointedly.

"He took my place! I was about to take the second row!"

"That’s because it’s his turn, Cain." Lucienne retorts.

 —

 Enjoying the colourful Fenhuangs in the morning sky, you sit on the shore of your Lake, chewing on Saffron mindlessly, squeezing the purple flower in your hands as you memorise its velvet-like texture.

Like a deer wary of the faintest sounds, you feel it when a gust of wind comes your way and the hanging leaves dip gently into the water, the coming of Dream God. 

Your heartbeat races, you feel like throwing up, but you take a few deep breaths, stand and grasp your Peplos hanging on the branch to drape it on your body. 

It’s impossible to calm your pulse when the swirl of sand exhales Dream god into apparition. His black Chiton flutters gently in the whirlwind of sand. His comely face does not sport the furrow of his brow, or the thin sharp line on his shapely lips like the last time you saw him. 

"My lord." you greet him and bow your head. 

"(y/n)."

"Are you well, lord? I-i haven’t seen you in a while."

Steady. Don’t rush the apology just yet. You remind yourself.

"Yes I am." he replied courteously. 

"I’m happy to hear that." You try not to reveal the panic that is practically strangling your chest by smiling.

Then he opens his mouth. Oh dear. Here it comes. You're going to get flogged. 

"My apologies for leaving so abruptly, per our last conversation."

Oh. What?

There’s hesitation when he’s about to speak again. 

"I…" he trails off, mulling over his next words. You feel your brows scrunching together, your mouth part just a slightest, as if you could taste his answer on the edge of your tongue.

You what?! You feel like screaming and shaking him by the shoulders when his eyes flicker to your mouth, back to your eyes, suspending his answer.

"There are matters that need to be tended to." 

Goodnes. Is that it? 

You nod along his words, unable to conceal your relief as you lean against the Willow. It seems your legs have forgotten their function. 

Abruptly Dream God rushes towards you.

"Are you alright?" he asks with a worry. His hands are hanging midair, unsure where to place them. 

But all you could do is laugh. At your folly and irrational augury. It seems to bewilder him all the more.

"(y/n)?" 

"Forgive me, lord. I’ve been, oh I don't know. Foolish." You manage to say between your giggles.

"In what way?" 

"I thought, I thought I said something wrong. And angered you, and then you’d banished me."

He blinks. Then grab your shoulders as his eyes latch wide onto yours.

"That is foolish." he admonishes, as if it is completely unthinkable for him to do so. You could only laugh more, placing your hand on top of his. Once your restlessness subsides you just realise how much you miss his presence in the Dreaming. The library. Next to you. 

And that easy smile again makes its way to his mouth. His low and light chuckle follows not too long. 

"Then, perhaps we should continue where we left off. Dust off the misunderstanding." 

You sigh a smile. 

"I’d love to, my lord."

That morning, he conjured Honeyed figs, Berry pies, Olive relish and many more. You talk and laugh and share silence into the evening. He willed the twilight to pass a little longer as you shared ripe peaches you sliced in half. 

When a few weeks have passed, he seeks to do the same thing. You seek to do the same thing when a few weeks after that have passed. 

 —

 You decide to take in the Dreaming completely. And it has taken you. Coddles and loves you, soothes your heartache and pain. You begin to call it home, in return, it mends your longing for the waking world. Changing your life at a steady, comforting pace. 

The need to return to the waking world dissipates by degrees as the days passed, days you passed with your dear friends, your dear Dream god. Your dearest Dreaming. 

 —

  Your smile is wide as you see Dream God approaching your home. But quickly falls when you notice that he does not return it with his usual smile of greeting, but rather with a pinch of his brow.

"Dream lord." You greeted him. Heart beating loudly. Something’s not right.

"Sit with me." He said. 

You sat under the ever-expanding Willow. He sits on the opposite side of you.

"There is no easy way to say this, but your mother has passed, (y/n)." 

It takes you a couple heartbeats to properly digest his words. You have almost forgotten what your mother looked like, but you think of her and your sisters often. And the love you bear for her, as she does for you, is still strangely familiar, burrowing under your heart. 

"How?"

"In her sleep."

You sigh. Relieved. It has been more than 1100 years since the last time you saw her, and you thank those who protected her so she could die a natural death. 

But her death was unexpected. You always expect your mother to be immortal. She may not be a direct descendant of Okeanos and Thetis, but she shared their blood more than her daughters. 

That could only mean… 

"The humans have forgotten her, don’t they?"

"The waking world changes fast." Dream God concurs.

You nodded. Your tears blur your vision as you clear your throat. 

"Was she alone?"

"Her daughters are with her when it happened."

"Did she dream?" You asked with a broken voice.

"Yes."

"What did she dream about?" Your tears fall one by one. Your chest grows heavier. 

"She dreamt of a different death. Holding Poseidon’s head in her hand, her sword in the other." Sobs leave your mouth. Your head feels a little dizzy, lighter. You grip the grass on the earth, feel as if you could faint and fall into the ground, but Dream God is inching closer to you, cradles your face delicately in his silken hands, then wipes your tears with his thumbs. Anchoring you down. 

 —

  The dead must die forever. The dead are dead are dead are dead are dead. Returning to the pool of Atoms. 

There’s a cruel thought, a line from one of many plays you watched with Photine in the city. It is a terrible reminder that grief and love are so closely interlinked. Vast and merciless and divorcing . You feel so small in the face of it. 

You were hoping you could see her one day. You don’t know if you’re mourning the hope of seeing your mother once more or your mother herself. Both. You never thought it was possible to feel this much grief over someone you haven’t met in millenia. 

After the news of her passing, days are spent under the Lake. Watching the sun raze down the moon in their routine as their light ripples on the water’s surface. You need to be in the water. Feel safest in it, closer to your kin. The generations of embrace of your mother and sisters are beholden in this very element of nature. It swallows your tears, takes it all and disperses it to embody your sorrow. It holds you there so peacefully for weeks that you forsake touching the surface. 

Sometimes you feel the presence of the Dream God, but you don’t move a muscle to greet him. And he doesn’t disturb you in your fragile state as you contemplate your malady. He simply comes to see if you exist, then quietly departs.

On the 20th day, Lucienne stops by in the afternoon, calling you out, stirring the peace of the Lake. You begrudgingly rise and trudge to where she is, feel the water purposefully weighing you down as you sloppily lift your feet step by step. Begging you to come back with its droplets clinging to your skin.

Though you can’t lie to yourself, it’s good to see her warm smile and the slight pinch of her eyebrows. 

"Haven’t seen you in a while." 

You nod as you drape your Peplos over your unclothed body. Eyeing the basket in her hands that wafts a sweet smell, your stomach growls loudly.

"I know you haven’t eaten in weeks, so i won’t leave until you finish this loaf and tea Abel has so kindly made for you."

You smile for the first time in weeks. She did not mention your mother, and you are grateful for it. So you sit beside her under the great Willow tree.

It’s happening again. The dark in the sky, the unnatural stillness in the forest. The greyish clouds hanging over the sun. Even your Lake looks a little bleak, a little too tranquil. The lily pads wilted by inches. 

The rain of stars would be in a matter of hours.

"I’m afraid we won’t see him until tomorrow." Lucienne says, as if reading your thoughts.

"Do you miss him?" She asks. Your lips are tight. You do. You do miss him.

"He misses you. Don’t know what to do with himself in the evening. He’s fussy when he can’t spend time with you and makes my job a little tedious instead." There’s a knowing smile on Lucienne’s mouth.

"Sorry Lucie." you mumble, and Lucienne drapes her arm over your shoulders.

"It’s alright, (y/n)." she assures with her gentle voice. Before you know it you’re crying again. This time in her arms, and she wordlessly let you clings to her coat and warm presence. 

Once your tears have dried, she helps you clean the streak of tears and snot with a napkin. Then hands you the rest of the unfinished bread. 

"I’m not joking when I said I’m not going to leave until you finish this loaf." Lucienne reminds and a laugh bubbles from you. You notice the relief written on Lucienne’s smile. 

You don’t know what to make of it as you continue to chew on the sweet bread. You Know Dream God enjoys your company, but you didn’t know that it's at a point where he is capable of missing you. Especially one such as him, who could have any company he wants, one that is far more interesting than you. What does that say about you in his life? 

Hopefully a friend. You mull over.

On that dusk, when Lucienne had left, when the waters of your lake reflected an even deeper grey from the sky, the first starfall landed on the shallow part of your water. You glide into it, then gather them in your hand, and it burns you, scalding and brandishing your skin with jagged edges. You quickly dip it inside the lake, cooling the diamond-like object with sharp points, clutch tight in your hand. You teeth clench from the burning pain. Searing through your flesh.

Why are you holding on to it? Why does it tastes so familiar?

In an instant, Dream God arrives on your domain, you are not at all surprised by his sudden presence. You felt it in the wind, the imperceptible stir of your Willow. 

He looks tired. The edge of his Chiton seems to melt into his shadow that grows darker. The corners of his mouth are a little steeper. Eyes hooded with melancholy. 

He strides towards you, waist deep in the water as he takes your wrist that clenches his star. 

"Open it." he demands harshly.

You unfold your shaking palm and the star glows in anger, his eyes digest the burning skin on your hand. His brows stitch together.

"Look at what you’ve done." He scolds you as he takes his star from your burnt skin, hangs it back in the sky. Then his fingers hover over your wound, his fingers quiver slightly. 

You don’t miss the hollow in his eyes. His youthful face emanates aeons of history and an antique lifespan he usually conceals. He looks… drained and exhausted.  

Dream God has given so much to you, even by pact doesn’t lessen his actions and kindness. Seeing him like this is somewhat heartbreaking. Dispiriting. 

You don’t know how his pain truly feels, you reckon it is much more painful than your experience of losing your mother, a natural progression of life, unlike the premature loss of one's child. But grief is grief. Perhaps there’s no need to measure it in order to understand its purpose. So you take his hand. Despite his confusion, he doesn’t raise his concern. You are leading him into the only comfort you know how to give him, trudging with him hand in hand until both of you are completely submerged in the water. Until your feet touch the earthy floor. 

He seems to glow pale blue, hair as dark as the night, gently dancing in the water. He looks the part of a perfect Naiad, who could easily lure any man into his own demise with his bright eyes. Eyes that are always on you, when you tilt your head, when you remove the lush Hornwort from his face. Your unbrandished hand tight around him as you mused the frown on his mouth.

It’s true the water connects you to your mother and your sisters, but he created your Lake and its water. 

He does not need words to say how distinctly sick he is at the desolation growing by the year on this particular day for you feel its destruction in the very water inside your lungs, infecting your bloodstream. How suffocating that looming shadow of despair thriving on this day, for he is every blade of grass and the very wine you imbibed, the very Hornwort you pushed a moment ago.

And he realises, you can feel it—see it in his eyes--that you know . In which he grasps your insides with all you consume, all you inhale to taste how much you are familiar with his grief by mourning your own. 

You put a thousand wishes of consolation into one simple gesture. You slither your hands under his arms and wrap around his chest because you are not good with words. 

You try to hold him just like how he consoles you under the Willow, and hope that it reflects his kindness even just a fraction. 

Take the serenity you’ve given me and savour it for yourself. 

You’re not entirely sure if it’s a pure altruistic reason for your Dream God, perhaps one of them is selfish. That you need someone to anchor you down before you slip away in madness. To prevent feeling alone in your sorrow under the surface of your Lake. His Lake.

But the water and the dreaming tremble imperceptibly. It’s hard to pay it mind when the Dream God circles his arms around yours, envelopes your back and buries his eyes on your shoulder in return. His fingers cling to your skin, almost desperate. 

You and Dream god stay that way until your eyes fall heavy, your head droops on the hollow of his neck, until you are as still as the water surrounding you, as he does. His arms are a sense of comfort you haven’t truly felt in your long life.

