THE TIES THAT BIND US (the endless knot of dreams)

Long before the world forgot how to listen to trees, the Oracle of Dodona and the Lord of Dreams walked the path between sleep and prophecy. Where they passed, ravens perched in silence, and the oaks whispered secrets only gods could bear.
In the dying light of the fourth century, beneath the shadow of Theodosius, they struck a covenant: at each century’s turn, she would offer him a raven. In return, he would plant an oak in the Dreaming—its roots deep, its branches wide, its purpose sacred.
But Dream is gone.
And the Oracle waits beneath a sky that no longer speaks, listening for wings that do not come. The century turns. The oak remains unplanted. And the silence is beginning to rot.
The tragedy has not yet begun.
But it will.
(a love three thousand years in the making)
[DREAM OF THE ENDLESS x OC]
This will mostly follow the comic plot-line, incorporating some of the show's changes.

Notes:

The volumes covered by this story (some were not covered in the show)
BOOK ONE:
The Sandman Vol 1: Preludes & Nocturnes
The Sandman Vol 2: The Doll's House
The Sandman Vol 3: Dream Country
BOOK TWO:
The Sandman Vol 4: Season of Mists
The Sandman Vol 5: A Game Of You
The Sandman Vol 6: Fables and Reflections
BOOK THREE:
The Sandman Vol 7: Brief Lives
The Sandman Vol 8: World's End
The Sandman Vol 9: The Kindly Ones
The Sandman Vol 10: The Wake

Chapter 1: ENDLESS STORIES TO TELL SERIES

Notes:

This page will be added to over time

Chapter Text

Welcome!
Wilkommen! Bienvenue! Benvenuto! Bienvenido!

Wherever you come from, whomever you are, welcome to this little alcove of AO3. Whether you found this work through tags, or found it after stumbling across my TikTok account, welcome! We're so happy to have you here!

This page serves as a guide to help you navigate the unfolding journey of the series. It is thoughtfully curated to provide clarity and structure, presenting the chronological order and thematic progression of each story. Whether you're revisiting familiar pairings or diving into new chapters, this page ensures you can experience the saga as it was meant to be told (this also exists because I love organisation and like to make sure everything is in order).

You are not here for a short ride, I'm afraid. If you were looking for a nice, short, fluffy romance between Dream of The Endless and an OC, this is not the place for you. This story is far from nice, far from short, and far from fluffy (for a while). Full disclosure, this story will require certain knowledge of Greek Mythology throughout, and will feature Greek phrases occasionally (all of which will be spelled out and translated in chapter notes by moi, you're welcome), so I'd advise reading the chapter that gives some brief information about certain figures in Greek Mythology, so you do not go into this completely blind.

This story will also delve into some rather complex, often traumatic themes including the following, some of which are not tagged because it would be impossible for me to tag every theme:
1.post-partum depression (in reference through flashbacks and in conversation)
2.amnesia/memory loss
3.child death (in reference through flashbacks and conversation)
4.rape (in reference)
5.religious guilt (Hellenistic polytheistic religious guilt to be specific)
6.depression
7.PTSD
8.illnesses (specifically Meningitis and Cancer)
9.Grief (both in reference and throughout the story)
10.references to potentially undiagnosed autism
11.Zeus
12.Therapy

When the themes previously mentioned are discussed, there will be a trigger warning at the start of that chapter. Read it at your own leisure. I promise to do my best to approach these matters in the most sensitive manner I can, and I acknowledge that people experience many of these things in different ways. As someone who has personal experience with a few of these, my expression of them will be rooted in my own experiences. Not everyone experiences depression or grief or illness, or any of the aforementioned themes in the same way, which is totally okay. If anyone would like to talk about any of the themes discussed, you are welcome to reach out to me, or use any of the resources I will list in the chapter notes of the relevant chapters. But as mentioned previously, if any of these things are known to affect you, and may trigger you, please do not read this series.

The following is the index for The Ties That Bind Us, the trilogy centred around Dream of The Endless and Eila Dodona

DREAM X EILA

the following image shows the books of the main series, not including any interquels and prequels

BOOK 1: The Endless Knot of Dreams

It is said that when a raven perched upon the highest branch of a great oak, Oneiros—the god of dreams—met the Oracle of Dodona beneath its leaves. In the twilight of the fourth century, as Emperor Theodosius ruled a crumbling world, they forged a pact to defy time itself: every hundred years, she would send him a raven, a living omen; and he, in turn, would plant an oak in the dreaming—a sanctuary for the raven’s soul.

But centuries have passed. The dreaming lies silent. Oneiros is gone.

Now, the Dodonian waits. Bound by fate and memory, she watches the world shift and fracture, powerless to stop the unravelling. The covenant remains, but its keeper has vanished. And as the next century turns, the raven does not come.

What unfolds is not merely the loss of a god, but the slow erosion of meaning itself. In a tale woven from myth and mourning, prophecy and silence, the Oracle must decide whether to hold fast to a forgotten promise—or to let the dreaming die.

But time is not kind to memory, and prophecy does not mourn. As the dreaming fades and the covenant frays, shadows stir in the forgotten corners of the world—echoes of Oneiros’s legacy, fragments of oaks long buried in the minds of mortals.

The Dodonian, ageless and bound to her vigil, begins to hear whispers not from the gods, but from something older. Something hungry. The raven was meant to be a symbol of renewal, but now it may herald ruin.

As the century turns once more, a new force rises—neither divine nor mortal, but born of broken promises and untended dreams. And in the absence of Dream, the world must decide: will it sleep forever, or wake to a reckoning?

CHAPTERS FOR VOLUME THREE:
01 | The path to the Gods is paved with good intentions...
02 |...But Good Intentions Only Take You So Far.
03 | Calliope

INTERLUDE (The Many Firsts of a Dream)
Dream gets therapy for the first time (complete)
Dream gets drunk for the first time
Dream gets therapy for the second time
Dream goes to the beach for the first time
Dream goes camping for the first time
Dream goes to an arcade for the first time
Dream goes to a concert for the first time

BOOK 2: The Endless Storm of Memory

Details coming soon

BOOK THREE: THE ENDLESS THREAD OF FATE

CHAPTERS FOR VOLUME ONE:

Chapter 2: THE TIES THAT BIND US (1) - THE ENDLESS KNOT OF DREAMS

Notes:

My Greek is very poor so I apologise if any of the names are wrong. Happy to be corrected if anyone knows better :)

Chapter Text

This may contain: two statues are standing next to each other in front of a building with columns and arches

The Oracle of Dodona
Drys Dodona
Eye of the Stormfather
Prophet of the Living Tree
The Leaf That Cuts
The Doom-Sung

A Hymn of Oneiros and the Oracle

In grove of bronze where the oak-leaves sigh,
Where Dione’s breath stirs earth and sky,
She waited alone with a moon-white brow—
The Voice of the Tree, the Keeper of Vow.

Her lips bore thunder, her gaze bore fate,
She knew what sleeps beneath time’s gate.
Yet none had touched her dusk-crowned grace,
Till dream-wind kissed that hallowed place.

He came on wings no eye could see,
O Oneiros, lord of reverie.
No foot did stir, no branch did wake,
But the leaves bent low for dreaming’s sake.

She knew his name ere he had spoken,
From roots where fate is never broken.
He laid no hand, he wove no chain,
Yet filled her breath with star and rain.

“O shadow-walker, dusk-borne flame,
Thy touch is silence, thy kiss no name.”
She whispered soft in syllables old,
While secrets curled like serpent gold.

“O oak-born sibyl, tongue of storm,
Thou art the shape my dreams have worn.
In every slumbered mortal soul,
I seek the leaf that makes me whole.”

Then night bent low as fate grew near,
And winds grew still the gods might hear.
Beneath the bough, in sacred hush,
Dream met sight in breathless crush.

She gave him truths she dared not keep.
He gave her worlds that lived in sleep.
No altar flamed, no temple rang—
But oak and shadow sang and sang.

And ever now when dreamers lie
Beneath the moon or open sky,
They speak her name, and his unseen—
The Oracle, and Dream between.

Long before mortals named him Dream, he was Ὄνειρος τῶν ἀπείρων—Oneiros of the Endless, the embodiment of sleep’s dominion. In one age, poets carved his stories in marble; in another, comic book panels bore his face—a pale sovereign with star-fire in his gaze. He emerged as mist from the hollow veil of Nyx (Νύξ), primeval Night, whose womb bore monsters and gods alike, whose silence predated thunder, whose shroud cradled the cosmos before it dared to dream.

Oneiros, child of Chronos (Χρόνος)—not the Titan, but Time itself, cruel and ceaseless, unfolding like the ouroboros upon the axis of fate. From their union of shadow and rhythm was born the sleepless wanderer, arisen from the fracture between moments, the stillness where Καιρός (Kairos), the opportune time, dared not tread. A whisper in the breath of mortals, a phantom riding the dark rivers of sleep: Aitherial in nature, and woven of unspoken prophecies.

They knew him by many names across the aeons: Μορφεύς (Morpheus), the Moulder of Dreams, Σομνους (Somnus), in Rome’s borrowed tongue, Dream, the whisper among sleeping mortals, The Lord Shaper, for he carved the hidden architecture of slumber. Yet these were merely masks, reflections cast in the ever-shifting waters of Στύξ (Styx).

Gods sought him for visions, prophets for madness, lovers for solace. Yet he offered only shadows— refractions of truths too old for language, too vast for mortal longing.

Even Απόλλων (Apollo) once bargained for his counsel, and Ἑκάτη (Hekate) wove her spells with fragments of his echo. But Oneiros had no allegiance, save to the deep rhythm of dream and its quiet dominion.

He vanished with the waning of myth, slipping into the folds of forgotten hymns, where silence becomes story, and dreams become the only gods we still believe in.

In the lost age of myth, he ruled from a realm known as the Onyron—what mortals now call The Dreaming—an ever-changing land where memory merged with prophecy, and thoughts became geography. The Endless were older than Olympus or Valhalla or Heaven or Janna or Hell or Jahannam. Older than all pantheons. Dream was one among seven: his sister Death, who walked the mortal coil with grace and laughter, greeting all with tenderness instead of fear; the being whose existence defined life—her antithesis. Second, Destiny, blind and resolute, bound to his great book of paths that none could stray from; whose garden bore more choices than decisions, more options than any prophetess could anticipate.

Desire, whose temples pulsed with longing, their silhouette shifting to match the yearning of all hearts, the personification of want, wanton and not. Despair, the twin, the counterpart, cloaked in shattered mirrors and quiet sobs, haunting the corners of forgotten rooms. Delirium, once Delight, now a kaleidoscope of chaos, trailing butterflies and forgotten songs through realms both real and imagined; and Destruction—the prodigal—the absent brother; who chose creation over duty, wandering the world as a sculptor of endings. Together, they formed a pantheon of the Endless—etched into existence itself, timeless and inescapable.