When you woke up, it was dusk. Dream God is nowhere to be found, but the sky is greeting you with his dusk in a periwinkle shade. 

  —

 For living almost 1900th years in the Dreaming, you learned one more language that no one can really teach you except for you and Dream God himself. 

You can read Dream God as easily now, as he reads you. But that knowledge comes with the same cost he has paid to you, as you paid him, by baring your psyches to one another. 

A mutual trade of need to be by each other's side. You choose to take meaning when he comes to you requesting for a stroll in the Dreaming’s many meadows, the bright sun would purposefully land soft on your skin. To his presence under your willow, passing away the day together with an evening meal that consists of fruits, pies, and laughter, current delicacies of the Waking World he would conjure. To the way he consoles you with his embrace when tears gather in your eyes at the thought of your mother.

He takes equal meaning when you remain in the library, waiting until the late hours for him to return when his responsibilities keep him long and away from the Dreaming. When you pass the plate of figs with drizzled honey for him and lick the excess sweetener remaining on your finger. When your presence can be felt beside him, lost in the volumes of books devouring the secrets of the universe, as he is lost in his own process of shaping Dreams and Nightmares.

And when the rain of stars comes, at the end of the day you trail beside him to collect his falling stars. The little jewels no longer scalds your skin. But the Dream God always mournfully apologises for the one that has, now merely jagged scars on your palm. To which you take his face between your hands and assure him you love the shapes it has left on you. 

For each and every moment both of you have learned inches by inches. Accumulating language by centuries of communion. 

It is a peaceful coexistence you and him affectionately clings to. 

 —

"I should like to think that we’re past titles, (y/n)." 

Dream God demands as he’s helping you cinch the golden brooches on your shoulders to hold your Peplos together. One of his many gifts he had kindly bestowed upon you. Your hair still damp from the Lake, your skin barely dries because he conjures the afternoon meal before you even rose from the water. Impatient as ever. 

"And what does that mean, Dream God?" you turn to him once he cinched all of the golden jewellery. 

"That you should no longer address me as such." 

You don’t understand why you are perplexed by the notion. You have become his friend, as he yours. It is only natural to call each other by names. 

…that was partly a lie. You think you understand.

Perhaps, in a sense, some part of you silently worships him. For all your notions involving gods, you quietly revere the comforting hands that were on your shoulders a moment ago. And you uncover devotion when his skin touches yours, attain unyielding faith when you gaze into his eyes. In each and every title is in lieu of a prayer.

For you to call his name is somewhat akin to heresy, changing your carefully crafted divine custom, one that you’re unsure you’re ready for. 

It places you on the same pedestal as him. You understand that he demands for this very thing. To be on the narrow and tall pedestal with him. 

You sigh heavily as you try to cover your face, but he takes your wrists, gently pushes them down. His thumb lovingly runs over the scars on your palm. A flare of devotion stirs. 

"Morpheus." He demands once more. His bright beguiling eyes search for yours, but you avoid them by focusing on the pooling darkness on the edge of his black Chiton. 

"It feels wrong my-" 

"Morpheus." he urges firmly. Lean down to find your eyes. 

You bite the inside of your lip, The last time you spoke of his name was millennia ago. Aeons.

And you brace yourself for what feels like a blasphemy. 

"Morpheus." you finally muster. The name is strange on your tongue and you swallow, swallow the name too. 

A satisfied smile graces his lips.

"Morpheus." you repeat. Familiarising yourself with it. A rush of exhilaration spurs. His smile grows wider.

"Morpheus." Once more and a giggle slips from your mouth. His name tastes light and new and familiar.

The act did not take but gave you everything, no matter how unprepared you are for things to change within you, between him, you always found yourself embracing the uncertain future wherever he resides. 

"Yes, (y/n)?" he answers and you laugh heartily. He follows. Dark and low and mirthful. Tickles and burns your skin and shoots arrows at your stomach. 

 —

 The waking world has abandoned your former life. Morpheus explains that in your kind and your gods are no more than grand mythologies to lull children to sleep, for men to study. Other religions have replaced old beliefs, old deities and old ways of worship. Mankind does not believe the ancient ones anymore, and some creatures went extinct; the only legacy for your species.

Now, mankind cultivates their own nature, ravaging it themselves. 

The news of your sisters’ death came one by one as the world discarded them. The death of Photine strikes you with overwhelming violence. 

Devoid of power and human faith, she was forgotten, limped into obscurity and caved in on herself, met Death in her very own water. 

The dead must die forever. The dead are dead are dead are dead are dead. Returning to the pool of Atoms. 

You feel the ripples of the water, Morpheus wading to where you float in the shallow part of your Lake. 

"Will I die like them?" you question, to him who blocks the sun, but mostly to yourself. Your tears trace the sides of your temples. Your sorrow is his too, you can see it in his glistening eyes. He takes your hand and enveloped tightly, almost desperate. 

"No. I will not let that happen. My faith will always sustain you." He gently caresses your forehead, and kisses you there, featherlike and gentle, as if you could break from all your agony by the daintiest pressure.

 —

Morpheus stands at a crossroad he plucked from the dream of  a man longing to see his former lover on the street where they first met. The crescent moon and the decaying fields of Wheat came from a farmer asleep at her porch on witching hour, her rake in her hand long forgotten as she dreamt of ploughing her fields. Content with the life she had wrought of her own. 

Yet it was not enough, the fates would always require more. His surrender and acceptance was found in the last night of a starved circus Lion, dreaming of her faraway home, for tomorrow she would meet his sister, Death. 

And the iron sword in his coat, a symbol of righteous indignation, the boon, was a little harder to find. But one pierced through a monstrous serpent. It was found on the hand of a man fighting in the name of Jesus Christ. He was accused of murder in his smalltown home. 

All is set and complete. 

He steels himself by recalling his treasured one, his heart and friend, his darling Naiad's face, then sends gentle wind for her in the Dreaming. 

And now he invokes their name.

"I, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, hereby summon the Fates."  

A thunder strikes the air.

"The three who are one."

The wheat surrounding droops lower.

"The one who is three."

The black chiffon of theirs dances in the wind.

"The Hecateae."

The Fates stand before him, and he bows his head as customary. 

"Morpheus, my, what a lovely surprise." the mother greets.

"Is it really such a surprise, sister-self?" the maiden taunts.

"It is only a matter of when." the crone scorns. 

"Is this a social call, Dream king?" 

"Unfortunately not, my ladies." 

"Of course it’s not. We know what he wants." the crone spat.

"Think again Morpheus, there is no turning back. Are you sure about this, Dove?" the mother cautions kindly, ever attentive.

"I do." Morpheus says with stubborn conviction as he pulls the sword from his star–sewn coat, and the Fates unclench their jaws to swallow it whole. 

"You will bind her to your fate just like that?" the maiden questions with her mischievous smile, she expects no answer from him.

"The Dream king has always been selfish." the crone sneers.

"three questions, one answer, love."  the mother croons.

He clenches his fist, braces himself. 

"My first question, the tool I need, where is it?"

"In the heart of Tartarus, where Chronos once fell." the maiden responds. 

"My second question, will the deed be possible to enact?"

"Yes, but first you will toil for a long time, and after." the mother croons.

He nods, unflinching. 

"My last question, the scale of the change. How much?" 

The fates glare at him in a way they never did before. As if they too, revealing his answer, are passing the threshold that can’t be returned. 

"An upheaval of the highest order. But nothing you and her could not overcome." For once, the crone's voice is faintly tinged with favor. If it meant something, he chose not to see it. 

—

 "Does my Lake still exist?" you question Morpheus as you sit beside him under the Willow, both of you leaning against the tree after you share ripe Peaches you cut in half. His black Chiton pools at the grass. Now watching the twilight sky of the Dreaming that stretches for hours. 

"Fortunately, yes. Humans do not dare to venture in that part of the forest. A curse is said to surround it.

Your lips tugged upwards as you turned towards his profile. "Curse, or a nightmare?"

"Both, perhaps." a sly smile forms his lips. 

A breeze and silence are blowing your way. You swallow thickly before asking the next question, one that has not been asked for millenia. 

"And... and him?"

He straightens his body towards you. 

"He’s wandering helplessly at the bottom of the sea. The sea belongs to humanity now, his power has abated. Most remember him only as a vessel for their own stories."

You don’t know what to say. Your hatred overshadows your relief that borne a spite for the olympian. You take joy in this news. And you hope that he will suffer more from something that is beyond his power to contain. 

"He no longer has the ability to hurt you. I made sure of that." he claims with a conviction that leaves no room for any doubt to bloom within you. 

"I really miss the waking world." was all you could say after quite some time, smothering the grass in your hand.

Morpheus gently takes your hand in his. 

"Do you want to visit the Waking World?" he offers. 

You missed a second. 

"I don’t… I don't know if I can." It's been so long. Too long. The Dreaming has become a part of you so thoroughly. You become apprehensive at the prospect of leaving it, even for a temporary moment. Would the earth of the Waking World even feel the same in your hands? The air and its water? 

Morpheus senses your agitation. He tips your chin to look upon him.

"I will come with you if you wish. Just think it over." 

Your nod. Comforted by his bright, kind eyes. You watch the last traces of light in the horizon. 

"Tomorrow I must return Corinthian back to the Dreaming. When I return–should you wish it–just tell me, I shall take you to the waking world. There is much I want you to see." he offers. 

You are reminded once more of his kindness. Of his endless thoughtfulness for you. When you look upon his comely face, has it always been like this? Has your heart been filled and overflowing with so much love that has moved past the threshold of friendship? Since when did you have this urge to press your lips against his? Wondering what kind of divine blessing resides there. 

You can’t help but caress his cheek and lean towards his lips, in which he captures yours so readily. As if he had been waiting for this moment for a long, arduous time. 

Yes, you can see everything so clear then, the fog and the ache and every uncertainty clears away, the small pieces pulling together at the centre of the universe to create a larger picture, to make sense in your erratic fate. That you are merely borrowed parts that needed to be returned, from the drops of the rain, from the dirt of the earth, from the rays of the sky and the water in the lake. Here wherever he is, the centre of your universe, your future slowly and kindly enough to unravel before your eyes, returning home under his heart, returning home to him. 

Morpheus pulls away reluctantly, and your eyes flutter open at the loss of his lips. 

He caresses your jaw. You feel his perpetual love and devotion pulsing through his fingertips, tracing your skin. His eyes drink in your features fondly, consuming you whole. You desire nothing more than to be consumed over and over again. 

"Do you want me to kill him?" Morpheus rasps.

The Dreaming turns still. Holding its breath in anticipation, awaiting your response.

Morpheus finds the answer in your eyes. Feel it in your lungs. And he nods in understanding as he kisses you once more.

[questing-wulfstan]

Listen, I can't blame y'all when His Excellence Neil Gaiman hisself compared it to Dream walking out on his date with Hob to hit it off with Shaxberd upon learning about Eleanor and Robyn, but I feel like fixating on this interpretation only of the scene is a disservice to Morpheus' overall characterisation over the season.

Have you noticed how Hob calls "his friend" over to his table and that doesn't phase Morpheus at all then Dream doesn't even ask him whether he still wants to live before putting an end to their meeting ? It's unexpected from someone otherwise so strict and set on protocols ー even when he storms out in 1889, he already had Hob's answer to that question. Yet he leaves 1589 Hob without having formally asked the one question that justifies their centennial meetings.

That is because Dream knows, oh he knows what Hob's Heaven is like. He's had a wife and a son of his own once, and he knew what eternity by their side would be like, once. And he knows Hob has everything but Death on his mind then. He also knows ー or so he thinks ー what Hob's answer will be the next century. For Hob Gadling alone was granted immortality, not Eleanor, nor Robyn. And Morpheus knows what outliving one's son is like.

Morpheus' work in this tavern of the White Horse is done, but he's also taken back to the most traumatic event of his existence, one he won't recover from in two millennia and he can't look Hob in the eyes anymore, he needs a distraction, something, anything but having to confront his revenant grief. And there's that playwright loudly willing to strike a bargain with higher entities for the ability to create timeless dreams for humanity and there's his distraction, there's an escape ...

Comes 1689, Morpheus is certain of the outcome of this meeting. Sure, it will have taken the bugger three time the hundred years Dream had predicted Death, but no matter because it is true : nobody can bear an endless existence.

Then Morpheus learns about not only the expected death of Hob's son, but that it happened much earlier than it should have, devoid of a fulfilling lifetime for Robyn and of psychological preparation for Hob. Scythed in the prime of life, much like Orpheus. And within a close time frame to his wife's departure, too. Hob is holding up a mirror to Morpheus' own misery and the King of Dreams finds himself on the verge of tears. He is no longer smug as he offers Hob what he thinks of as an eventual relief.

Yet ... Hob doesn't take it. Somehow, somewhere, Hob Gadling finds it in himself to resist the tragedy of his life, to chose tomorrow, to decide that whatever the future holds, it is worth being there to see it.

And that is really when something kindles within Morpheus. No longer mere curiosity but a devouring fascination for Hob Gadling, his hopefulness and his resilience. He latches onto that man who shares his misery yet seem to have overcome it, or anyhow accommodated himself to it.

And when they meet again in 1789, and fortune has smiled upon Hob Gadling once again, Morpheus is much more open, much more attentive, much more interested. Who knows if he might not have given Hob his name even, hadn't lady Johanna Constantine interrupted him ?

By all means, Morpheus doesn't process their blooming bond. He's the anthropomorphic incarnation of the human or really, the living unconscious : there are numerous things passing through his mind at all time that he does not process. To him, he's merely monitoring the puzzling glitch that is Robert Gadling's will to live still, and waiting for him to eventually, inevitably renounce his immortality.

So when another century has passed and Hob asserts that their meetings are unnecessary for he won't ever renounce being alive but proposes his friendship, Morpheus is left reeling, faced with how much he has in common with this 'mortal' and his envy for Hob's resilience and capacity to forge ahead.

Naturally he takes flight and makes for an escape, lest he finds himself ensnared by his own grief ...

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hi! I haven't read the iwtv books so could you explain what you mean by Lestat keeping Louis and Claudia as mortal as possible? And it's something that Marius advised? I wouldn't mind any spoilers!

Have a nice day!

Hey!

So to expand on that a bit:

After Lestat was turned against his will and after he encountered the Children of Darkness and Armand he tries to find Marius, Armand's maker (and a true ancient, them calling Armand ancient is very funny to me tbh^^) to find some (more) answers.

Ultimately he does manage to rouse Marius' interest, and Marius raises him from a dirt nap and takes him to the island where he lives and cares for "Those Who Must Be Kept". (We know that also happened in the show in some kind of manner, because Lestat refers to TWMBK in ep7.)

Marius tells Lestat his life story, introduces him to Akasha and Enkil.

And he gives him advice (from "The Vampire Lestat"):

"If you mean to survive, you must live out one complete lifetime as soon as you can. To forestall it may be to lose everything, to despair and to go into the earth again, never to rise. Or worse. . . " [...] "Then do as I advise. And understand this also. In a real way, eternity is merely the living of one human lifetime after another. Of course, there may be long periods of retreat; times of slumber or of merely watching. But again and again we plunge into the stream, and we swim as long as we can, until time or tragedy brings us down as they will do mortals. " [...] "Exactly, make them in love. And make certain they have had some lifetime before you make them; and never never make one as young as Armand. That is the worst crime I have ever committed against my own kind, the taking of the young boy child Armand. "

But he also gives him a warning:

"You know why not. I can't have you or anyone else know the location of Those Who Must Be Kept. And that brings us now to something very important: the promises I must have from you. " "Anything, " I said. "But what could you possibly want that I could give? " "Simply this. You must never tell others the things that I have told you. Never tell of Those Who Must Be Kept. Never tell the legends of the old gods. Never tell others that you have seen me. " I nodded gravely. I had expected this, but I knew without even thinking that this might prove very hard indeed. "If you tell even one part, " he said, "another will follow, and with every telling of the secret of Those Who Must Be Kept you increase the danger of their discovery. " "Yes, " I said. "But the legends, our origins . . . What about those children that I make? Can't I tell them- " "No. As I told you, tell part and you will end up telling all. Besides, if these fledglings are children of the Christian god, if they are poisoned as Nicolas was with the Christian notion of Original Sin and guilt, they will only be maddened and disappointed by these old tales. It will all be a horror to them that they cannot accept. Accidents, pagan gods they don't believe in, customs they cannot understand. One has to be ready for this knowledge, meager as it may be. Rather listen hard to their questions and tell them what you must to make them contented. And if you find you cannot lie to them, don't tell them anything at all. Try to make them strong as godless men today are strong. But mark my words, the old legends never. Those are mine and mine alone to tell. " "What will you do to me if I tell them? " I asked. This startled him. He lost his composure for almost a full second, and then he laughed. "You are the damnedest creature, Lestat, " he murmured. "The point is I can do anything I like to you if you tell. Surely you know that. I could crush you underfoot the way Akasha crushed the Elder. I could set you ablaze with the power of my mind. But I don't want to utter such threats. I want you to come back to me. But I will not have these secrets known. I will not have a band of immortals descend upon me again as they did in Venice. I will not be known to our kind. You must never-deliberately or accidentally-send anyone searching for Those Who Must Be Kept or for Marius. You will never utter my name to others. " "I understand, " I said.

Lestat goes to NOLA after and tries to follow Marius' advice - and heed the warning.

That is the why.

The how...

Lestat never shows them the full extent of his powers. He lives with them in a house, as a family, not as a coven. He tries not to be the "coven master" for long stretches of time (going so far as to leave his home for example). He hides the more monstrous aspects of their existence, as well as the cruel implementations/rituals other covens have. Since Louis is very much also "poisoned by the notion of the Christian God" he does not tell them much either, probably half for fear of Marius and half for the gut feeling that the knowledge he has would actually not help much.

That is what I mean that he keeps them as mortal as possible.

They live with mortals, in their midst, masquerading as mortals, having hobbies, and interests, going to theaters, cinema etc. He makes his fledglings from and through love, and tries to live a "life" with them.

As good as he possibly can.

(The downside is, of course, that Louis and Claudia unfortunately have no concept of what awaits them with the other vampires. Which is exactly why Lestat did not want them to go to... Paris.)

[savagewildnerness]

I have to do a post for just this image too though.

In an art gallery, it would be entitled “You & me? Poignancy”… (& from me, added - thank you AMC… okokok, I confess, enjoyed how AMC rhymes with “me” & “poignancy”! Immortality also rhymes! Teehee! SO in fact does poetry!!!)

Anyway, I distracted myself from my point with silly rhymes (& if that’s not a metaphor for my existence, what is!?!)

But…

Claudia, looking to Louis; desperate to believe she is all he needs - enough to survive eternity with… but… deep down, she knows… the tragedy is, she knows Louis as maybe he doesn’t know himself…

But oh… Louis wants his words to be true… exactly as simultaneously he contradicts it, in Lestat’s presence… shimmering like an Angel, looking on Claudia with all the benevolent compassion & sorrow that is Louis’ compassion. But, it is Lestat’s compassion too, whether Louis & Lestat know it or not…. But love, compassion are not enough.

I once watched an interview with a child who had a severely disabled twin. They were both only around 10/11 at the time, but the interviewer asked the boy who was verbal what he thought love was & he answered “Love is action.” Love is not the words you say, but what you do. Love is what you give. And in action, poor Claudia is not loved enough. Oh, she is loved, yes. But Claudia deserves to be someone’s world entire. And is she? No.

Oh, it’s a tragedy alright. And yet, out of fairytale, who of us are ever anyone’s world entire? I know I am not, never have been & never will be. And actually, the concept of being anyone’s world entire fills me with incomprehensible dread & terror! And yet, I am human, as are you, so of course I also feel that pull towards completeness of it. Just as I can imagine myself a vampire, existing eternally, uncaring that I have to kill to survive… ignoring the fact that I cannot even squash a spider, for I feel its life.

Why oh why must I feel one image & it can take me into a full essay on it?

How lucky are we to have these actors playing these roles, these writers creating this show? S2E1 was written so poetically! I felt it deep within. The music is so gorgeous - the first 10 minutes, I could not skip a moment: the music is too beautiful. I had to watch a second time to even hear the words, the music was too overwhelming on first listen! But Delainey I adore already: Claudia’s internal pain sings from her: her poignant mix of directness, closed-off-ness, desperate anger & pure hope… Louis already so broken this season. I loved Jacob’s summation of Louis in a recent interview & how he is able to look at the darkness in Louis that Louis is afraid for the world to see. And Sam is infinitely eloquent in the smallest of looks. How joyous Dream-Lestat already is. Without words or even Lestat’s self Sam can express so much… and this moment here made me cry… and it’s this look that really did it. Just a wordless look…

[cnnmairoll]

HII! I don’t know if you know jing yuans lore, but I’d you don’t this will have some slight spoilers for it.

Okay so, if your willing to write hurt/no comfort, may I request one where with jing yuan in which he knows reader likes him and he likes the reader too, but he has a huge fear he will “loose” the reader, because of how many of his friends died.

This can also still be a hurt/comfort situation, and I don’t mind which one you choose. Thank you <3

Eternal Regret

Pairing : Jing Yuan x Reader Genre : Angst, Hurt/No Comfort a/n : Sure thing anon! Angst is not what I usually write so I tried my best with this one! hope this is to your liking! ^_^

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦.

In the quiet, moonlit chambers of the Xianzhou Luofu fortress, where the hushed whispers of secrets and the weight of history intertwined, your heartache found its dwelling. Unseen, unspoken, it brewed in the caverns of your soul, a bitter elixir of longing and despair. And at the center of it all, like a shadow cast in moonlight, stood General Jing Yuan.

Jing Yuan and his indolent demeanor was a well-crafted facade, hiding the depth of his emotions, the tumultuous sea of his thoughts. You knew this because you were drawn into those depths, your heart ensnared by the man who commanded the Cloud Knights.

In the beginning, it had been subtle, like the first stirrings of a storm on a distant horizon. The stolen glances across the training grounds, the fleeting brushes of fingers when exchanging scrolls—innocent enough to be dismissed as mere coincidence, yet heavy with unspoken desire. You were entangled in a love that dared not speak its name, for to do so was to risk the consequences.

But you had sensed it, hadn't you? The unspoken truth in the way he looked at you, in the rare moments of vulnerability that flickered across his face like lightning in the night. You knew that Jing Yuan felt something too, something profound, something that had the potential to bind you together.

Yet, like a fragile thread threatening to snap, that connection remained fragile, on the precipice of breaking, and you didn't understand why. Why did he pull away when it seemed that your love was mutual? Why did he keep you at arm's length, even as his heartache mirrored your own?

The answer, as you would come to know, lay in the scars of his past. It was a past haunted by countless battles, by comrades lost to the relentless march of time. Jing Yuan was a long-life species, a being that had witnessed centuries of life and death, a soul that had been battered and bruised by the passage of ages.

He had loved before, you realized, loved deeply and irrevocably, only to watch those he cherished wither away into dust. Friends, lovers, allies—all gone, their laughter and their warmth fading into distant memories. The weight of those losses had etched a profound fear into his heart, a fear that paralyzed him, made him hesitate to embrace the love that stood before him.

In his mind, you were another fragile life, another potential tragedy waiting to unfold. And so, he pushed you away, gently but persistently, like a boat adrift in treacherous waters, afraid that the storm would consume you as it had consumed so many before.