Potmos. Teleute. Oneiros. Olethros. Epithumia. Aponoia. Mania.
Destiny. Death. Dream. Destruction. Desire. Despair. Delirium.

But even the Endless could fall.

When the Magus, Roderick Burgess, drunk on hubris and occult power, ensnared Dream in a cage of glass and sorcery, the world slept unevenly. In Dodona, far from London and its modern wounds, Eila—once Drys Dodona, Oracle of the Living Tree—felt the silence like a blade across prophecy’s throat. The leaves of Zeus’s sacred oak ceased to whisper. The voices of dreams went mute.

She knew, then, that something primal had unravelled.

Eila wandered the scarred century, cloak woven from bark and memory, her bare feet tracing paths not drawn on any map. The world had succumbed to encephalitis lethargica—the mysterious sleeping sickness that swept through cities like fog between 1916 and the 1930s, leaving thousands trapped in strange, unmoving slumber. It was not sleep, nor death, nor life, but some uncanny borderland between.

She passed through hospital wards thick with silence, where the sick lay not dreaming but paused, limbs frozen, eyes open and empty. And she listened to the sounds that filled the spaces between their breath:

A wife humming lullabies to her unmoving husband, hoping he might stir at the memory.

A child whispering stories to her slumbering mother, building worlds of imagined awakenings.

A nurse praying, not for miracles, but for restful ends.

And in other places, opposite affliction reigned: insomnia like a curse, where people clawed at the edges of consciousness for sleep that would not come. They begged for rest, hallucinating gods in the mirror and curses in the ticking of clocks.

Eila, as Oracle unmoored, understood this rift. The dream had splintered. Sleep’s dominion had fractured. The Lord Shaper was gone—or diminished—and the echoes were felt in every city and every sleeper.

One night, beneath a sky that did not blink, Eila dreamed a vision.

A vortex

The vortex spun like a wound in the fabric of sky, slow and immense, dragging through the void with gravity older than gods. It devoured silence first, then colour, as trails spiralled inward—a procession of forgetting and remembrance. The forest came, roots unwinding from memory; the dunes followed, soft with time; then the eyes, wide and unblinking, watching what should not be seen. Oak leaves fluttered like dying stars, each one a prophecy shed from the crown of fate.

And then came the petals. Velvet, crimson, and blush, they drifted like secrets on the wind—desire incarnate. Not just yearning for flesh, but for presence, for recognition, for that ache that hums beneath choice. They fell in rhythm: a petal for every glance stolen, every longing swallowed, every promise whispered between mouths that dared not meet. The vortex welcomed them like lovers returning home.

From the vortex came roses—thousands, millions—spewing like blood from a wound in the cosmos. They burst forth in spirals, petals unfurling mid-flight, each one humming with memory and want. The Dreaming trembled as they fell, carpeting the void in velvet and scent, a storm of longing made manifest. And when Eila awoke, she was buried in them—roses clinging to her skin, her hair, her breath. She sat up slowly, dazed, and plucked one from her chest. It pulsed faintly in her palm. She threw it skyward, and as it vanished, a name bloomed on her tongue: Rose Walker.

Who the Hell is Rose Walker?

Chapter 3: CHARACTER GLOSSARY

Chapter Text

CHARACTER GLOSSARY

Here's the background you need of all figures of Greek mythology for the sake of this series. For the sake of mythological accuracy and ease, The Kindly Ones (both the fates and the furies, will be named as they are in Greek myth). All of these will be made reference to throughout the story.

Alcyone – Mother of Hyrieus and others by Poseidon.

Alecto – Endless anger; punishes moral crimes.

Artemis – Goddess of the hunt. The Pleiades were her companions, reinforcing their connection to wilderness and chastity.

Atlas – A Titan condemned to hold up the sky for eternity as punishment for siding against the Olympians. Husband of Pleione and father of the Pleiades, Hyades, and Calypso.

Atropos – The Cutter; severs the thread, bringing death.

Calliope - Muse of epic poetry and eloquence, daughter of Zeus and mnemosyne

Calypso – Sometimes considered a sister or half-sister to the Pleiades. Daughter of Atlas, known for detaining Odysseus.

Celaeno – Mother of Lycus and Nycteus by Poseidon.

Clotho – The Spinner; spins the thread of life at birth.

Dardanus – Son of Electra and Zeus. Ancestor of the Trojans.

Dione – Often considered a consort of Zeus at Dodona. Sometimes identified as a Titaness or a mother goddess akin to Gaia or Rhea.

Electra – One of the Pleiades. Also a tragic figure in the House of Atreus, depending on the myth.

Eurydice - Nymph and wife of Orpheus, died from a snakebite, nearly rescued from Hades.

Hades – God of the Underworld and ruler of the dead. Brother of Zeus and Poseidon. Stern and feared, he abducted Persephone to be his queen.

Hera – Queen of the gods, goddess of marriage and childbirth. Sister and wife of Zeus. Known for her jealousy and vengeance against Zeus’s lovers.

Heracles – Said to have visited Dodona for guidance.

Hermes – Son of Maia and Zeus. Messenger god and patron of travellers.

Lacedaemon – Son of Taygete and Zeus. Founder of Sparta.

Lachesis – The Measurer; determines the length of each life.

Maia – Eldest of the Pleiades. Mother of Hermes by Zeus.

Megaera – Jealous rage; punishes infidelity and betrayal.

Merope – Married mortal Sisyphus; her star is dimmer, symbolizing shame or mortality.

Odysseus – Consulted the oracle at Dodona to decide whether to return to Ithaca openly or in secret.

Oneiroi – Spirits of dreams. Children of Nyx. Include Morpheus (shaper of dreams) and Phobetor (bringer of nightmares).

Orion – A giant and skilled hunter. Pursued the Pleiades and was eventually placed in the sky as a constellation. His death varies by myth—either killed by Artemis or a scorpion.

Orpheus - Legendary bard and prophet, could charm animals, trees, and stones with his lyre. Joined the argonauts and founded the Orphic Mysteries, and descended into the underworld to retrieve his wife Eurydice.

Persephone – Daughter of Demeter and Zeus. Abducted by Hades and became Queen of the Underworld. Her seasonal return to Earth explains the agricultural cycle.

Philotes – Minor primordial deity representing affection, friendship, and possibly sexual intimacy. Daughter of Nyx, often contrasted with Eris (Strife).

Pleione – An Oceanid nymph and wife of Atlas. Mother of the Pleiades and Hyades. Associated with sailing and protection.

Pleiades – Seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione: Maia, Electra, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope, and Merope. Pursued by Orion and transformed into stars by Zeus.

Poseidon – Fathered children with Alcyone and Celaeno.

Selloi – Male priests of Dodona who interpreted the sounds of the oak and bird calls. Known for sleeping on the ground and maintaining ritual purity.

Sterope (Asterope) – Associated with King Oenomaus; consort of Ares in some myths.

Sisyphus – Mortal husband of Merope, the only Pleiad to marry a human.

Taygete – One of the Pleiades. Associated with Artemis and mountains.

The Oracle of Delphi (Pythia) – High priestess of Apollo who delivered prophecies from his temple at Delphi. Her cryptic messages influenced major decisions in ancient Greece.

Tisiphone – Vengeful destruction; punishes murder.

Zeus – King of the gods, ruler of the sky and thunder. Known for his many affairs and fathering numerous gods and heroes. Brother to Hades, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter, and Hestia.

Chapter 4: 1.01 | SLEEP OF THE JUST

Notes:

word count: 7644 words

Chapter Text

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”
— Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”

1916
THE DREAMING

Seven months.

That was how long The Corinthian had been rogue in The Waking World this time. Last time it was four. For all his faults, Dream had to acknowledge that The Corinthian had gotten better at evading his master--his creator. He had grown smarter, more attuned to the capabilities of his Endless master.

He'd been learning.

If it had not proved so infuriating for Dream, perhaps he would have taken time to be impressed be The Corinthian's efforts. Perhaps. Truthfully, he was not one to expend much time or effort in acknowledging anything The Corinthian did that was even remotely impressive.

Jessamy, his raven, had scoured The Waking World on Dream's behalf, searching for The Corinthian, and had last sighted him in Germany a few days prior. Her diligent efforts had allowed Dream to find him, and he had every intention of going to retrieve his insolent creation, and quench this most recent rebellion by the nightmare.

The throne room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment as Lucienne approached. She held a scroll in one hand, its edges singed with the residue of nightmare. The air was heavy with the scent of old ink and stormlight, the kind that lingered after a dream had died.

Lord Morpheus stood at the base of his throne, cloaked in shadow, his gaze fixed on the void beyond the stained-glass windows. The Corinthian’s trail had grown darker—more bodies, more chaos, more whispers in the waking world.

Lucienne cleared her throat gently. “My lord.”

He did not turn. “You have news.”

“I do,” she said, stepping closer. “The Corinthian has been spotted in Berlin by Jessamy not even an hour ago.”

Morpheus’s jaw tightened. “Then I will go.”

Lucienne hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I must advise against it.”

Now he turned, slowly, his eyes like twin stars dimmed by grief. “You would have me send another?”

“I question your pattern,” she said calmly. “You created the Corinthian. You imprisoned him. You released him. And now, you would chase him yourself.”
Morpheus’s eyes narrowed. “He is my responsibility.”

“Indeed,” Lucienne said. “But responsibility does not always mean direct action. You have lieutenants. You have emissaries. You have ravens. You have me.”

He was silent. And then his voice was low. "The Corinthian has begun harvesting eyes again."

Lucienne didn't flinch. "I know."

"Eyes of innocent dreamers. Of humans who have done little and less to be worthy of that end."

"Yes."

"I will go to him."

She stepped forward. "You shouldn't."

Morpheus turned, his expression carved from silence. "You have said this before."

"And I shall say it again, my Lord," Lucienne replied. "Not because I doubt your power. But because I believe this is a moment to choose differently."

He studied her. "Differently how?"

“Send someone else,” she said. “Not to destroy him. But to confront him. To show that your will does not require your presence.”

Morpheus’s gaze darkened. “He was made in my image. Twisted, yes—but mine. He will not yield to anyone else.”

Lucienne’s voice was steady. “Then let him refuse. Let him see that you are not alone. That you are not the only force in the Dreaming.”

Morpheus stepped closer, the air around him thick with quiet gravity. “You speak of delegation. I speak of obligation.”