But you, you were not content to be cast aside, not content to watch your love wither and die like a flower denied the sun's embrace. You yearned to understand, to break through the walls he had erected around his heart. You pleaded, you whispered words of affection, you bared your own vulnerabilities in the hopes that he would do the same.

But Jing Yuan, bound by his fear, remained resolute in his solitude. He watched you with eyes that spoke of a love he dared not indulge, and in his silence, he shattered your heart anew with each passing day.

It was a slow descent into anguish, a painful dance of yearning and rejection. You loved him, and he loved you, and yet the chasm between you seemed insurmountable. The fortress walls that guarded his heart were unyielding, and the silent tears you shed in the stillness of the night were your only companions in this wretched tragedy.

In the end, the fear that haunted Jing Yuan had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You were lost to him, not by death, but by the choice to forsake the love that had blossomed in the shadows. And as you walked away, your heart heavy with sorrow, you knew that you would forever be haunted by the ghost of a love that had never truly been allowed to flourish.

In the depths of the Xianzhou Luofu fortress, the General watched as you disappeared into the night, his heart heavy with the weight of his own regrets. And as the tears you had shed glistened in the moonlight, he knew that he had lost not just a love, but the chance for his own heart to awaken from its long slumber.

In the years that followed, Jing Yuan became a solitary figure, a ghost of the man he once was. The fortress that had been his sanctuary became his prison, and the memories of you haunted him like a relentless specter. He had pushed you away out of fear, but in doing so, he had condemned himself to a life of endless sorrow.

And as the centuries passed, he watched as empires rose and fell, as wars came and went, but nothing could fill the void that you had left behind. He longed for the touch of your hand, the sound of your laughter, the warmth of your presence, but all that remained were the echoes of a love that had been lost in the shadows. And in the deepest recesses of his heart, he knew that he had paid the price for his fear, a price that would haunt him for all eternity.

[theorphicangel]

HI LOVE <3 GRATS ON THE 500 ksdfksjdf

can i get “maybe this is it, because I can’t do this anymore” because i wanna be in pain :') i'm a sucker for hurt/comfort but if you wanna kill me with all angst no comfort i will happily die in (angsty) peace <3

hiii kat!! thank you so so much for sending in a prompt! Now I was considering going fully angst but I do want to see you live as my mutual so I settled for comfort 🙏🫡

enjoy :)

send in a prompt for my 500 event!

tw: blood, grief, death, gn! reader

Scarlet blood decorated your skin, imprinted like tattoo ink. It will take you days to scrub it out completely. The fade of crimson never truly disappears.

Each time you went on a mission you never really thought that it would be as god-awful as the last, and most of the time – and most fortunately – you were right.

But not this time.

This time, it was the worst of the worst. Unimaginable. As if the pits of hell collectively decided that out of all days, today would be the perfect time to unleash eternal damnation upon the entire corps.

Today, the universe chose to make you a witness to the most gruesome scenes ever known to the human eye and to let you live with it.

That was truly the worst kind of punishment.

The punishment of being the lucky few who survived after seeing the rampages of hell. The so-called lucky ones who have yet to fully comprehend what they have been through and face immediate backlash from hundreds when returning to the walls. It was only then that you understood the idea that survival was possibly the next thing worse than death.

Heads bowed, a deep sea of dark green cloaks was all the eye could see on the return home. Bodies numb and battered, stomachs empty and nauseous, mental state shattered and fragile, this is all that is left of the Survey Corps.

The contact between each other’s eyes was how communication flowed. After a tragedy like this, only a set of weary eyes could portray the answers to the unspoken questions. In silence, the poor numbers of survivors trailed one after the other, the optimism once held in these hearts were now killed by the fate of the world.

Knuckles tight, your hands gripped the reins of your horse. Your limbs shook, unable to cope with the amount of grief and trauma that you had just seen. It was unbearable, having to go through it time and time again, mission after mission, hope after hope that this time would be the last time that you would see your comrades die.

You don’t think you’d ever reach that point. Internally, you had already decided that this would be the last time. You were done.

Silently, you disappeared from the small crowd. And after tying up your horse in the stable, you slipped away not caring to be present for a register. The worn soles of your boots thunder as you walk down the soulless corridor, cold and empty, only now coming to life.

Making a sharp turn, you meet the closed door of your office. Bloodstained hands meet the cold doorknob and you twist with all the strength that you have in your own drained body to get the door open. You only manage to take a few steps forward before collapsing on your office floor. Like the rest of the headquarters, it’s cold and empty, and there’s already a stack of papers on your table ready to be signed.

For the first minute or two, you realize that you have no energy to cry, instead choosing to slump on the ground, your body melting into the floor.

It’s only a matter of time before it all sinks in. The visions and raw images race back into your mind like a film scene rolling before your eyes. Before you know it your eyes are watering and you’re unable to stop the tears from flowing. Neither are you able to suppress the deep cry inside you. Hands shaking, you can’t stop, like you're not even in control of your own body. You can’t stop no matter how hard you try.

Forcing yourself to take in a breath, the tears only pause momentarily before flowing all over again.

You don’t even know how long he’s been there. You never really noticed your office door open or even hear his steps. Wiping away at your blurry eyes was when you found him there, right there in front of you. He was a splitting image of you. Bloodstained and exhausted.

Inaudibly, he’s beside you on the ground, his nimble, cold fingers gently holding the tips of yours. His face is filled with immediate concern on how much you’re currently shaking, and soon he unbuttons his own cape and wraps it around you, the warmth of it already doing wonders.

Coming to a sudden yet much needed halt, your body has run out of tears. Eyes red, skin patchy, head throbbing, your body has nothing left in you. Miserably, you sit, shaking your head slowly as you hiccup. Levi’s hand slowly rubs circles into your back. Pathetically you rub your eyes one more time, skin irritated by the amount of contact.

“I can’t–”

It merely comes out as a whisper, your throat dry and croaky. It takes you a few times to swallow before you can repeat yourself a little louder.

“I can’t do it.”

Levi raises a brow, his concern never once left his face, not even for a minute. “Can’t do what?”

“This.” you mumble, raising your hands. “They say that after the worst you can’t do it anymore, that it’ll break you and maybe— maybe this is it, because I can’t do this anymore.” Your voice wobbles before the end, breaking off as a new set of fresh tears reach your waterline.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true!” you exclaim, “I’m finished. I can’t keep doing this anymore, Levi. How many people do I have to watch die in front of me before we can reach freedom? It’s like a fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from, and just when I start to get hope, just that tiniest spark of hope inside me, it just fucking dies and I end up with nothing, I end up with nothing, Levi.”

“You don’t have nothing.” He begins, his tone quiet and gentle with you. “You have your squad and—“

“And so what? One day I’ll lose them too and you know it. I can’t keep pretending that I’m strong enough for this, I can’t do it. I’m–” You shut your eyes, tilting your head upwards. The words leave your lips in a whisper. “I’m just so fucking tired of this.”

He gets it. He really and truly does understand where you’re coming from. Even when it feels like nobody understands, he gets it. Because at one point in his life, he had reached that conclusion too.

Levi swallowed thickly letting the silence creep back in after your words. His eyes were casted downwards, searching for an answer, anything to comfort you. It took a few moments before he was ready to say something.

“I know I don’t have the answer, none of us do, and trust me, we’re all tired. Every single one of us. Every single day everyone wakes up and thinks, ‘why am I doing this?’ ‘Why did I choose this path, this endless path of not knowing if I’ll make it to tomorrow?’ But the thing is…we have no choice but to keep going.”

Levi paused for a second. “ I know it doesn’t seem like it but little by little we are making progress. With each and every mission we are coming back with new information and intel in which we didn’t know about before. In fact, I bet you Hange will storm your office tomorrow with something new that they found.”

His words coax out a subtle smile out of you, you could just imagine that happening.

“That is why we do it, so we can get new information, to discover shit that we haven’t even thought about yet. It is a sacrifice but no one who steps foot into the Survey Corps isn’t aware of that.”

Levi took a deep sigh, watching as your tears slow down your cheeks. You felt his exhale of air reach your skin. A reminder he was here, right here with you.

“Keep going, “ He tells you, gently. “For me at least. For us.”

It was possibly the most selfish thing that he had ever asked for in his entire lifetime and the first selfish thing he had asked for but he knew that this was your breaking point.

If he couldn’t get you to promise him this, then there was no hope left for you. Just this once he needed to be selfish and it was all a no brainer for him if it meant saving you in the long run.

His hands cup your face, bloodstained and all. Because of your own blurry eyes you couldn’t catch the way that his eyes welled up.

“Promise me this one thing.” He mumbled. “Promise you’ll keep going for me.”

“Levi–”

“Promise me.” His voice grew loud all of a sudden, echoing off the walls of your quiet office. His tone was stern as if he was giving an order to his squad, the only difference was…you could hear the fear in his voice.

He was only being strict on you because he was so afraid of losing you. That was his own breaking point. And if it ever came to that then that would be it. He wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. He wouldn’t know how to. He’d rather be sacrificed to the titans than ever imagine himself in a scenario like that.

You meet his eyes, fear evident in them. For him you’ll do it. Whatever it takes.

“I promise.”

“Good.” his fingers steadily wiped away the trail of teardrops. “I won’t ever let you down. You remember that, okay?”

You nod, trusting him full heartedly without a second thought.

Again he was being selfish, guiding you down a path that could potentially lead to disaster, but it needed to be done, for the sake of saving you. Could it be something he will potentially regret in the near future?

He doesn’t know. No one does.

But for now, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep you by his side.

Reblogs are much appreciated!!

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[vyglitchcraft]

Twice As Many Stars

Fujin x Terminally Ill! Reader

Content: angst, short story, thoughts of death, implied early onset dementia, reader forgets Fujin for a moment, GN reader, reference to the Two Headed Calf poem by Laura Gilpin

Plot: Fujin stargazes with the reader

The night was oddly windy. Sitting down on the edge of a cliff, you feel the breeze through your hair, moving the grass between your fingers. The stars shine beautifully tonight.

You heard the soft grass crunch under the weight of someone's footsteps. He sat next to you, the man with eyes as bright as the stars above. He placed his hand over yours, a gentle warmth covering the coldness of your body. Your head leans against his shoulder, the glow of his markings makes it feel as if you're hugging the stars themselves.

"There are twice as many stars as usual"

He held your head as your tired body relaxed.

"I don't know when i'll fade away, i'm scared..."

Your eyes welling up with tears. He admits, he is scared as well, he has lived through many losses, many tragedies yet he had this lie in his head that this time, someone will be next to him until the universe itself ends. He hushes you, pulling you closer.

"Tomorrow when the farm boys find this

freak of nature, they will wrap his body

in newspaper and carry him to the museum."

Your arms wrapped around his torso as tears soaked into his clothes.

"I don't want to forget you...what if i don't recognise you anymore?"

He didn't know how to answer, from his years and years of experience, he still fell silent from your question. He only pressed your head against his chest as he solemnly looked away. "What happens tomorrow, it happens. For now, you are here with me, let us forget our future for now. Please, let us watch the stars together" you only nodded.

"What if we fade together? Will we be the stars in the night sky?"

"But tonight he is alive and in the north

field with his mother. It is a perfect

summer evening"

"No, i will not let you be just another star. You will be the constellation that guides travelers, the morning star in the sea of endless white dots, the warmth that brings life, i will make sure you shine with an unforgettable light" his voice shaky, his hold on your becomes tighter as tears fell from his eyes. "What about you?" you asked as you held his hand and pressed your lips against his knuckles "i will forever admire you from here, and when i fade, i would finally join you, together, both of us, for eternity" you smiled at his words. "I like the sound of that"

"the moon rising over

the orchard, the wind in the grass."

"When i fade away, please remember me always. When i join the stars, i will be watching over you, always. Even when i inevitably forget you, please keep thinking about me"

He finally cried, sobbing into your hair as he hugged you. The wind cried with him, howling around both of you. As you looked up, you could see the universe in those beautiful white eyes. Your hand cups the side of his face, your forehead against his. "I love you, i will always love you, from now until eternity, i love you"

You moved away slowly, letting him go as you sat beside him once more. Both of you watching the stars twinkle as if the world around you couldn't be more irrelevant. A shooting star flew across the sky and he couldn't help but ask if you made a wish but you only answered with confusion

"Who

Are

You?"

"And as he stares into the sky, there are

twice as many stars as usual."

Tonight, the sky seemed more empty as usual as if the amount halved. He sat on the edge of the cliff, now beside him is just an empty spot except for a ring for a wedding that will never come. He saved a spot for a person that won't arrive but he's fine with that. His hand planted on the ground, the grass between his fingers was warm as if you had just been there. He looked into the night sky for a lover who now watches over and awaits for his arrival so they can both finally fall into each other's eternal cosmic embrace

Author's note: i wrote this all in one sitting while crying in my bed, i have a stack of tissues beside me and i think i emptied half of it

[nyxshadowhawk]

Art and Hedonism

Dorian Gray Weekly is over, so it’s finally time for me to post my analysis of my favorite gothic novel!

On the surface, The Picture of Dorian Gray seems to be a tragedy about what happens when you give yourself over to self-indulgence and sin. Dorian has been granted eternal youth so as to live out all his passions, and he spends his life becoming progressively more depraved until his conscience weighs upon him to the point of madness, and he destroys his own horcrux. Hedonism is bad, right? But it’s a little counter-intuitive for such a moral to come from Oscar Wilde. Why would Oscar Wilde, of all people, write a story that seems to condemn hedonism? Well… I don’t think he does. The book just doesn’t read that way. It’s a luxuriously self-indulgent, sensual book! I wouldn’t like it so much if it boiled down to “hedonism is bad.”

I think that this book is a metatextual critique of Wilde’s own philosophy. The Picture of Dorian Gray is not really about beauty, or pleasure, or sin. It is about art. It is about the nature of art and it’s relationship to the artist, and to the audience. It is a cautionary tale not about the dangers of hedonism, but the dangers of taking art too seriously. At least, that seems to be what it is according to its author. I’m not saying that I know definitively what the author’s intentions were, or that authors’ interpretations of their work are the only true and correct ones. Ultimately, an author’s interpretation of his or her own work is just one interpretation among many, and any true piece of art can be interpreted many different ways. But, looking at Dorian Gray through the lens of its own author might be the best way to answer this question. So, I am going to analyze that. For fun!

At first glance, Wilde’s preface doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the story. It’s a really short philosophical argument. Actually, it reads more like a pretentious internet comment, by making a bunch of beautifully-worded controversial claims and then sitting back and waiting for you to respond to them, almost as if it’s daring you to argue.

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

[…]

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.

There’s a lot more philosophical rambling that I cut out, but the short of it is this — art exists for its own sake. It exists to be admired, to be enjoyed. It exists to be beautiful, and that’s it. Anything that anyone else gets from it is simply what they get from it, and it says more about them than it does about the art. Creating art for any other primary purpose misses the point, if it isn’t outright dangerous.

Now, generally in literary analysis it’s a faux pas to psychoanalyze the author based on their work (which Wilde would probably agree with, since he writes that art should “conceal the artist”). There’s a lot of weird philosophy in this book, mostly put forth by the character of Lord Henry Wotton. Although Wilde identifies Lord Henry as something of a caricature of himself, we cannot say whether anything Lord Henry says is what Wilde really thinks. But this? The preface is written without the voice of a character or the context of a story. This is the author speaking as himself, in his own words, and therefore we can conclude that this is what he really thinks. That means that the only thing we can really say about Wilde and his philosophy based on this book alone comes from this preface.

Why is this preface even here? Why is it attached to this book? It might just be a futile attempt to cover his own ass, since he says things like “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book” and “Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.” That’s basically facing down the inevitable controversy that this book generated and saying, “don’t look at me, it’s just a story. It’s your fault for taking it seriously.” But, we could also use it as a framework within which to interpret the following story. Or, actually, wait, we’re not supposed to interpret it because it exists for its own sake, right? But why else would the this be the preface to Dorian Gray, if the story wasn’t meant to prove the preface’s point?

One more bit of metatextual content I want to bring up: Wilde said this about his characters:

Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be — in other ages, perhaps.

(I am way too proud of this outdated meme.)

So, all three of Dorian Gray’s main characters are meant to represent the author himself from various perspectives. Basil, the innocent and lovelorn painter, is how Wilde perceives himself. Lord Henry is how society perceives Wilde; he smoothly makes controversial philosophical statements about hedonism and beauty and whatnot, but doesn’t actually believe most of what he’s saying. And what a cryptic thing to say about Dorian, the naive-boy-turned-corrupt libertine. I guess I could interpret that as Wilde saying that he’d theoretically like to have the sheer daring and shamelessness needed to actually live out all of Henry’s philosophies. So… if that’s the case, then that puts a big question mark over Dorian’s entire character. If the message of the book is “hedonism is bad,” then why would Wilde want to be Dorian, even hypothetically? Dorian’s depravity is clearly a bad thing, right? Why would Wilde write him that way, then?

Because the book’s moral isn’t about hedonism, it’s about art.

Wilde warns the reader, “All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.” But… that’s exactly what I plan to do. Sorry, Oscar.

So, let’s actually talk about the story now.

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a weirdly paradoxical work for the reasons I just spelled out — it seems like it should be condemning hedonism, but it doesn’t quite. It seems like it is a story about a man whose life steadily ruined by pleasure-seeking at the expense of all else, and yet… it’s just so decadent, this book. It’s full of philosophy about hedonism and the nature of good and evil, and it’s hard to tell just how much is espoused by its author and how much is condemned. Often the philosophy comes through Lord Henry, but sometimes it’s just there in the narration. And I love this book for that reason. I love thinking about stuff like that, so much. I love that this book practically smells like opium and tastes like rich chocolate.

The reason why I’m so interested in Wilde’s relationship to his own work here is because I agree with a lot of the philosophy presented in it. I know that Dorian Gray is being corrupted by Lord Henry’s influence, and I can see how that happens. But… still. This book is interesting to me because it seems to simultaneously espouse and decry the philosophy presented in it, which is why I think it’s a critique. “Let’s let this philosophy play a bit, and see what it does.” What if someone really did live the kind of life that Wilde himself was accused of living? When is hedonism healthy, and when is it not? Where are the limits?

Henry is Wilde’s caricature of himself. A lot of readers hate him for just how infuriating he is. All Lord Henry really does is spout controversial and kind of offensive statements. I’m sure we all know at least one person like that on the internet. Henry’s like the super intellectual version of a troll; he just says stuff to make people deeply uncomfortable and see how they’ll react. But he’s also persuasive — he’s a Mephistophelian character with a “low, musical” voice. He views Dorian almost like a science experiment. He admits that influence is evil, but then actively goes after an impressionable and naive boy to turn him into… well, whatever that portrait looked like in the last chapter. In chapter 2, he makes a long speech about how a man should “live out his life fully and completely […] give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream.” In short, screw Victorian morality. Life is to be experienced, so drink deeply of all it has to offer instead of wasting it constraining yourself. His best line, in my opinion, is:

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.

—Chapter 2

I kind of agree with this. Kind of. I do think that temptation is impossible to resist. The more you attempt to repress your desires, the more intensely you feel those desires. The best thing to do to avoid being tempted by genuinely dangerous things is to either satisfy the temptation using some safer outlet (or otherwise redirect it), or to avoid potential temptations altogether. The second line of this quote makes it clear that what Henry is really saying here is, “don’t let society’s stupid restrictions keep you from living your best life.”

And… yeah. If society shames you for being gay, whip out the rainbow colors! A lot of things (especially “sexual deviancy”) are only “temptations” because society and culture says that they’re wrong, not because they’re actually morally wrong. That’s an important distinction. We’ll get back to that. I believe that the difference between a temptation and a desire is that you can only be tempted by something dangerous and forbidden. If feeling lust as a young woman or man is considered morally wrong, then sex is a “temptation” — as soon as it’s considered a normal part of existing as a human, then it’s suddenly not a “temptation,” it’s just desire, and is a lot easier to deal with. You can find a safe outlet for it without feeling any shame, and without making any dumb mistakes out of sheer desperation.

Another thing Harry says is,

The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly — that is what each of us is here for.

—Chapter 2

Yes! I have no argument here. None at all. However, reading between the lines, it seems as though Harry’s definition of “realizing one’s nature perfectly” is just experiencing everything in life and living it to its fullest, literally without distinguishing between good and bad experiences, or good and evil deeds. “Every experience is of value,” he says at one point. I don’t define self-development this way. My definition is complete self-awareness. If you’re self-aware, then you can be as self-indulgent as you want because you know where your limits are. Drinking at a party is fine, but you have to know your alcohol tolerance.

Dorian buys into this philosophy pretty hard. By chapter 11, his whole life has become one of pleasure, and… I’m still not disagreeing with a lot of the philosophy put forth by this novel:

The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stranger than themselves […] But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic.

—Chapter 11

This is why I love this novel. I agree with this too. I have a fine instinct for beauty myself. Here, Dorian considers that maybe people in his society consider sensuality to be animalistic and savage only because they haven’t engaged with it at all, so it appears strange and dangerous. I also think that sensuality has been unfairly demonized for far too long, sometimes to the point where enjoying anything is sinful. I think it’s important to confront one’s passions (i.e. desires and emotions) and find a way to deal with them that’s both safe and satisfying. Like Dorian, I don’t have much patience for asceticism, or at least for the notion that it’s the most moral and spiritual way to live one’s life. Dorian attends church sometimes just out of curiosity, just becuase he finds it enjoyable or interesting, and he jumps around between different spiritualities the same way he collects jewels, textiles, and perfume:

But he [Dorian] never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system […] no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. […] He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal.

—Chapter 11

I feel called out by this. This concept of jumping around between different belief systems, using belief as a tool… that’s basically Chaos Magic in a nutshell. “Nothing is true, everything is permitted” definitely sounds like something Lord Henry would say. And I certainly don’t think that sensuality and spirituality are mutually exclusive, in fact, I think that the former can be a means of experiencing the latter. I worship Dionysus, for crying out loud. Often, the answer I give when someone on the internet asks me why I believe in magic or gods or anything else without evidence is “it’s fun,” i.e. pleasure.

And yet… my life could not be more different from Dorian’s. Perhaps the darkest part of my mind is something like Dorian, but in real life, I look like a stereotypical Victorian ingenue who’s always the first to die in a gothic novel like this one, and I’m quite pure and unsullied. I don’t do anything but sit in my dorm room and write on the internet all day. At parties, I freeze up and don’t speak to anyone. I’m still not much of a drinker, despite having been legally allowed to drink for several years now. My only real vice is sugar. I have no love life or sex life. I value pleasure becuase I can’t enjoy myself for the life of me, because I worry about everything all the time and waste energy on it. I’m not Dorian, and that’s probably why I can get away with hedonism.

Here’s the thing about our protagonist: he takes Harry much more seriously than he should. Harry doesn’t actually believe what he’s saying. He just says stuff, to be controversial and shocking. That’s what he does. But Dorian buys it, hard. Harry’s waxing lyrical about how there’s nothing in the world but youth and Dorian has the whole world at his fingertips because he’s pretty, makes Dorian obsessively concerned with his appearance. He barters his soul on a whim. And, then he proceeds to live the kind of lifestyle that Harry advocates for but doesn’t have the balls to actually commit to. Dorian is beautiful, rich, and able to do whatever he likes, which he often does. He has it all, but the truth is, he’s not really getting anything out of any experience. He goes through life like a passive spectator. This is probably because of the hedonism paradox, but it could also be because Dorian uses hedonism and collecting beautiful things as a means of escapism:

For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him a means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to bear.