“You speak of control,” she said gently. “And I speak of trust.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Morpheus turned away. “I will go.”

Lucienne’s shoulders stiffened. “Even knowing what it costs?”

He paused at the threshold of the throne room. “Some creations must be ended by the hands that shaped them. Anything else is cowardice.”

Lucienne watched him vanish into shadow.

She did not follow.

"I think he is being foolish, Jessamy," Lucienne muttered, turning her attention to the raven who had perched herself upon one of the the throne's steps.

"We must trust that he knows what he is doing, Lucienne."

"I always trust Lord Morpheus, but he is going to the waking world. Dreams seldom survive there, while nightmares thrive."

1916
ENGLAND

Here in the darkness.

The chant comes macabre from the children of The Order of Ancient Mysteries, echoing like a grim lullaby through candlelit gloom. It unfurls like smoke across the stone walls of the sanctum, a dirge whispered by the children of The Order. Their eyes, aglow with arcane energy, flicker behind thin veils of silk. They don’t sing—they recite, like recidivist bells tolling from beneath the skin. Their voices are small—like shards of glass pressed beneath skin. Quiet in the background of the beginning of the end: Magus Roderick Burgess.

Tea with a professor of The Royal Museum never did quite fit with ritual background music. The Magus nursed a porcelain cup, the kind adorned with pastoral scenes and English roses. He sipped with theatrical precision. Opposite him, the professor from The Royal Museum shifted uncomfortably on a carved oak chair, the surface etched with sigils best left untranslated.

“You must be exhausted from your journey,” the Magus impressed smoothly, his voice steeped in velvet authority. Steam rises between them, curling like spectral fingers—polite conversation obscuring forbidden ambition.

“Thank you,” the Professor muttered, eyes downcast. His grip tightened around the teacup, as though holding onto something more than porcelain.

“I tale it you’ve reconsidered, then?” The Magus questioned, leaning forward slightly, his gaze unflickering. “After our meeting at the museum.”

“I know what I said,” the Professor hesitated, his words weighted. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week, off Jutland.”

A pause. The Magus’ expression, usually carved from stone, softened just a fraction to a stern familiarity. “My condolences, Doctor. We are bonded then, in our grief, you and I. As you know, I lost my son Randall recently at Gallipoli.”

The candles guttered for a moment, as though the room itself recoiled at the weight of their shared losses.

The Professor’s attention drifted—drawn suddenly to the threshold of the chamber, where young Alex Burgess stood partially hidden behind the velvet drapes. The boy’s frame was slight, his posture folded inward like someone trying to will himself invisible. Yet in his wide, silent eyes burned a quiet ache: the yearning to be more than an echo, more than his father’s shadow.

“Forgive me,” the Professor said cautiously, eyes flicking back to Roderick. “I understood that Randall was your only son.”

Roderick did not deign to turn. His gaze remained fixed on the sigil-scrawled floor, as if even the presence of Alex were beneath acknowledgment.

“Randall was my greatest joy,” he said, voice low and etched with bitterness. “All of this was meant to be his.” A hollow chuckle rose from his throat—more spectre than laughter. “So… have you brought it? The Magdalene Grimoire?”

The Professor slid a weathered satchel onto the table with slow deliberation. Its clasp clicked open like a closing door.

“If I give you the book,” he asked, his voice taut, “can you truly capture the Angel of Death?”

“Oh yes,” Roderick whispered, lips curling with a priest’s conviction and a madman’s certainty. “With the incantations sealed within these pages, we can summon and compel Death to kneel before us. And when she does—your Edmund and my Randall will rise again.”

Here in the darkness.

The chant thrummed through damp stone corridors like a heartbeat stitched from old curses. Every whisper bent the shadows. Every repetition carved the air thinner.

“I give you a coin made from a stone,” the voice trembled—not with fear, but reverence. “I give you a knife from under the hills, and I give you the blood from out of my vein.”

A copper scent rose as drops pattered onto the sigils encircling the pentagram. The air pulsed.

Here in the darkness.

“I give you a song I stole from the dirt, and I give you a feather pulled from an angel’s wing, for you to lift up into the heavens.”

The offerings—primitive in form but ancient in truth—shimmered with latent force. The circle cracked faintly at its edges, as if the earth itself strained to hold what was arriving.

Here in the darkness.

One moment in Berlin: a sigh and a breath beneath cold sky.

The next, silence—drawn unwilling through symbols inked in recklessness, power, and grief.

Bound in chalk and blood and trembling Latin, by the names Namtar, Allatu, Morax Maborym, and Horvendile—each invoked not with mastery, but raw need.

Only four words had crossed the veil. Only simple things had been offered.

And it was enough.

An amateur spellcaster had bound the third of the Endless.

He fell without ceremony—no flash of resistance, no display of divine wrath.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the pentagram, the world inside it stilled. Dream of the Endless, shaper of slumber and sovereign of stories, stood unnaturally still, held fast by the humble brutality of ritual. Not even a whisper of wind stirred the hem of his coat. His eyes—dark pools that had once contained dreams of gods and monsters—blinked once, slowly, and then froze.

The bonds, archaic yet exact, were not forged of power but precision. Every symbol inscribed in chalk, every whispered word and spilled drop of blood, rang with a truth older than his own name. Even his form flickered at the edges, a stuttering silhouette caught between realms—visible, but diminished.

His reach, usually limitless, now fell short. He could not stretch outward to the Dreaming, nor speak to the ravens that watched with silent despair. Time thickened around him, dripping like cold oil.

He did not rage. He did not plead.

But within the prison of shape and shadow, something subtle fractured—like a dream interrupted before its meaning is revealed. A pause not just in motion, but in myth itself.

And the world, without its dreamlord, began to forget how to sleep.

It began quietly.

A nurse folded linens in a ward in Vienna when her patient stopped blinking—his gaze locked not in terror, but in dreamy detachment, as if a lullaby had seized him mid-sentence and dragged him beyond the veil. Within days, the ward was full. And it was not just Austria.

Across oceans, children nodded off in classrooms and did not stir. Typists slumped over machines; fingers stilled in elegant half-curves. Train conductors lost their way, not by error, but by fading gently into the fog of their own minds. Doctors named it encephalitis lethargica, but their words sounded too clinical, too small. This was not illness. It was forgetting, woven into the flesh.

The world had lost its anchor to Dream. And dreams, untethered, began to bleed.

Sleep came to people not as rest but as exile. What had once been sanctuary became snare. Those who slept were not always taken, but those who were… left gaps too profound to measure. Their silence grew heavy. Time began to feel misaligned. Days stretched long and cruel, nights short and fitful. The symphony of the world had lost its conductor.

Imagine a city with open eyes and shuttered minds—a living diorama populated by statues who breathe. Streets silent but not abandoned; lives paused, as if an unseen director had called "Hold" on a play with no audience.

Dream, in his prison of rune and silence, was no longer sculpting slumber, and so sleep grew wild. Nightmares spilled forth with no border to hold them. They mingled with waking thought. Madness masqueraded as logic. Dreams turned jagged, incomplete. Grief settled in like dust.

And those few who had summoned him?

They watched. First in triumph. Then in awe. Then in dread.

For what they had caged was not a god to be mastered, but a principle of reality itself. A cosmic rhythm now broken. They heard no screaming, but they dreamed of it—and in those dreams, the screaming had no end.

Their ritual had not only summoned Dream.

It had silenced the lullaby of the universe.

1926
ENGLAND

Jessamy came occasionally.

He did not see her—not with eyes, at least. Not here, where sight was a hollow echo and motion a distant memory. But Dream felt her with a clarity that made the darkness around him tremble. It wasn’t sensation in the physical sense. It was more like how one feels the oak leaves brush against the shoulder when they ride the breeze—real, soft, unmistakable, yet elusive to trace.

Her presence was like the shiver of wingbeats in still air, like the idea of motion passing through the shape of a memory. She was not made for this place. Even now, her form must strain against the boundaries of the circle, never truly entering, never truly staying. But she came. And that was enough.

He knew it from the way the silence changed.

The stifling air in his prison, once thick with ritual and severance, grew momentarily golden. Like distant sun through frost-glazed glass. It became—not warm, but less cruel. Time, usually stagnant and oppressive, folded itself into smaller shapes, fluttering like moths against the rim of eternity. He did not lift his head. He did not move. But he felt her perch somewhere unseen. Watching. Witnessing.

Jessamy.

Not a raven, but sleek and delicate—black-feathered and bone-thin, with eyes like obsidian stars. She had once flown above dreaming oceans, danced between realms, scouted nightmares and lullabies alike. Loyal not to command, but to connection. She had been his companion when silence was a choice, not a curse.

Now she returned when silence was the only language left.

He could not speak to her. Not here. The circle swallowed speech, thinned meaning to pale shadows. But her presence curled around him like thread through the eye of absence. She did not cry. She did not caw. But Dream felt the rhythm of her wings tremble against the barrier—slow and tentative, as though mourning had made her cautious.

Perhaps she perched atop the ancient chandelier above his prison, where dust webbed the forgotten glass. Perhaps she lingered by the crumbling fireplace, where once the summoners muttered and paced. Perhaps she moved unseen, searching for fissures that did not exist, for keys buried in metaphysics and hubris.

Perhaps she stayed still, watching the way a statue watches the sea.

Each time she came, it was slightly different. The silence she brought was layered. He could feel within it her confusion, her grief, her refusal to leave completely. And yet—he also felt her resolve. Jessamy did not waver. Her visits were not acts of desperation. They were ritual. They were rebellion.

They were love. Her own and the vicarious expression of Eila’s.

And in her presence, something in Dream stirred.

Not power, for that had been sheared away. Not ego, for that had frayed long before the summoners inscribed their circle. It was something quieter. The knowledge that he had not been forgotten. That even in absence, there was memory—and in memory, the seed of return.

She knew he could not respond. She came anyway.

He suspected she nested somewhere far off in the Dreaming, in the shattered rooftops above Lucienne’s library, or along the crooked spires Mervyn had tried to stabilize with rusted nails and tape. Perhaps even in the dying fields once warmed by Fiddler’s Green. He imagined her wings rustling as she adjusted to brittle winds. Waiting. Perched. Watching.

He worried for her. She was not meant for sustained solitude. Her spirit was woven from flight and curiosity. What did she do between visits? Did she try to summon him with dreams? Did she speak to the others, flitting between broken halls to carry news? Or was she silent always, a shadow on the edge of fading hope?

Yet she returned.

Not daily. Not predictably. But like a song remembered in sleep—unbidden but beloved. And each time she came, Dream felt himself stitched more tightly to what remained.