— Chapter 11

Congratulations, Dorian, you ruined it for yourself.

I like beautiful things. I have more resin statues than I have space for. I have more perfumes than I actually wear. I spend a lot of my free time scrolling through artwork on Pinterest. I genuinely like museums and ballets and operas. I like dressing up in fancy Goth outfits even without an occasion. I like soft blankets. I like neoclassical music. I like decorating for holidays and making elaborate table displays and giving everything a distinctive theme. I deeply appreciate beauty. I don’t think it poisons me. I collect all these things because they make me happy, and that’s all. I think that happiness or pleasure is a worthy goal for its own sake.

But it has to be for its own sake, not for the sake of avoiding your problems, or to ignore the feeling of your sins crawling on your back. It’s like the difference between having a few drinks at a party for the fun of it, and becoming an alcoholic because you can’t come to terms with your psychological issues. Collect beautiful things because they make you happy, not because you hope they might fill the gaping void in your soul left behind by a portrait. Dorian definitely isn’t happy:

I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure.

—Chapter 18

Dorian’s whole life has been what I call “empty pleasure,” pleasure that is ultimately unfulfilling because it’s covering up a problem instead of being enjoyed for its own sake. If you indulge for the sake of avoiding something, you’re not enjoying the thing for what it is, you’re just desperately trying to take your mind off the thing you want to avoid nagging at the back of your brain, and the result is that you can’t really enjoy anything. Another example is gorging yourself on a delicious feast because it’s delicious, as opposed to binge eating. Or having sex with several people that you feel genuine affection for, as opposed to people you can’t even remember the names of. “Empty pleasure” is bad for the soul, but pleasure itself is not. The threat of “empty pleasure” is what has caused pleasure itself to be demonized for so long. It’s not the pleasure that’s bad, it’s the avoidance. Pleasure can’t be spiritual at all if its so superficial. Dorian’s hedonism is hollow and meaningless, so it corrupts his soul.

Confront your damn problems, don’t lock them in your attic! Once you’ve done that, you can really get the most out of life.

Thank you for allowing me all of that gratuitous philosophizing. Where was I? Oh, right — this book is a warning about art. Right.

Lord Henry’s last real contribution to Dorian’s corruption is giving him the mysterious “yellow book.” The “yellow book” is often speculated to be À rebours by Joris-Karl Huysmans. The book itself doesn’t really matter; what matters is the effect that it has on Dorian in-universe. It cements his hedonistic philosophy that had already been implanted by Lord Henry, and it seems to really drive him over the edge.

Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of beauty.

— Chapter 11

So, there is no good and evil, only beauty. Dorian doesn’t really have a concept of good and evil anymore, just experiences in life, just whether things are beautiful or not. This is another pretty big problem with Dorian’s approach towards hedonism — he has no moral compass.

This idea that the book is “poisonous” seems to directly contradict the point that Wilde makes in the preface. “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Why the contradiction? Dorian has made the mistake of taking art too seriously. The yellow book is “poisonous” not because of anything about the book itself, but because of how Dorian responds to it — because he takes it too seriously. The book wouldn’t be immoral if he just enjoyed it at face-value and didn’t take it to heart, would it? The fact that he becomes so obsessed with it is another nail in his coffin.

The first nail in the coffin comes much earlier. The scene where Dorian dumps Sibyl is critical. First, there’s Sibyl’s explanation of her perspective on her art:

The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came — oh, by beautiful love! — and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. The stillness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. […] You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be.

— Chapter 7

Until she met Dorian, Sibyl had been living through her plays. She quite literally “became” Juliet or Ophelia or whoever she was playing inside her mind, completely suspending her disbelief, because she just didn’t have much of a life outside of her acting. This made her a phenomenal actress, because watching an actor who’s that immersed in their role is also immersive for the audience. But when she met Dorian, life suddenly became more real to her and more meaningful to her than art. Sibyl completely lost that suspension of disbelief, and her acting skills along with it.

Dorian dumps her for saying so, in the most brutal way possible:

…you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination, Now you don’t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You mean nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. […] Without your art, you are nothing. […] A third-rate actress with a pretty face.

Okay, there’s a lot to unpack here. Both Sibyl and Dorian have made the fatal mistake of taking art too seriously. On Sybil’s end, she’s been living through her art in a way that’s unhealthy. She doesn’t have a life or an identity beyond the persona that she adopts on stage. It’s like if your entire life was online, and the only people you’ve ever been in love with are fictional characters, and you didn’t have any life to speak of beyond that — oh. Okay, well, at least I have a sense of myself. Sibyl doesn’t have an identity of her own, so she borrows her identity from Shakespeare characters. Dorian, meanwhile, has fallen in love with this false identity. He doesn’t actually care about the person Sibyl actually is, because there’s nothing really there. When Sibyl feels like she’s finally found herself and become a person, Dorian is disgusted with her because she can no longer act, and she’s no longer interesting to him. Sibyl became an art piece and Dorian loved that art piece, not the person beneath.

This scene is so often misrepresented in adaptations. In most adaptations, the breakup is Harry’s fault, usually through giving him bad romance advice and teaching him to devalue women. For example, in the 2009 adaptation, Harry tempts Dorian to go to a brothel instead of seeing Sibyl perform, and Sibyl is concerned that she’s just another whore to Dorian. That becomes the focus of their breakup. Blaming the breakup on Harry makes it about hedonism; Sibyl feeling like Dorian is exploiting her for sex makes it about hedonism. It’s not about hedonism, it’s about art, which relates back to the preface. In the book, the breakup is entirely Dorian’s fault. It’s also the first time we see any real cruelty out of Dorian, which is then reflected by the portrait. Because this has nothing to do with Harry’s influence, I consider it proof that Dorian was never really that good of a person to begin with. He completely lacks empathy for Sibyl.

This is what results in tragedy. Sibyl commits suicide because she’s the pretty and innocent blond ingenue who’s always the first to die in a gothic novel, and Dorian officially begins his downward slide. Sibyl’s death is absolutely Dorian’s fault in every way. He doesn’t dive headfirst into hedonism until after that happens, and his hedonism is “empty” because he’s trying to numb the pain of Sibyl’s death. And it’s all downhill from there. 

When Basil finally comes to see Dorian again, he’s appalled by Dorian’s reputation. Apparently, everything Dorian touches rots from the inside, so to speak. Sibyl becomes the first of many. Every person he’s involved with ends up too ashamed to show themselves in public, if they don’t commit suicide.

“…you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. […] Why is your friendship so fatal to young men?” [Basil proceeds to describe several men whom Dorian was “inseparable” with who then ended up with disgraced reputations.] They say that you corrupt everyone with whom you become intimate.”

— Chapter 12

Dorian’s reputation is so sordid that all of the young women and men who become intimate with Dorian (interesting word choice) all end up ruined in some way or another. The same is said of Alan Campbell, the young chemist Dorian blackmails into deposing of Basil’s body. Apparently, they were “almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end.” Do I really need to spell this out? What does Dorian blackmail Allan with? We don’t know. It’s never said. But it’s heavily implied to be something about the very gay stuff that they almost definitely did together.

But — and this is one of the things that made the book so scandalous for its time — Dorian isn’t depraved because he’s bi. He’s just a bad person, and all of the poor young people who become involved with him suffer for it. Other characters in the story who are implied to be queer are not depicted as being evil. Basil, the most unambiguously gay character in the novel, is also one of the most innocent and the most undeserving of Dorian’s cruelty. Alan, too, is an innocent victim of Dorian, whatever he and Dorian might have done together in the past. During the scene in which Dorian blackmails Alan, his behavior implies that he is abusive as a partner, even outside the extraordinary circumstance of covering up a murder. Specifically, the “you made me do this” lines that he keeps throwing at Alan:

I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me—no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate terms.

— Chapter 14

How many other people has Dorian treated like this? How many of his lovers has he gaslit into believing that his abuse is their fault? How many people has he threatened with social ruin if they don’t do what he wants? (His own reputation can’t get any worse, after all.) He gives Alan a “look of pity,” as if to say, “this will hurt you way more than it hurts me.” Until the very end, Dorian seems completely oblivious (perhaps willingly so) to the effect that his actions have on other people, or worse, he actively enjoys it. 

So, that brings me to Basil Hallward. Poor, poor Basil.

Basil knows his fatal flaw, and here we come back to taking art too seriously:

Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. […] I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art…. […] One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and your own time. […] …I know that as I worked on it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. […] Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had gotten rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work that one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour — that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more than it reveals him.

— Chapter 9

This is all one paragraph, by the way, and the whole thing spans an entire page. It is probably the gayest paragraph of the entire body of Victorian literature. Basil is clearly infatuated. He becomes so obsessed with Dorian that it’s almost unhealthy. This anguished declaration of love obviously echoes the preface, which is to be expected if Wilde sees Basil as a representation of himself. “To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.” Basil is afraid that the portrait doesn’t reveal Dorian as he is, instead revealing Basil’s salacious crush on Dorian. But he ultimately comes to the same conclusion as the preface — that art conceals the artist and simply exists for its own sake. Anyone is able to project onto art and see anything they want in it, but art simply is what it is, and taking it too seriously results in peril. Perhaps the true tragic figure of this book isn’t Dorian, it’s Basil, for having invested so much in this portrait. He doesn’t paint it for the sake of creating a beautiful thing, but for the sake of glorifying his crush. He treated Dorian like a god, and could not see past his projection of perfection to see that Dorian was becoming a monster until it was much too late. When Basil sees what has become of the portrait, he acknowledges that this is the only thing anyone is punished for in this novel: “I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.”

Dorian himself kind of becomes an art piece. He literally switches places with the portrait. The portrait shows the corruption of Dorian’s soul, and Dorian himself becomes a projection of both Harry “poisonous” philosophy and Basil’s unhealthy projection. He is admired intensely. He exists just to be beautiful, like an art piece, and no one can really see past his beauty. The novel’s premise is based around the idea that people’s sins are written across their face, and that beauty equals goodness. No one can believe anything bad about Dorian when they see him because he just looks so innocent and angelic. Before he learns the truth, Basil is disturbed by Dorian’s reputation but just can’t believe it: “But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth—I can’t believe anything against you.” Similar comments are made by other characters. Dorian is just too pretty to be as evil as he is. The subversiveness of the book comes from that premise. How often are beautiful people able to get away with anything in society, just because people tend to assume they’re innocent? It’s no wonder that Dorian is completely narcissistic.

Even Harry is incredulous when Dorian all but admits to having murdered Basil, thinking that he’s not capable of murder: “Crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders […] I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations.” Comparing crime to art is really interesting, to say the least. Most people would say that there’s nothing artistic about crime, but Harry isn’t most people, he’s a troll. And the only reason he gets off scot-free in this book is because he never commits the sin of taking art too seriously! Apparently, according to him, Dorian cannot commit a crime because he’s basically an art piece, and he just doesn’t have any need to kill someone. There’s another comment that Harry makes towards the end that suggests that he views Dorian as an art piece:

I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.

—Chapter 19

This echoes an earlier comment that he made about Basil being boring because everything that’s interesting about him, he puts into his art. Dorian’s life is vibrant because he directs all that same creative energy into living instead of into an art piece. Dorian himself is an art piece. And yet, while Harry is saying this, Dorian is feeling Basil’s murder weighing upon him.

The title refers not to Dorian himself, but to the portrait — a piece of art. The portrait drives the story, and even Dorian himself realizes this. Dorian’s undoing is that he can’t live with the guilt of his reckless murder and probably all his other sins, especially when he has a literal conscience staring back at him. He would have gotten away with murder just for being pretty, if he didn’t have a conscience. It’s far too late for him to redeem himself, so he decides to destroy the conscience. And… we know how that turns out.

The true “moral” of this book is really hard to parse out, which is maybe why we shouldn’t attempt to read the symbol and just take the whole book at face-value, right? There’s a lot going on here. There’s the inability to face up to one’s problems and deal with them in a way that’s healthy, resulting in any form of enjoyment being “empty.” There’s the idolization of beauty, always assuming the best of beautiful people even when they’re really quite awful. And there’s art — treating art like life or life like art is always going to come back to bite you in the end. That would make this a cautionary tale about what happens when art isn’t appreciated for its own sake, and is projected on so much that one confuses it with life, or sought as a source of morality. Art is not moral, it just is — reading (or writing!) a book from the perspective of a serial killer will not make you a bad person. This book is not a bad influence, it just is.

Even after having written all of that, I’m still not really sure what Wilde was trying to say about hedonism, so let’s ask him. According to Wilde himself, the moral of The Picture of Dorian Gray is, “All excess, as well as all renunciation, brings its own punishment.”

Both extremes are bad. Indulge in life, but make sure you do so with empathy, and for the right reasons! Find some middle ground. And most of all, don’t be afraid of your own portrait.

[lee-hakhyun]

kim dokja answers lee hakhyun's question.

can anyone dream when they want to?

he's the oldest dream, the world's most omniscient yet powerless god.

...how many years has kim dokja been here, dreaming? is this still the kim dokja we know?

lhh tells kdj that he doesn't have to handle this. that was why hsy wrote this novel, to have everyone dream, to free him from this eternity. so why..?

「But I'm the only one watching this 'world' right now.」 「Do you think it's better for this world to disappear?」

in the star stream, stories that no one read disappear. if kim dokja wasn't watching this 41st regression, it would disappear. is it right for a world where the tragedy was predetermined to never begin in the first place?

lee hakhyun starts to say that this is still a real world, and if the world is about to end, with more saddess than joy- kim dokja cuts him off, asking if it's better without it.

lee hakhyun can't answer. even if the end is a tragedy, the sadness and joy will still exist. someone would find their own happiness in the destruction.

but someone has died because of this story. jung jaewoo, jung moonho, lee hakhyun can't forget their faces.

「But someone might have lived because of this story.」

people have died due to this story, but others have survived.

like kim dokja. if this story was not created, he wouldn't have survived. there are many kinds of stories. is a sad story bad, and a happy story good? is a story of destruction meaningless? is this world, a tragedy from the start, better off not existing?

tragedy isn't just the star stream's story. even in a world without scenarios, people suffered, starved, killed each other. people still died. is this universe really different from the star stream?

we're all in ruin. life and death are just stories in between. lee hakhyun understands that, but he can't accept it. he's afraid of death, he doesn't like being sad, he's afraid of people disappearing, so he wants to run away. all stories end. unlike him, kim dokja has accepted this. happy or sad, this world was just a story. he read, and he's reading. for an unimaginable amount of years. is this still the kim dokja we know?

he asks. are you still the reader he knows. he doesn't know if he wants kim dokja to lie. to say he's still the protagonist of this story, that he'll solve this somehow. that they'll see the end of the scenarios together.

he responds, "if that's what you think."

he doesn't take that well :(. lhh is nauseous. kim dokja, clearly standing in the snowfield, looked blurry to him. he asks why he's here. why the readers came here.

kim dokja doesn't answer. for some reason or another, he can't answer. there's something wrong with this snowfield. here, it feels like a fairy tale. they conversed like it was a fairy tale. in metaphors, and symbols. this snow garden was a metaphor for 'between the lines'. nothing is written down, but everything is in between. this kim dokja isn't really him. he's the 'oldest dream', scattered throughout the universe. so he must be meeting lhh through expedient. and then he says the most cryptic bs god DAMN it kdj you're making this really hard for me

「We are the ones that make the story, but at the same time, the story writes us. The answer you want, you'll know when you complete your story.」 「What was the asnwer you found? You already read 'WOS'.」 「I read it, and I never finished it.」

all stories are already written and being written at the same time. lee hakhyun has his reponse, now.

kim dokja's question. if stories of destruction are meaningless. he doesn't know the answer yet. but he knows one thing. at least for this world, he'll prevent the destruction. he remembers the readers. dansu ahjussi, kyung sein, killer king and literaturegirl, ye hyunwoo, koo sunah, kim kyungsik.

he will see the end of this world. he remembers jung heewon, who lost her father, and yoo joonghyuk, who suffered a terrible regression.

even if this results in even more changes to this worldline, he will struggle to the end, somehow. maybe his choice will lead to a bigger tragedy for the universe. maybe people will blame him for this. and maybe they're right.

but he's not the 'oldest dream'. he can't dream about such a wide universe.

all lee hakhyun sees is the world in front of him. people who read his story, and are living his story. a little happiness before the ruin.

「Cheon Inho.」 Kim Dokja said. 「No, Hakhyun-ah.」 In spite of myself, I looked up. There was Kim Dokja. The Kim Dokja I knew. Someone who loves stories more than anyone else was talking to me. 「Whatever it may be, tell me a happy story this time.」

he leaves the snow garden. waking up, he notices some changes. the star stream has noticed his existence. ☐☐ is subject to probability restrictions now. some features have been locked until he's qualified.

his 'loss' has been recorded on the 'final wall'.

two so far.

the final wall acknowledges his contribution, and his exclusive skill evolves.

...he will get additional benefits the more 'loss' he collects.

and, his new story has been created.

[The story 'Recorder of Things That Will Disappear' has been born.]

the end of this universe has already been determined. nevertheless, this story has just begun, and lee hakhyun has sentences to write. so he will write.

after all, he still loves this story.

[heartbeatbookclub]

Nonsense question: Which Doki would be the most successful vampire?

Nonsense answer: I guess that depends on your definition of success. I also feel like that depends on the kind of vampire, and the circumstances we're in. I'm no expert on vampires so maybe I'm not the best person to ask, haha.

Monika would probably do the best under traditional vampiric circumstances, probably? She's got the most readily demonstrated and successful capacity for cunning and conniving. Sayori would probably feel the worst about it, trying her hardest to avoid her urge to feed and actively trying to find alternatives, only to give in to her desires and feel even worse about it. Yuri would probably get quite romantic with it--I think given enough time in her eternal life, it's quite likely she'd find the grace and confidence to become a reeeal seductress, weaving verse about the intimacy of sucking virile blood from your innocent, unmarred flesh, tainting your beautiful skin with the teeth of a beast, meanwhile Natsuki is screaming and waving a crucifix as Yuri approaches. I think Natsuki would probably feel the worst of the rejection from others for being a vampire, and therefore would probably be a lot more successful than Sayori or Yuri in the sense of remaining hidden. I think she'd be the most likely to fall in deep, true love with one of her victims, only to fall victim to some form of tragedy.

Or maybe they all just form some sort of coven of lesbian vampires together and live happily ever after. Idk, I'd read at least 5 chapters to that potential fanfiction.

Oh & if MC was a vampire they'd call him a cringe ass loser monster & they'd probably take turns giving him some blood so he doesn't die lmao

[sugar-grigri]

I love you but if denji sacrifices himself for asa I will throw up and sob. I pray that you're wrong

I really think the fact that Denji dies is key to his development.

We can see that he reaches his conclusions when he's in the middle of building Asa, Denji has more of a narrative role now to influence the other characters than to be disturbed by them.

I'm not saying this because tragedy is something Fujimoto knows how to write very well, but not only does death have an important place in his works, but Chainsaw Man is about the birth of a hero, especially in part 1, which is concluded in part 2.

We see that becoming a hero brings Denji artificial personal advantages, that he remains locked in a sad solitude

It has never had any other aim than to be integrated, and it still isn't.

Part 2 takes up Shakespearean codes (double identity, intertwined love, two opposing camps, relationship with the family), death has always had an emancipating function in tragedy.

Death is not an end but a conclusion; dying for the other is Denji's best way of paradoxically finding meaning in his existence.

For a boy who would constantly be judged as perverse but also as having low vices, sacrificing himself for others would finally serve to make him a hero in the ancient sense of the word, whose power derives not from his popularity but from his moral strength.

Sacrifice through the figure of the cat, the social integration initiated by Bucky and then taken up by the birds, the question of finding oneself, all need to be answered by a strong act, and only a powerful narrative act can resolve all these questions at once.

Fujimoto has just highlighted the concept of weapons, talking about their relationship with the fact of having no will of their own, their eternal youth and immortality.

The weapons are all polarized on this subject, while the whip and spear weapons see it as superiority, Miri, who also seems to want to act for his own freedom, is more dubious.

Barem is in a special position, having internalized the fact that sowing death is a divine mission, a trait common to all beings.

Quanxi and Denji are opposite examples: Quanxi has survived at the expense of his girlfriends, just as Denji has begun to see his own immortality as a burden.

Several times, Denji emanates the idea that he's a machine to be rebooted, that the people have projected him to become Chainsaw Man.

To have won against Aki, to have survived at the expense of his older brother, a victory that marries a loss is not really what you'd call "winning".

Fate is also a central theme in CSM, and Aki couldn't escape his contract with the demon from the future, just as he couldn't escape Makima's meticulous plan to bring about the end of the siblings before they were even formed.

Denji's mother and father died young, so it wouldn't surprise me if he, too, was trapped in a kind of fatality.

What's more, Denji's eternal youth is also what's going to give him trouble.

He hasn't matured physically compared to part 1; it's simply Fujimoto's style that has taken shape.

He won't grow up, this boy who'd like to go to school, plan to find a job and have a normal life.

Denji is condemned to seeing his loved ones die or to staying just the two of them with Nayuta.

We shouldn't idealize or demonize the relationship he has with his little sister, but the fact remains that Nayuta is a demon with different values than a boy who was human before becoming a demon.

The control demon simply wants an entourage, even if it's limited to one person.

As for Denji, he only finds meaning in his relationship with the majority, with people his own age.

Denji loves Nayuta, but they don't both have the same conception of happiness, as Fujimoto develops in the final chapters.

In short, the best way to make Denji happy is to let him die for someone else.

And again from a symbolic and narrative point of view, whether it's in relation to the general scenario or Denji's arc, of course I'd cry like everyone else and you Anon

But I want and hope for the best ending for CSM

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hi, follower and fan of your work here (particularly all the touch starved stuff)! Send me to jail if necessary, but for ages I've been wanting to see someone write this premise and I'd be delighted to see a snippet of your take on it: demon villain and angel hero at odds. Demon villain is ordered to seduce their angel hero, angel hero is ordered to make demon villain fall in love with them. They both succeed. Only if you think that'd be fun to write? Please and thank you!

There were bruises on the angel’s neck. The demon didn’t want to believe that it was possible in the first place. Two very terrible causes ran through their mind. Either, the angel had had a great time with someone else or someone or something had hurt them.

“You’re not in the mood for games, are you?”

“I…” The demon stared at the blue and purple shapes. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

“We could make out, if you want to,” the angel said. They were so lovely. So divine and beautiful, it touched the demon in all the right places. And seeing the bruises…

They’d lived for centuries, known creatures far beyond counting. And yet, and yet—

“No,” the demon breathed. “I don’t want that right now.”

They couldn’t stop staring. Either the angel didn’t notice or they didn’t care. Whatever it was, they continued to read in their book. Sometimes, the demon imagined a mortal life, dying when they were old and grey. And sometimes they imagined the angel would be there with them.

“Is something wrong, love?” the angel asked. They’d been spending time for half a year now. And the demon knew their plan had succeeded. The angel was theirs. Not really, but it was so close. Maybe it was just desire or the thrill of acting against the rules. Maybe all of that was why they’d felt happy for once. Unbound by any services. Living for their own desires.