He could feel her searching. For cracks. For cues. For the shape of his freedom. She pressed against the borders—not in force, but in prayer. He could feel her wings skim the edges, soft and quick, leaving behind fragments of herself. Feathers lost in the dark. Echoes of loyalty.

She was the only creature who could find him without tether. Without beacon. The Dreaming was fragmented, the paths twisted and fog-bound. But Jessamy found him still.

And one day, he knew, she would be the first to feel the moment when the circle failed. When ritual waned. When dream and reality rewove themselves.

She would not cry out. She would not signal. But he would feel it: like the brush of an oak leaf against the shoulder, riding the breeze toward freedom.

Until then, she came.

And he waited.

And silence was not so empty.

Jessamy came not only as witness, but as conspirator. Over time, her quiet visits shifted—no longer mere vigils, but subtle, patterned incursions. Her wings carried her not just to the edge of Dream’s prison, but into the bones of the house itself. She began testing it, probing its weaknesses like raindrops eroding stone.

The cellar where Dream was bound was buried deep in ritual—chained not by steel, but by intent. A sphere of enchanted glass nested within concentric circles, each a cruel mathematics of confinement. The summoners had carved wards into the beams, lined the floor with salt and silver, and cloaked the place in a forgetfulness that made even memories shiver.

But Jessamy was neither man nor myth. She was something older, slipperier. The sort of creature whose arrival was rarely noticed until it had already shaped the wind. She began crafting distractions—not chaos, not violence, but opportunity.

Outside, she sowed small illusions into the perimeter: gusts that scattered important documents, whispering voices in closed rooms, flickers of motion in empty corners. She’d perch noiselessly above the conservatory and drop a pebble precisely when a summoner crossed beneath, luring them off course for a few minutes. Sometimes she led them into chasing shadows shaped like intruders, phantoms with her wingspan but no substance.

It bought her time.

She slipped into the house through attic vents, chimney flues, cracks beneath forgotten thresholds. She became smoke. She became whisper. And when the guards dozed or paced too far from their post, she crept toward the cellar entrance—an ironbound door buried beneath layers of false walls and illusion. A door that did not open. A threshold that did not yield.

She learned its rhythm. How the enchantments hummed at certain hours. Where they pulsed weakest, which glyph blinked with fatigue under moonlight. But no matter how swiftly she reached the cellar, no matter how silent her descent—it never lasted.

She was discovered.

Not in confrontation, but in consequence. An aura shift. A shimmer in the glass sphere. The summoners noticed, and she was forced to flee—whisked away before they could pin her to magic or trap her in ink. Quick always, but never quick enough to break the seal. Her freedom was her curse: she had to retreat before she could touch him.

So she began to bide. To study the long game. She waited until routines ossified, until arrogance became laxness. She watched for apprentices left unsupervised, for the aging of spells whose casters no longer remembered the ingredients. She sabotaged gently. A candle snuffed before a chant could finish. A scroll swapped with nonsense script just before a key sigil was drawn.

Each act—delicate, subversive—brought her a few moments closer. Closer to the sphere. Closer to him.

And he felt her.

Not in sight, but in disruption. The way the silence twitched. The way the circle's hum stuttered, as if startled by wingbeats it couldn’t quite detect. Her efforts played like music beneath the oppressive stillness, soft but present. And each time she fled, a feather would drop—a literal one, perhaps, or something more metaphorical. A hint of resistance. A shred of rebellion.

She never made it through.

Not yet.

But each return taught her more. Each visit rewrote the edge of confinement. Each distraction layered another strand into her growing tapestry of dissent. And Dream, locked in stasis, felt the wind shift with her intention.

She could not speak. He could not move.

But the space between them whispered of coming change.

It was nearing twilight, and the cellar breathed with old magic—stale, unforgiving, and steeped in memory. The sphere sat in the hollow like a cruel crystal heart, pulsing faintly with the remnants of its wards. Around it, shadows clung to the stone walls, stitched with dust and neglect.

And Jessamy came.

She slipped through a forgotten crack in the window, unnoticed, an ink-dipped streak across the last light. Her wings were thinner now, ragged at the edges. She’d been coming for years. Watching. Hoping. Undone and remade each time she left, only to return again, driven not by command but by quiet desperation.

She landed on the railing above Dream’s sphere, claws clicking against rust. His form inside was curled, barely visible behind the shimmer of the glass—a silhouette cradled by centuries.

Jessamy watched him. Then she moved.

She fluttered low, wings brushing the wardline, and began to peck—not frantically, but methodically. Like a carpenter tapping at rotten wood, feeling for the vulnerable grain beneath the polish. Each strike echoed softly, not in sound, but in sensation. Dream felt it—not pain, not even hope—just the gentle insistence of loyalty refusing to yield.

The enchantments sparked faintly around the rim. Runes blinked in protest, recoiling from her intent. But she persisted. Peck by peck, she pressed against reality. The wards flexed, light stuttering like a dying candle.

Somewhere above, a door opened.

Alex Burgess descended.

He had grown older, wearier, dulled by years of inherited guilt and fading resolve. Yet that weight had hardened into habit. The kind that protects more than it questions.

He saw her.

Saw the glint of her beak against the sphere. The shimmer of defiance in feathers never meant for cages.

Jessamy did not flee.

She turned once, a slow swivel of her head, gaze full of knowing. Her eyes held the breadth of the Dreaming—the forests of memory, the towers of story, the meadows that now rotted, waiting. She was not pleading.

She was finishing what she’d started.

Alex, panicked, felt the pulse of power shift—fragile, frail, but real. A crack, somewhere beneath the seal. A threat to the silence he’d inherited and never truly understood.

He raised the rifle.

And the cellar snapped.

Jessamy leapt, wings wide, a final arc of rebellion. She dove toward the sphere again, talons aimed not to destroy, but to mark it. One last impression. One last statement.

The shot rang out.

Feathers erupted in silence, scattered like midnight petals.

She fell, her form folding mid-flight, carried not by wind, but by intention. She struck the floor with a gentle thud. No scream. No motion.

And yet within the sphere, beneath the glass and the weightless silence, something profound was unraveling.

Grief is not loud in beings like Dream. It does not wail or thrash. It does not seek witness. It settles deep, hollow and cold, like a crown carved from ice pressed down upon the spirit. He felt her absence like a wound in the air—Jessamy, lost in flight, her last arc of resistance snapped mid-glide. Her silence was heavier than her death.

She had been his tether. Not to command, but to care. A creature of loyalty, of quiet faith. Her presence never demanded; it reminded. Of purpose. Of connection. Of love that did not speak its name but shaped the space around him.

Now she would not come again.

The cellar held its breath, but Dream’s heart—so often regal, so rarely allowed to ache—fractured at the edges.

He recalled Eila then, not consciously, but in the slipstream of mourning. Eila with her gift, wild and formless: the ability to weave dreams not from structure, but from emotion. She once danced between myths like sunlight skimming water, bringing joy, mischief, unfiltered story. She had given him a dream once—not a tool, not a lesson. A gift.

A simple dream, tucked beneath his cloak like a secret melody. A moment of music. Laughter. A world where no one needed anything of him except that he existed.

He had held it close. Like he held Jessamy. Like he held the Dreaming.

Now he sat alone.

Grief does not break gods. But it hollows them.

And so he remained, unmoving.

But not untouched.

MEANWHILE...

PARIS, FRANCE
1926

Café de l’Éclipse, Montparnasse.

The café was a haze of cigarette smoke and jazz, the kind of place where conversations floated like perfume and everyone pretended to be a poet. Miss Eila Laurent sat by the window, absinthe glowing green in her glass like a secret. She wore a crimson cloche hat tilted just so, the kind of tilt that suggested she’d seen things and chosen not to flinch.

Across from her, Miss Ximena Leroux arrived precisely twenty minutes late, wrapped in a silk scarf knotted like a challenge. She slid into the chair with the grace of someone who’d once danced with a Russian prince and regretted none of it.

“You’re late,” Eila said, her eyes fixed on the swirling foam of her cappuccino, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the porcelain cup.

“I’m French,” Ximena replied, with a shrug, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Time is a suggestion.”

“For Chronos, perhaps." Eila didn’t smile. "I ordered you a tarte au citron,” she said. “But I ate it out of spite.”

“Spite tastes like lemon?” Ximena tilted her head, arching an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Today it does." Eila sipped her drink, not looking up. "Now, what is the true reason for your delay?"

“I was detained,” Ximena said, her voice low and unhurried as she removed her gloves finger by finger, each motion precise, almost ceremonial. The leather was damp from the mist outside. “A gentleman insisted on reading me his manifesto on the decline of French masculinity.”

Eila didn’t look up. She stirred her drink with a silver spoon, the clink barely audible over the murmur of jazz from the gramophone in the corner. “Was it handwritten?”

“Typed,” Ximena replied, placing the gloves beside her untouched saucer. “On onion-skin paper. He smelled of absinthe and disappointment.”

Eila’s mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. “So, a poet.”

“Worse.” Ximena leaned back, her coat falling open to reveal a silk blouse the color of bruised violets. “A philosopher.”

Eila sighed, finally meeting her gaze. Her eyes were tired, rimmed with kohl and the weight of too many conversations like this one. “They’re multiplying. Like moths. Or syphilis.” She scrunched her noses. "Sometimes, one cannot help but long to return to the days of Thales of Miletus. As lacking in knowledge as he and his contemporaries may have been, at least there was some purpose to their philosophies."

"Pythia surely enjoyed his philosophies."

"She enjoyed more than his philosophies, Ximena."

Ximena laughed softly, then leaned in. “Tell me, Eila. Have you any lovers at the moment? Or have you sworn off men entirely, like the Duchess of Orléans?”

Eila tilted her head. “The Duchess swore off men after her third husband mistook her jewels for his mistress. I swore off them after one tried to explain Cubism to me using a baguette.”

“Ah, the intellectual seduction,” Ximena said, brushing a stray curl from her cheek as she reached for her demitasse. “Always ends in crumbs.”

The café had grown quieter, the hour slipping into that soft, smoky lull between dusk and midnight. Outside, the rain had begun to fall in elegant streaks, tracing silver lines down the windowpane like a painter’s sigh.

Eila’s gaze drifted to the window, where the rain had begun to fall in elegant streaks. “No lovers,” she murmured. “Not for years. Not since Oneiros.”

Ximena blinked, her spoon suspended mid-stir. “Oneiros? You haven’t seen him in—”

“Over a decade,” Eila spoke, her voice distant. “No one has.”

A hush settled over the table. Even the jazz from the gramophone seemed to falter, as though the memory had reached into the room and dimmed the lights.

“He was never quite real,” Ximena said, resuming her stirring with slow, deliberate circles. “Like the League of Nations. Or fidelity.”

“He was more real than most,” Eila replied. “He knew how to vanish properly. Not like these men who disappear into debt and reappear at salons with new moustaches and borrowed philosophies.”

Ximena smiled. “Do you think he’s dead?”

Eila shook her head. “Dreams don’t die. They just change their address.”

A waiter drifted past, muttering darkly about the franc and the Americans, his tray trembling with half-finished glasses and existential dread. In the corner, a man in a velvet waistcoat was loudly debating the artistic merits of Josephine Baker’s latest performance at the Folies Bergère, gesturing with a cigarette like it was a conductor’s baton.

Ximena lit her own cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her cheekbones like a flash of memory. She exhaled with theatrical precision, the smoke curling upward like a question left unanswered. “I miss mystery,” she said. “Everything now is so loud. So explained.”

“Paris has become a city of footnotes,” Eila agreed, her voice dry as vermouth. “Everyone’s annotating themselves.”

They clinked glasses—champagne and coffee, elegance and caffeine, the sacred and the profane.

“To vanished gods,” Ximena said, her voice soft as velvet, lifting her glass with the reverence of a priestess at a forgotten altar.

“To men who knew how to leave,” Eila replied, her coffee cooling in her hands, eyes unfocused, as if watching the past unfold in the rain-slicked streets beyond the window.

Ximena tilted her head, watching Eila through a veil of cigarette smoke. "Your Oneiros really left you broken, didn't he, sweet sister in prophecy?"

Eila’s smile was faint, brittle at the edges. She traced the rim of her cup with one finger, as if drawing circles around old wounds. "Our relationship was never linear. We toyed with the idea of something for millennia, nothing came of it. The one time it did..." She paused, the silence stretching like silk. "Asteria was born of it, and I think for that reason he regrets it."

Ximena leaned forward, her eyes gleaming like candlelight on obsidian. "The Dreamlord does not regret his own daughter."

"No." Eila said, her voice barely above a whisper, "He regrets what we did."

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, the café glowed with secrets.

The rain had grown bored and wandered off. The café windows fogged gently, blurring the city into a watercolour of umbrellas and ambition.

Ximena crushed her cigarette into the saucer with a sigh, the ash blooming like a bruise against the porcelain. The café was dim, lit by flickering sconces and the occasional flare of a match. Outside, Paris shimmered beneath a veil of rain, the gaslamps casting golden halos on the wet cobblestones. “You still talk about him like he’s a metaphor.”

Eila didn’t flinch. She sat poised, one gloved hand resting lightly on her cup, the other tracing idle patterns in the condensation on the window. “He was. Most men are.”

“But you loved him.”

Eila stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking like a ticking clock. “I loved the idea of him. That’s more dangerous.”

Ximena leaned in, her perfume—jasmine and something darker—briefly filling the space between them. “You think he’s still out there?”

“Of course he is,” Eila said, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the city blurred into a watercolor of ghosts. “Men like Oneiros don’t die. They dissolve. Into dreams, into rumors, into someone else’s poetry.”

Ximena smirked, her lipstick catching the light like a blade. She reached for her glass, the champagne inside fizzing softly, like a secret trying to escape. “Or into a philosophy student with a fake accent and a tragic backstory.”

Eila finally looked up. Her eyes were tired, but sharp. “He knew how to leave. That’s rare.”

Ximena tilted her head, earrings swaying like pendulums. A gust of wind rattled the café door, and the man in the corner raised his voice again, invoking Josephine Baker as if she were a goddess of jazz and rebellion. “And Asteria?”

Eila paused. “She knew how to stay. That’s rarer.”

Ximena flicked ash into a porcelain dish shaped like a swan. “You know,” she said, “I had a vision last night. Dionysus in a tuxedo, stumbling through the Ritz, demanding a Negroni and a virgin.”

Eila didn’t look up from her champagne. “That sounds like Tuesday.”

“He was wearing pearls.”

“Then it was Wednesday.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that only immortals could afford—light, unhurried, and vaguely cruel.

“You’ve grown cynical,” Ximena said, eyeing Eila’s gloves. “Dodona used to speak in rustling leaves and thunder. Now you speak in sighs and sarcasm.”

Eila arched a brow. “And Delphi used to speak in riddles. Now you speak in headlines.”

Ximena smirked. “I find Le Figaro more reliable than Apollo these days. At least the journalists don’t vanish for centuries.”

Eila leaned back, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, where a chandelier trembled with the weight of too many secrets. “Do you remember when we used to be feared?”

“Feared? Darling, we were worshipped.”

“Now we’re footnotes in a museum guide.”

Ximena waved a hand. “Let them have their modernity. Their radios and revolutions. I’d rather be a relic than a novelty.”

Eila’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you’ve been fraternizing with the surrealists.”

“I had dinner with Breton last week. He tried to divine my future using a lobster.”

“Did it work?”

“It pinched him and fled.”

“Smart lobster.”

They paused as a waiter brought fresh drinks. He lingered, clearly hoping to be remembered in a poem or a scandal. Ximena dismissed him with a glance that could curdle milk.

Ximena dismissed the waiter with a glance that could curdle milk.

“Honestly,” she said, “they used to send us offerings. Now they send men with weak chins and weaker poetry.”

Eila smirked. “At least they’ve stopped sending virgins. I never knew what to do with them.”

“Return to sender,” Ximena said, lighting another cigarette. “Or gift them to Asteria.”

Eila groaned, but fondly. “Don’t even start. She’s in Italy now. Rome, I think. Or Florence. Or possibly buried under a pile of Venetian gondoliers.”

Ximena’s eyes sparkled. “Still collecting lovers like postcards?”

“Like war medals,” Eila said. “She’s taken up with a sculptor who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Michelangelo. He tried to carve her likeness into Carrara marble and ended up sculpting a very elegant swan.”

“Symbolic,” Ximena said. “She’s always been more myth than woman.”

“She’s been attending séances in Milan,” Eila added. “Claims she spoke to Caesar. He told her to invest in silk.”

“Practical ghost.”

“And she’s been writing poetry. In Latin.”

Ximena raised a brow, the gesture slow and deliberate, like a curtain being drawn across a stage. Her earrings caught the lamplight, swaying gently with the movement, tiny crescents of gold that whispered of forgotten constellations. “Does she speak Latin?”

Eila exhaled through her nose, amused, her breath fogging the rim of her cup. “Not fluently. But she insists the mistakes are intentional. ‘Stylistic ruptures,’ she calls them.”

Ximena groaned, reaching for her cigarette case with the languid grace of someone accustomed to disappointment. The case was mother-of-pearl, chipped at the corners, a relic of a decade she refused to name. “Gods preserve us,” Ximena said. “She’s become avant-garde.”

“She’s become Italian,” Eila corrected. “Which is worse.”

They both sipped—champagne and coffee, bubbles and bitterness—letting the scandal settle like sugar at the bottom of a cup. The café around them murmured on: clinking glass, rustling newspapers, the soft scrape of chairs against marble floors. A waiter passed, trailing the scent of cologne and crushed violets. Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist, and the city glowed like a memory half-remembered—umbrellas drifting past like petals on a river, gaslamps flickering like votive candles.

“She reminds me of you,” Ximena said. “When you were young. Before you started dressing like a widow and speaking in riddles.”

“I still speak in riddles.”

“Yes, but now they come with footnotes.”

Eila laughed, a sound like wind through old pages. Her gloved fingers tapped the side of her cup, a rhythm that echoed something ancient. “She’s reckless. Brilliant. Impossible. I worry.”

“You’re her mother. You’re supposed to.”

“I’m her oracle,” Eila said. “I’m supposed to know better.”

The jazz from the gramophone swelled, a saxophone sighing into the candlelit hush. Somewhere near the bar, a man recited Baudelaire to a woman who looked unimpressed. The air was thick with smoke and secrets, and the night stretched ahead like a velvet ribbon—frayed at the edges, but still full of promise.

Ximena leaned back, exhaling smoke in a perfect spiral. “She’ll be fine. Italy was made for women like her. Dramatic, divine, and slightly dangerous.”

“She’s been invited to a masquerade in Naples,” Eila said. “By a count who claims to be descended from Caligula.”

“Is he mad?”

“Mad, rich, and charming. The holy trinity.”

Ximena smiled. “She’ll break his heart.”

“She’ll steal his villa.”

They clinked glasses again.

“To daughters.”

“To divine chaos.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. Inside, prophecy was dressed in silk and sipping champagne.

The light outside had turned to honey—thick, golden, and slow. Paris in the hour between scandal and supper. The café glowed like a reliquary, its chandeliers casting soft halos over chipped marble tables and velvet banquettes worn thin by decades of whispered sins.

Eila stirred her champagne absently, watching the bubbles rise like secrets. Her gloves lay untouched, her posture impeccable, but something in her expression had softened—like a statue beginning to melt.

“She’s too much like him,” she said finally.

Ximena didn’t ask who. She knew.

“Asteria?” she said, gently.

Eila nodded. “She disappears for weeks. Sends telegrams from places she’s never been. Writes letters in languages she doesn’t speak. I found one in Akkadian last month. It was addressed to a cat.”

“Was it poetic?”

“Surprisingly.”

Ximena smiled, but Eila didn’t return it. Her gaze was distant now, fixed somewhere beyond the rain-streaked glass, beyond the boulevard, beyond even Paris.

“She’s brilliant,” Eila said. “Too brilliant. She sees things before they happen. She dreams in symbols. She speaks in metaphors even when she’s asking for tea.”

“She’s your daughter,” Ximena said.

“She’s his daughter,” Eila replied. “She has that... distance. That silence. That way of vanishing even when she’s in the room.”

Ximena leaned forward, her bracelets chiming like tiny bells. “You mean she’s elusive.”

“I mean she’s unknowable,” Eila said. “Like Oneiros. Like a dream you wake from and can’t remember, but still feel in your bones.”

The café had grown quieter. The jazz had faded into something slower, sadder. A waiter lit candles on each table, their flames flickering like tiny prophecies.

“She lives in shadows,” Eila continued. “She writes in the margins. She dances alone. She once told me she prefers ruins to palaces because ‘ruins don’t pretend.’”

Ximena exhaled smoke through her nose. “That’s either profound or French.”

“She’s both,” Eila said. “She’s always been both.”

There was a pause. Outside, a man in a bowler hat walked past, carrying a bouquet of lilies and a copy of Le Petit Parisien. The headline read: Mussolini Visits Milan, Promises Order. The lilies looked nervous.

“I don’t know how to reach her,” Eila said, finally. “I don’t know if I should.”

Ximena tapped ash into the swan dish. “You’re not meant to reach her. You’re meant to watch. To wait. To be the lighthouse, not the ship.”