“Did someone hurt you?” they asked quietly. The angel finally looked up from the heavy book.

“Why do you ask?”

“I didn’t know angels could get hurt like this,” the demon admitted. “I’ve only seen angels with swords through their chests and even then…some of them were still alive.”

“Violence isn’t the only thing that can hurt you,” the angel said. The book had their interest once again. It was a book about spells. About rituals.

The demon swallowed.

“What do you mean by that?” they asked. Their hands were shaking and they felt something they hadn’t felt before in their eternal life. It stung.

“Angels are closer to humans than to god. Maybe there is a reason for that. Maybe that’s our torment.” They closed the book gently and looked at their lover. As they tilted their head, the demon got a closer look at the abundance of marks. “Maybe we’re humans that are condemned to be immortal.”

“That’s not answering my question,” the demon remarked. They looked at their marvellous face. It was perfect through and through. They were beautiful.

“Other things than violence can hurt. Love can hurt.”

“What do you mean?” the demon insisted. Now, the demon was alarmed. Love can hurt you. What did that mean? “Who hurt you?”

“You did.” And that made them hold their breath. The demon stared at them. It was easy to imagine a perfect life without all of the suffering. Living in this modern world peacefully was a fantasy they allowed themselves often. But actually living like a human sounded horrible. All the tragedies, the loss…

“I don’t understand.”

“When I’m in great distress or feeling other very big feelings, my body starts to hurt itself. I guess that prevents me from being human. It could be part of god’s creation. I have to admit, I envy them.”

“And what are you feeling right now? Why is it my fault?” The demon knew they had to keep their voice down. Humans wanted their libraries to be quiet. The angel breathed in audibly.

“I am grieving right now,” they said, chewing on their bottom lip.

“Why are you—”

“Why do you care, really?” they asked suddenly, as if they were annoyed. “We’re just pretending after all, aren’t we?”

They were not.

[shisui-uchiha-anon]

a rp starter for @kiigan

Amaterasu stands in a beaming pool of light at the cliff near the edge of her kingdom. Watching the endless meadows of heaven, seas of time. She closed her eyes, and all light died--her eyes reopened with the Sharingan glow. A fire, blood, and the burning flesh--those are the first things she sees through her son's eyes. Her beloved child, his hands are bloody red as he clutches at his chest, his vision is blurry, and he is stumbling. Amaterasu stumbles too as her child. She screams as the thunder strikes in the distance, and only the strong arms of her consort keep her from falling.

She felt him fall, she felt the pain , she struggled till she came back to her senses. Till she realized who is holding her. Each clan believe in certain God. But not each clan have the Chosen one. His eternal fire is extinguished. Amateraus could feel it. All that she gave to him was back in her veins. Well almost all.

The Uchiha clan prays to the Goddess Amaterasu. She is the daughter of creator deities Izanagi and Izanami. Amaterasu when translated, her name, it means Shines from Heaven. She holds answers--but who will give her the answers? Who will tell her how is this fair? Is her son's life just one gasp for the air? Is his life just one blink of the stars, before he sinks into the ground?

Why must that man who screamed her son's name, suffer and fall apart? A tragedy .....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was not like him, not at all to question himself this much. Usually, his impulsive nature would determine the outcome. But the last outcome was decided by the others. The last thing Shisui remembers is the cold embrace of the river and the endless dark. After that, it was just nothing, a void. No pain no regret - not even selfishness for leaving the way he did. That lasted for five minutes, or at least that is how it looked to Shisui.

He gasped for air, his lungs struggling to breathe. The breath of life returned to him. What looked like five minutes is actually years. Soon Shisui found out the painful truth, or at least he thought he knew. One thing was certain ….

A loud crack of fire brought Shisui back from his own mind. He was no longer a child, he postponed this meeting for too long. He hides the signal of his own chakra so that Itachi cannot find it. That has to stop. Last time it was a tight getaway. But this time Shisui will allow himself to be found.

There, approaching so fast, like lightning, the familiar chakra signal, so familiar to Shisui's own. It trembles like the pulse of a bowstring - just a second before it crashes on Shisui like an arrow hitting a target.

Itachi....

How am I alive? Resurection? Or something else. Some people did believed in resurection. For those people death is inconsequential. It's not an ending, but a new beggining. Is this then a second chance? An reunion? The very idea of recurection was so seductive to Shisui. Before he rose from the dead did he spent a few years in hell? Is it that simple? Those who were dead live --and those who live believe, they shall never die?

[mad4turtles]

Do you happen to have any thoughts, shenanigans, or ideas about Usagi and Leo from the apocalypse timeline? 👀

Any… hare-y conflicts hAHA… I’ll see myself out. /lh

Oh, anon. This. This is lovely!

(And it was supposed to be a one-shot but I'm splitting it into two, why do I keep doing this?!)

---

In another time, Miyamoto Usagi isn't attacked by a band of hired muscle sent from Japan by Lord Hijiki. No blue-masked turtle with a daring grin and flashing blades comes flipping into the vacant alley of the Hidden City bazaar to change Usagi's life forever with a quip on his silver tongue and wink to the baffled samurai he'd come to rescue like a damsel.

In another time, the Krang rip open the sky and run the humans underground, mixing with mutant and yokai kind for the first time in centuries for safety and security.

In another time, Usagi's sensei, Katsuichi—his father—is torn to pieces by a horde of infected Yokai before him and his little sister, Hana, roaring at them to run and leave him behind.

“Protect your sister! Live, Miyamoto Usagi!”

In another time, The United Council are formed--a (very) tentative alliance between the Council of Heads and the remaining human leaders of the United States to establish order and a semblance of peace as the world caves in, forcing everyone further underground.

It doesn't last longer than a year. Society finally crumbles, splitting into colonies across the country.

In another time, the survivors of the fabled Hamato Clan rise from the ashes of their own tragedy to take the lead of the Liberty Colony. Not all are on board with this, least of all the remnants of the crumbling Earth Protection Force, most notably their leader, Bishop.

In another time, Usagi joins the ranks to fight alongside the honourable (if unconventional) ninja clan, fulfilling his master's final order and honouring his own late ancestors to fight for those who cannot.

(The blue-masked turtle jokingly calls him “carrot cake” once, and Usagi decides he hates him.

It spurs a rivalry between them, which has half the base rolling their eyes, caught between exhaustion and fondness as they bicker like children every chance they get.

The other half starts a betting poll on how long it'll be before they finally kiss, for god's sake.)

In another time, the Krang break through their first base, and Usagi falls, injured. The blue-masked turtle—Leonardo—saves him from the jaws of a Krang hound, all grace, muscle and deadly steel dipped in searing rage. Usagi, speechless for once, lets Leonardo carry him to safety and passes out in his arms.

(Later, waking up in the makeshift infirmary, his sister cuddled under his left arm, Leonardo dozing fitfully on his right, Usagi stares at the turtle's pinched, restless face and decides he owes him his life.

A friendship blooms like a tentative rose among the thorns of a crumbling world, scathing jeers morphing into teasing jabs and scrappy spars in the vacant training hall. Their friends and family watch on with tolerant grins and, in the case of Donatello, mild jealousy but begrudging acceptance.

Soon, the jabs turn into hip bumps in the hallways, mirroring grins during training, brushing shoulders during war meetings, twinging hands during blackouts and lockdowns, sharing beds on colder nights and whispering secrets after screaming nightmares.

The rosebud blooms full and bright weeks later with Leonardo's awkward smile, sweaty palms and a stammered question that Usagi, hopelessly fond, answers with a kiss.

Donatello wins everyone's money.)

In another time, Usagi fails. A recon mission goes awry, and in her second-ever mission, Hana gets infected.

On his knees, he watches in frozen horror as his little sister, barely ten years old, writhes and screams in terror and agony as the Krang infection takes over. She begs her big brother through tears to kill her, spare her from turning, from hurting him.

It feels like hours, years, an eternity, infinity. In reality, it's only seconds as he slices Willow Branch through her chest.

Leonardo is there in the aftermath, stopping Usagi from taking his blind grief and rage out on the corpse of the Krang that killed his sister, yanking him away and holding him until his roars and struggles ebb, until they're on their knees in the abandoned office complex, Usagi sobbing his heart out in Leonardo's chest.

The days pass in a blur, but Leonardo is there, unfailing, patient, kind, loyal and true, and Usagi decides he loves him.

(A year later, standing among the gore and gravel of a rare but hard-earned victory against a legion of Krang, Usagi seeks Leonardo out. A fair distance away atop a fallen Mech suit, he stands tall and strong despite his exhaustion, covered in blood that's not his own, glowing in the spotlights of Donatello's searching drones. In that moment, he is beautiful, and Usagi doesn't—can't, won't—wait a second longer.

“Leonardo!” he calls.

Immediately, his boyfriend turns to find him, meeting his eyes across the way. “Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?!”

“WHA—?!” he hears Donatello squawk through the comms. Around him, their squad starts laughing and whooping and swearing in shock. April is screaming, shaking or slapping the nearest person—judging by the cries of pain, it's probably Donnie.

Leonardo's eyes are comically huge, his jaw gaping. Heart hammering, Usagi doesn't take his eyes off him, and he's glad for it when the slider's shock turns into a gleaming, helplessly delighted grin.

“You asshole!” he cries through gasping laughter, tears leaving scars down his bloodied face. “You couldn't—are you for real right now?!”

“Is that a yes?!” Usagi asks.

“IT BETTER F%&CKING BE!” Michelangelo hollers from—somewhere on the battlefield; honestly, Usagi had lost track of him in the chaos. “I AIN'T LOSING NO MORE BETS!”

“Language!” Raph barks on comms.

“I'M TWENTY-ON YEARS OLD, YOU BITCHASS SNAPPER! I CAN SWEAR IF I WANT TO!”

Leonardo throws his head back with a cackle, a trembling hand over his streaming eyes as his family devolves into an argument. Usagi climbs and leaps the distance between them just as the turtle drops his hand and faces him, golden eyes brighter than they've been in years.

“You idiot,” he chokes, reaching for Usagi's hand and holding it tight enough to hurt. “Yes.”

April screams in delight with the rest of their squad. Donatello hollers as his sister shakes him senseless, Raphael sobs, and Michelangelo lets loose a stream of mystic fireworks right as Leonardo sweeps Usagi into a spinning hug. Breathless and giddy, Usagi wraps his arms around his boyfriend's—fiance, husband—broad shoulders and kisses him. Leonardo holds him closer and kisses him back.

I won't waste this life. I won't waste our time together, however long that may be. I won't let you go, Hamato Leonardo.

When they part, Leonardo makes a face even as he presses their foreheads together. “Couldn't wait 'till I had a shower?” he chuckles. “I'm literally covered in Krang blood.”

Usagi nuzzles his nose against his own. “Apologies. I couldn't help myself,” he says, running a hand down Leonardo's plastron with a grin. “You looked very sexy just now. In a ravaged, war-torn hero kind of way.”

“Oho,” Leonardo raises a brow, his new grin downright devilish in a way that sends a shiver down Usagi's spine. “Ravaged, eh? That's a funny word to use outside the—”

“I swear to god, Nardo, if the next word out of your mouth is 'bedroom', I am going to be physically ill ALL OVER YOUR FACE!” Donatello shouts through comms. 

That does it as Usagi collapses to his knees in laughter. He doesn't collect himself in time to avoid being whisked into a bridal carry by his fiance when the commotion (and mystic fireworks, Mikey) attracts more Krang in the distance. But he doesn't complain one bit.)

In another time, Leonardo and Usagi are twenty-two and married without a ceremony.

In another time, Hamato Usagi is happy even at the end of the world.

---

Stay tuned for part two <3