Eila looked at her. “That’s very poetic.”

“I read it on a matchbox.”

They both laughed, but softly this time.

“She’s in Naples now,” Eila said. “At that masquerade. I had a vision last night—her in a silver mask, standing on a balcony, speaking to someone who wasn’t there.”

“Was it him?”

“I don’t know. I never know.”

Ximena reached across the table and touched Eila’s hand—bare, warm, trembling slightly.

“She’ll find her way,” she said. “She’s half you, after all.”

Eila smiled, but it was the kind of smile that comes with tears.

“She’s half dream,” she said. “And dreams don’t always come back.”

The candles flickered. The jazz resumed. And somewhere in Naples, under a sky full of stars, Asteria danced in a mask of silver, speaking to ghosts.

Ximena, ever attuned, looked up sharply. Eila’s posture hadn’t changed, but her eyes had. They were no longer in Paris. No longer in the café. They were somewhere else—somewhere ancient.

Eila’s hand, resting on the table, curled inward. Her fingers trembled, barely perceptible, like leaves catching wind before the storm.

“I felt her wings break,” she said softly.

Ximena didn’t speak. She knew better.

“Jessamy,” Eila said. “She’s gone.”

Ximena’s breath caught. “The raven?”

Eila nodded once. “I gave her to him. She was my offering. My envoy. My tether. She carried my voice when I could no longer speak to him.”

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rain had begun again—soft, deliberate, like mourning lace drawn across the city.

The candle between them flickered violently, then stilled.

“She was the last thing he accepted from me,” Eila said. “The last thing he didn’t refuse.”

Ximena leaned in, her tone reverent. “And now?”

Eila’s lips parted, but no sound came. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they shimmered—not with tears, but with something older. Something divine.

“Now she’s gone,” she said. “And I felt it. Not like grief. Like absence. Like a temple emptied of its god.”

Ximena reached for her hand, and this time Eila didn’t pull away.

“She died fighting,” Eila whispered. “And he felt it. Wherever he is, he felt her wings break.”

Outside, the rain thickened. Inside, the silence was sacred.

The silence between them was no longer gentle. It had teeth now—sharp, quiet ones. The kind that gnaw at the edges of certainty.

Eila’s hand remained in Ximena’s, her grip cool and composed, but her eyes betrayed her. They were not the eyes of a woman mourning a death. They were the eyes of someone mourning a presence that refused to return.

“I won’t find him,” she said.

Ximena didn’t speak. She knew the difference between dead and gone. Oneiros was not the former. That was almost worse.

“He’s alive,” Eila continued. “I feel it. Like a pulse in the earth. Like a breath behind the veil. But he’s not anywhere I can reach.”

She looked out the window, where the rain had thinned to a mist. Paris shimmered beneath it, blurred and beautiful, like a half-remembered dream.

“I’ve searched,” she said. “In temples, in tombs, in the dreams of dying kings. I’ve whispered his name into every storm. I’ve offered blood, silence, time. And still—nothing.”

Her voice didn’t break. It folded.

“He’s alive,” she repeated. “But he’s chosen not to be found.” She paused. "At least, I believe that to be the case. I do not know."

Ximena’s gaze was steady. “That’s his nature.”

“I know,” Eila said. “But Jessamy was my tether. My last thread. She could find him when I couldn’t. She could fly where I was forbidden. And now she’s gone.”

She turned to Ximena, and for the first time in centuries, she looked uncertain.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

It was not a plea. It was not weakness. It was the question of a woman who had outlived empires and lovers and the idea of permanence—and still found herself lost.

Ximena didn’t answer immediately. She reached for her glass, took a slow sip, and let the silence settle like dust.

“You wait,” she said finally. “Not for him. For the shift. For the moment the veil thins. For the crack in the silence.”

Eila’s expression didn’t change, but something behind it stirred.

“And if it never comes?” she asked.

Ximena smiled, faint and knowing. “Then you become the thing he dreams of.”

Eila blinked.

“You stop chasing,” Ximena said. “You become myth again. You become thunder. You become the story he can’t forget.”

Eila looked down at her hands. They were steady. Regal. Divine.

“I miss him,” she said.

“I know,” Ximena replied. “So do I.”

Outside, the mist began to lift. Inside, two oracles sat in the glow of candlelight, waiting for the dream to turn its head.

Chapter 5: 1.02 | THE FATE OF ALEX BURGESS

Summary:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xR2wdbcskZeJxCTubpXf1?si=291VxlO7Q9Slh3ekWINXiA
The recommended playlist for this chapter

Notes:

I chose to slightly reinterpret the scene where Dream escapes just so I could express a bit of British humour
This mammoth of a chapter is nearly 11k words (kudos to anyone who managed to get through it all)

Chapter Text

1900
THE DREAMING

“My Lord,” Lucienne chimed, her voice a clear bell in the hush, pausing at the threshold as Dream looked up from the scattered letters before him, his pale fingers resting lightly on a parchment that trembled as if caught in a breath of wind. The room was cavernous, lined with shelves that reached into shadow. Scrolls and tomes slumbered in dust-laced silence, and the air smelled faintly of ink, old vellum, and something older still—like forgotten oaths. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all, Lucienne. What is it?” His voice was soft, distant—like the echo of footsteps in a vast hall, or the memory of a lullaby sung in a cathedral long since abandoned.

Lucienne stepped forward, her boots whispering against the stone floor. “You have a new guest in the rookery. I thought you might like to meet Drys Dodona’s latest gift.”

Dream’s eyes darkened, the silver flecks within them dimming to stormcloud grey. He rose from his seat with the grace of a shadow uncoiling, tall and still, his robes trailing like smoke. “One would think that after so many centuries, Lucienne, you would know she has no wish to be called that, and that Lady Eila prefers her chosen name.”

Lucienne inclined her head. “Of course, my Lord.” She guided him through winding corridors of parchment and ink until they reached the rookery’s iron gates. Beyond, the caw of ravens fell silent, clustering on perches in a peculiar hush.

They passed through winding corridors where letters fluttered in the half-draft like trapped birds. Each bundle of correspondence was pinned to the walls by silver quills—messages waiting, unsent, or perhaps already answered. Lucienne’s lantern cast long shadows that quivered at Dream’s approach.

“She arrived at first light,” Lucienne murmured, voice barely above the hush. “No escort but the morning breeze—and a faint resonance in her cry.”

Dream paused before a pair of iron gates, their black bars entwined with carved ravens mid-flight, wings outstretched in frozen motion. He reached out, fingertips brushing the cold metal, and the carvings seemed to shiver beneath his touch. “Ravens are messengers themselves,” he said, tone thoughtful, eyes fixed on the silent flock beyond. “They rarely fall silent without reason.”

Beyond the gates, the birds clustered on their perches in uncanny stillness. Their heads tilted as one, beaks closed, eyes glinting like spilled ink. The rookery, usually alive with caws and rustling wings, had fallen into a reverent hush—as if awaiting judgment.

Lucienne held the latch, her hand steady despite the weight of the moment.

Dream inhaled, slow and deliberate, the air stirring around him like silk. “Open it,” he said. “Let us discover what Lady Eila has sent.”

Lucienne unlatched the iron gate with a soft click, and it swung open on silent hinges, as if the rookery itself had been holding its breath. The air inside was thick with stillness, the kind that settles before a storm or a revelation.

Dream stepped forward, his presence rippling through the chamber like a tide. The ravens did not scatter. They watched, heads tilted, feathers sleek and motionless, their silence a kind of offering.

At the center of the rookery, perched on a twisted branch of obsidian, was the newcomer.

She was smaller than the others, but her feathers shimmered with an iridescent sheen—black, yes, but threaded with hints of violet and deep bronze, as if dusk had woven itself into her wings. Her eyes were not the usual ink-black of the flock; they were pale gold, flecked with silver, and they met Dream’s gaze without flinching.

The rookery was steeped in shadow, its high arches veiled in drifting strands of dreammist. The air was thick with the scent of feathers, parchment, and something older—like the breath of forgotten stories. Dream stood at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the pale glow of starlight filtering through the stained glass above. He moved without sound, his presence folding into the hush like a final note in a song.

She was waiting.

Perched low on a twisted branch of blackwood, the new raven watched him approach. Her feathers shimmered faintly—black, yes, but threaded with hints of violet and deep bronze, like dusk caught in motion. Her eyes were not the ink-dark of the other ravens. They were golden, flecked with silver, and they held the quiet intensity of someone who had seen death and chosen otherwise.

Dream stopped a few feet away, his voice low and even. “Do you know why you’re here?”

The raven tilted her head, the movement precise, almost human. “I do,” she said. Her voice was soft, but clear—like wind through dry leaves. “I died.”

Dream said nothing, but his gaze sharpened.

“I remember the moment,” she continued, her eyes drifting toward the high windows. “It was raining. Cold. I was lying on the pavement, my body broken, my breath shallow. The world was slipping away, and I was too tired to hold on.” She paused, claws curling around the branch. “I thought that was the end. That I would vanish into the dark, nameless and unremembered.”

Her voice faltered, then steadied. “But she came.”

Dream’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to still.

“Lady Eila,” he said.

The raven nodded. “She didn’t arrive with thunder or light. She stepped out of the rain like it parted for her. Her cloak was soaked, her hair tangled with wind, but she looked at me like I mattered.”

Her voice grew quieter, reverent. “She knelt beside me. Touched my face. I remember her fingers—cool, but gentle. She didn’t speak right away. Just watched me. Like she was listening to something inside me I couldn’t hear.”

Dream’s eyes narrowed. “She saw something.”

“She did,” the raven said. “She said I had a way of seeing the world that didn’t fit into the shape I was born with. That I noticed things others missed. That I felt things too deeply to be ordinary.”

She looked down at her talons, flexing them slowly. “She told me she’d made a covenant with you. Long ago. That when the time came, she would send you someone who could serve—not as a servant, but as a mirror.”

Dream stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “And she gave you a choice.”

“She did,” the raven whispered. “To rest, or to return. Not as I was. But as this.”

She spread her wings slightly, the motion graceful, almost ceremonial. “I chose this. Because of her. Because of how she looked at me—not like a debt to be paid, but like a gift she wanted to give.”

The rookery held its breath.

Dream stood beneath the vaulted ceiling, the dreamlight casting long shadows across the stone. Around him, the other ravens watched in silence, their eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. But none stirred. This moment belonged to her.

She perched low on a branch of blackwood, her feathers still settling into their new form. There was something unfinished about her—like a painting still wet, or a poem missing its final line. Yet her eyes were steady, golden and flecked with silver, and they met Dream’s gaze without hesitation.

Dream studied her, his gaze unreadable. “You were human.”

“I was,” she said. “And I remember it. I remember the ache of it. The beauty. The weight.”

“I was,” she replied. Her voice was soft, but sure. “Twenty-four. A poet. Mostly unpublished.”

Dream tilted his head slightly. “Do you remember your name?”

She nodded. “Jessamy.”

He repeated it, slowly. “Jessamy.”

The name lingered in the air, as if the rookery itself was considering it.

Dream stepped closer, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke. “She made a covenant with me long ago. When she sends me a raven, I owe them an oak.”

Jessamy blinked. “An oak?”

“A tree of your own,” Dream said. “Planted in the Dreaming. It will grow with you. Shelter you. Remember you.”

She was quiet for a moment, absorbing the weight of it. “That’s… beautiful.”

“It is tradition,” Dream said. “And tradition matters here.”

Jessamy bowed her head slightly. “Then I accept it. With gratitude.”

"Let us go find you a spot for your oak."

The sky above the Dreaming was streaked with lavender and deep blue, the hour between dusk and dream. Dream walked in silence across a field of soft moss, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that had forgotten its master. Jessamy perched lightly on his shoulder, her talons careful, her body still adjusting to its new shape.

They had left the rookery behind, moving through the Dreaming’s quieter paths—places where the air hummed with old magic and the trees whispered in languages older than memory.

Jessamy said nothing, but her eyes moved constantly, taking in every detail: the way the stars pulsed in the sky like breathing embers, the way the grass bent toward Dream as he passed, as if recognizing him.

At last, they reached a clearing.

It was empty, save for the wind and the hush of possibility. The ground was soft, untouched. The kind of place that waited.

Dream stopped at the centre and raised a hand. Jessamy shifted slightly on his shoulder, watching.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The air thickened, shimmering with threads of silver and green. The ground trembled—not violently, but like something waking from a long sleep. From the soil, a single root pushed upward, curling into the air like a question. Then another. And another.

The tree grew quickly, but gracefully. Its trunk twisted upward, smooth and dark, with veins of gold running beneath the bark like buried light. Branches unfurled like arms reaching toward the stars, and leaves burst forth—broad, deep green, edged with violet. They shimmered faintly, as if remembering every dream that had ever passed beneath them.

Jessamy stared, wide-eyed. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“It is yours,” Dream said. His voice was quiet, but firm. “It will remember you. Shelter you. And when you speak, it will listen.”

She hopped down from his shoulder, landing gently on a low branch. Her feathers caught the starlight, and for a moment, she looked like she belonged to the tree itself.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she said.

“You do now,” Dream replied.

Jessamy looked up at him. “Thank you.”

Dream nodded once. “You are part of the Dreaming now. And the Dreaming remembers its own.”

The wind stirred the leaves, and the tree responded—not with sound, but with presence. It felt alive. A sentinel. A home.

Jessamy nestled into the crook of a branch, her wings folding close. She didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to.

Dream turned and walked away, leaving her beneath the tree that bore her name in silence.

1920
PARIS, FRANCE

A borrowed drawing room in Montparnasse.

The room was dim, lit only by a pair of oil lamps and the soft glow of the hearth. Rain tapped gently against the windows, and the scent of wet stone drifted in from the courtyard. The five of them sat close—Eila, Ximena, Antoinette, Beatriz, and Raphael—surrounded by scattered papers, letters, and clippings yellowed with age.

Eila Laurent spoke first, her voice low and deliberate.

“It’s been four years,” she said. “And still no cure. No explanation. Just more names.”

Ximena Leroux nodded, arms crossed, her boots still damp from the street. “I remember the first one I saw. A boy in Marseille. Twelve. Slipped into sleep during mass. Never woke. His mother kept him in the front room, lit candles every night. He’s still breathing. But he hasn’t moved.”

Antoinette Dubois unfolded a clipping from Le Matin, smoothing it with careful fingers. “Stefan Wasserman,” she said. “Sixteen. Enlisted at thirteen. Verdun. Survived the war, but not the silence. He hadn’t slept in eight days. Said he could feel something pressing against his mind. He jumped from the Pont Saint-Étienne. Left a note: I can’t find the door.”

Beatriz Moreno looked down at the letter in her lap. Her voice was soft, almost reverent.

“Ellie Marsten. Ontario. Her aunt wrote to me last winter. Ellie went to bed after her piano lesson. That was three years ago. She’s still asleep. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is steady. But she doesn’t respond. Her eyes move beneath her lids like she’s dreaming something vast.”

Raphael St. Vincent leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes shadowed.

“Unity Kincaid,” he said. “London. I visited her family in ’18. She speaks in her sleep. Not English. Not anything known. Her brother recorded it—played it for a linguist. They said it resembled ancient Sumerian. But some of the words… they weren’t human.”

Ximena lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face.

“Daniel Bustamonte,” she said. “Kingston. He was painting when it happened. Mid-stroke, he froze. His mother thought he’d had a seizure. But he didn’t fall. He just… stopped. His eyes were open. He didn’t blink. He hasn’t moved since.”

Antoinette folded the clipping and set it aside. “There’s no pattern. No age, no country, no warning.”

Beatriz nodded. “Some sleep too deeply. Others can’t sleep at all.”

Raphael’s voice was bitter. “And the doctors call it hysteria. Or exhaustion. Or nerves.”

Eila looked at each of them in turn. “We know better.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly.

Ximena broke it. “Four years. And all we can do is watch.”

Beatriz whispered, “And remember.”

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, five witnesses held vigil for a world slipping quietly into dreams.

The rain had thickened, drumming steadily against the windows. The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of tobacco, damp wool, and old paper hung in the air. Five figures sat close, surrounded by clippings, letters, and the weight of four years of unanswered questions.

Raphael St. Vincent leaned forward, his eyes catching the firelight. “Do we?” he said, voice sharp. “Because I’m tired of pretending this is some mystery. We know exactly what’s wrong.”

"And what's that?"

Raphael stood by the hearth, pacing like a caged storm. His coat was damp, his hair dishevelled, his voice already raised. “It’s him. It’s always been him. Morpheus. The Dream King. He vanished, and the world started bleeding.”

Ximena Leroux, sprawled on the chaise, raised an eyebrow. “Bleeding dreams?”

“Bleeding minds,” Raphael snapped. “Bleeding children. Stefan Wasserman couldn’t sleep for eight days. Eight. He begged for rest. He begged for silence. And what did he get? A bridge and a broken neck.”

Antoinette Dubois folded a newspaper clipping with trembling fingers. “Ellie Marsten hasn’t woken in three years. Her mother writes to me every month. She still plays piano for her. Still talks to her. As if she’s just… away.”

Beatriz Moreno stirred her tea, the spoon clinking like a clock. “Unity Kincaid speaks in tongues. Daniel Bustamonte hasn’t blinked since 1917. And the doctors call it nerves. Or trauma. Or God.”

Raphael turned on Eila. “And you still defend him.”

Eila’s voice was quiet. “I do.”

Raphael laughed, bitter and bright. “Of course you do. You always have. Even when he left you.”

The room went still.

Ximena sat up. “Raphael—”

“No,” he said, eyes locked on Eila. “Let’s say it. Let’s finally say it. You were his favourite. His oracle. His little flame. And he left you. Just like he left the Dreaming. Just like he left all of us.”

Eila didn’t flinch. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I know enough,” Raphael said. “I know you waited. I know you called to him. I know you burned half your magic trying to reach him. And he never came.”

Antoinette whispered, “Raphael, that’s cruel.”

“It’s true,” he snapped. “She defends him because she loved him. Because she still does.”

The rain clawed at the windows. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long, uncertain shadows. The room was thick with smoke, silence, and the weight of four years of unanswered questions.

Eila stood, slowly. Her voice was low, but it cut through the room like a blade.

“I defend him because he is not the villain you want him to be.”

Raphael’s laugh was sharp, almost cruel. “No? Then what is he, Eila? A martyr? A ghost? A god too delicate to bear the weight of his own realm?”

She didn’t answer.

“You think silence is nobility?” he continued. “You think vanishing is sacrifice? People are dying. Children. Artists. Dreamers. And he—he who shaped the Dreaming with his own hands—he does nothing.”

Eila’s jaw tightened. “You think he chose this?”

“I think he let it happen,” Raphael said. “And I think you can’t admit that because if you do, you’ll have to admit he left you. Not just the world. You.”

The words landed like a slap.

Ximena stepped forward, voice low. “Raphael, that’s enough.”

“No,” he said, eyes still locked on Eila. “She needs to hear it. We all do. You speak of him like he’s a wounded saint. But he’s not. He’s absent. And absence is a kind of cruelty.”

Eila’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t know what he gave up.”

Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “Then tell me. Tell me what was worth this. Worth Stefan Wasserman’s suicide. Worth Ellie Marsten’s endless sleep. Worth Unity Kincaid speaking in languages no one alive remembers.”

Antoinette stepped between them, her voice trembling. “We don’t know what holds him. But we know what happens without him.”

Beatriz, still seated, looked up. “And we know what happens when we turn on each other.”

Raphael turned away, breathing hard. “I’m not turning. I’m demanding. There’s a difference.”

Eila stepped forward, her voice like ice. “You want someone to blame. You want a name to curse. But he is not yours to condemn.”

Raphael spun back, his voice cracked through the room like thunder. “And you—are you still his? After all this?”

The room went still.

The silence that followed was not quiet—it was suffocating. The fire hissed in the grate, casting flickers of gold across Eila’s face. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her gloves were still folded in her lap, but her knuckles had gone white.

Ximena straightened on the chaise, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers. “Raphael,” she warned, voice low, “don’t.”

But he was past restraint.

Raphael stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You defend him like he’s some wounded god, some tragic monarch. But he left. He left the Dreaming. He left us. And he left you.”

Eila rose slowly, her movements precise, deliberate. Her voice was quiet, but it carried.

Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know anything. You think you were special. You think he loved you. But he left you, Eila. Just like he left the Dreaming. Just like he left all of us.”

Antoinette stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Raphael, stop. This isn’t fair.”

But he didn’t stop. He turned to her, eyes wild. “Fair? Fair is Stefan Wasserman begging for sleep and getting death. Fair is Unity Kincaid speaking in tongues no one understands. Fair is Daniel Bustamonte’s mother feeding him broth while he stares at nothing.”

Beatriz rose from her seat, her voice firm. “You’re grieving. We all are. But don’t turn grief into cruelty.”

Raphael spun back to Eila, his voice cracking. “You think loyalty makes you strong? It makes you blind. He’s gone. You’re not his oracle anymore. You’re just a woman clinging to a ghost.”

Eila’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what I am.”

“Oh, I do,” Raphael snarled. “You’re a widow. A widow at a grave that never held a body. You light candles for a man who never promised you anything. You speak his name like it’s a prayer, but it’s just a habit. Just a wound you won’t let heal.”

Eila stepped forward, her voice rising. “You think this is about love?”

Raphael’s voice was venom. “I think it’s about pride. You were his favourite. His flame. And now you’re nothing. Just another fool waiting for a god who doesn’t care.” He continued on. "You, Eila, are a woman clawing onto anyone who gives you attention because you know that the world has forgotten you, and you cannot cope with the concept of irrelevance."

Ximena stood, her voice sharp. “Enough.”

Antoinette moved to Eila’s side, her voice trembling. “We don’t have to do this.”

Beatriz crossed the room, placing a hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “You’re hurting. But this isn’t the way.”

"At least Ximena has relevance. Do they even teach about the Oracle of Dodona in classics studies, Eila? Everyone knows about Delphi. Phoebus Apollo's girls will be remembered til the end of time. Who will remember you now that your Oneiros is gone?"

He didn't stop there. "Perhaps that's why you bore his cub. You would always be remembered by him because you are the mother of his daughter. And, well, if an Endless will always remember you, then you'll never die, will you?"

Ximena crossed her arms, her voice cold. “You crossed a line.”

The silence that followed was not still—it was electric.

The fire in the grate gave a low groan, as if recoiling from the heat in Raphael’s words. Shadows danced violently across the walls, flickering over the faces of the four women who remained frozen in place.

Eila didn’t speak.

She didn’t move.

She stood as if carved from obsidian, her chin lifted, her eyes locked on Raphael with a gaze that had once silenced kings.

Antoinette’s hand trembled on Eila’s arm. “Say something,” she whispered. “Please.”

But Eila didn’t need to speak. Her silence was a force.

Raphael didn’t flinch. He stood tall, jaw set, eyes burning. “I meant every word,” he said, voice steady. “You think I’m cruel? I’m honest. You think I’m jealous? I’m furious. Because while the world collapses, you sit in salons and speak his name like it’s a spell that will fix everything.”

He took a step forward, and Beatriz moved between them, her voice low and firm. “You’ve said enough.”

“No,” Raphael said, eyes still locked on Eila. “She needs to hear it. She needs to hear what we all think but won’t say. That she’s clinging to a vanished god because without him, she’s just a woman with a title no one remembers.”

Ximena’s voice was ice. “You don’t speak for all of us.”

Raphael turned to her, eyes flashing. “Don’t I? You pity her. You protect her. But you know I’m right. Delphi is remembered. Dodona is a footnote. And Eila—Eila is a relic. A woman who bore a god’s child because she knew it was the only way she’d never be forgotten.”

Antoinette gasped. “Raphael—”

Eila finally moved.

Not with fury. Not with tears.

She stepped forward with the grace of a storm gathering at sea—slow, deliberate, inevitable. Her voice, when it came, was low and crystalline, like frost forming on glass.

“You speak of gods as if you’ve ever known one.”

Raphael’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Eila’s gaze didn’t waver. “You speak of me as if you understand what it means to be chosen. To be seen by something older than time and not be consumed.”

Raphael’s voice came back, sharper now, like a blade honed on spite. “Chosen? You weren’t chosen. You were convenient. A distraction. A mortal curiosity. And now you’re clinging to the scraps of that attention like a child clutching a broken toy.”

Beatriz inhaled sharply. “Raphael, why are you doing this?”

Raphael turned to her, his expression wild. “Because someone has to. Because we’ve all tiptoed around her grief like it’s sacred. Like it’s holy. But it’s not. It’s rot. It’s decay dressed in silk.”

Ximena stepped forward, her voice low and dangerous. “You’re not grieving. You’re punishing.”

Raphael didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on Eila. “Tell me, Eila. When you whisper his name in the dark, do you even remember your own anymore? Or has he swallowed you whole?”

Eila’s voice was steady, but it carried the weight of centuries. “He did not swallow me. He saw me. And I saw him. That is more than you have ever dared.”

Raphael’s laugh was bitter. “You defend him still? After what he’s done? After what he’s doing? The Dreaming is bleeding into the waking world. Cities are collapsing under the weight of nightmares. Children sleep and never wake. And you—” he pointed at her, trembling with fury—“you stand here and speak of love?”

Antoinette’s voice cracked. “It’s not him. It can’t be.”

Raphael ignored her. “Even Destruction had the decency to walk away. To leave quietly. But your precious Oneiros? He’s unravelling the seams of reality and you call it devotion.”

Eila’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand him.”

“I understand enough,” Raphael spat. “Enough to know that whatever he was, he isn’t anymore. And if you still stand by him, then you are no friend of mine.”

Ximena stepped between them, her presence like a wall of iron. “That’s enough.”

Raphael didn’t move. “She’s defending a god who is tearing the world apart.”

Ximena’s voice was low, final. “Then go. If you cannot speak without poison, leave.”

Raphael’s jaw clenched. He looked at Beatriz, at Antoinette, at Ximena—and finally, back to Eila.

“You were once the flame,” he said. “Now you’re just the ash.”

He turned, his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow, and walked to the door.

Before he left, he paused. “When the world ends, I hope you’re awake to see it. I hope you see what your god has become.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut with a sound like a tomb sealing.

Silence fell again.

Antoinette was crying softly, her hand over her mouth.

Beatriz poured herself a drink, her hands shaking.

Ximena stood still, her eyes on Eila.

Eila didn’t move.

She stared into the fire, her face unreadable.

And somewhere, in the Dreaming, a tower cracked.

The silence lingered, heavy as snowfall.

Then Antoinette moved first—quietly, gently—wrapping her arms around Eila from behind, her cheek resting against Eila’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know you,” she whispered. “Not really. Not the way we do.”

Eila didn’t speak, but her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, slowly relaxed.

Beatriz crossed the room, setting her glass down untouched. She knelt beside Eila, her voice low and firm. “You are not ash. You are the ember. The one that survives the fire.”

Ximena stepped forward last, her arms still crossed, but her voice softer now. “He’s wrong. About Dodona. About you. You were never a footnote. You were the warning. The whisper before the storm.”

Eila turned her head slightly, her eyes glistening but unfallen. “He’s afraid.”

Ximena nodded. “Of being forgotten. Of being powerless. Of you.”

Antoinette tightened her hold. “We haven’t forgotten. We never will.”

Beatriz reached up, taking Eila’s hand in hers. “And neither will she. Asteria carries you in her blood. In her dreams.”

Eila closed her eyes.

For a moment, the fire dimmed.

Then it flared again, warm and golden.

She opened her eyes and looked at each of them. “Thank you,” she said, voice barely audible.

Antoinette smiled and kissed Eila's cheek. "Shall we get you some cake, dearest?"

"Cake sounds lovely right now."

2012
BERLIN, GERMANY

Berlin, 2012. HALO Club.

The air was thick with heat and haze, perfumed with sweat, spilled vodka, and the synthetic sweetness of cherry vape. HALO was underground—literally and spiritually. A converted bomb shelter turned techno temple, its walls pulsed with LED veins, and its ceilings dripped condensation like the place itself was alive and breathing.

The music was pure Berlin: dark, industrial techno. A remix of Gesaffelstein’s “Pursuit” thundered through the speakers, all metallic growls and mechanical heartbeats. It wasn’t music you danced to—it was music you surrendered to. The kind that made you forget your name, your past, your future.

Asteria was in the centre of it.

Barefoot, her silver heels discarded somewhere near the DJ booth. Her silk slip clung to her like a second skin, damp with sweat and glitter. Her eyeliner was smudged into smoky wings, and her hair—once carefully curled—was now a wild halo around her face. She moved like she was made of smoke and starlight, hips swaying, arms raised, eyes half-lidded.

She didn’t know the man she was dancing with. He wore a mesh shirt and smelled like clove cigarettes. He whispered something in her ear—something about how she looked like a dream—and she laughed, spinning away from him, letting the music swallow her whole.

Phones were out, filming fragments of the night. Strobe lights cut the dark into epileptic flashes. Someone spilled Red Bull on her foot. She didn’t care.

Asteria moved through it like a blade through silk.

Her silver slip dress clung to her like a secret. Her skin shimmered with sweat and glitter, her hair wild and damp, her eyes sharp despite the vodka haze. She was twenty-two, divine by birth, dangerous by choice. She danced like she was daring the world to forget her.

And then she saw him.

The Corinthian.

White suit. Sunglasses. Smiling like he’d just eaten something beautiful.

He was leaning against the bar, untouched by the chaos, sipping gin like it was communion. The crowd parted around him instinctively, like animals sensing a predator. No one looked directly at him. No one ever did.

Except her.

She slid onto the barstool beside him, legs crossed, chin tilted.

“You’re a long way from the Dreaming,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. “So are you.”

“I’m on holiday.”

He turned, finally, and smiled. “Me too.”

Asteria reached for the drink that had already been placed in front of her. Vodka soda, no lime. The bartender didn’t ask. He didn’t meet her eyes either.

She took a sip, watching the Corinthian over the rim of her glass. “You don’t strike me as the clubbing type.”

“I’m not,” he said, swirling his gin. “But I do enjoy watching mortals try to forget they’re dying.”

She snorted. “That’s bleak, even for you.”

He turned to her fully now, the sunglasses catching the strobe light in a flash of silver. “You’re not here for the music either.”

“I’m here to feel something,” she said. “Anything. The Dreaming’s gone quiet. Too quiet.”

He smiled, slow and sharp. “You mean Morpheus is missing.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “You think I had something to do with it.”

“I think you’re the kind of creature who thrives in absence,” she said. “And I think you’re smiling too much for someone who’s supposed to be worried.”

“I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m liberated.”

Asteria’s eyes narrowed. “You were always free.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Not truly. Not until now.”

The music shifted—now it was Modeselektor’s “Evil Twin,” and the bass dropped like a guillotine. The crowd roared. A girl in LED lashes danced on a speaker, her arms raised like she was summoning something.

Asteria didn’t look away from him. “You know what happened.”

“I know what didn’t happen,” he said. “No one came looking. No one sounded the alarm. The Dreaming is rudderless, and the nightmares are restless.”

“You’re not a nightmare,” she said. “You’re a parasite.”

He grinned. “And you’re a candle pretending not to be afraid of the dark.”

She leaned in, close enough to smell the gin and something else—something coppery, metallic, wrong. “If you had anything to do with his disappearance, I’ll find out.”

“I’m counting on it.”

"Seriously, Corinthian. This is my father we're talking about. I will gut you like you do your victims."

The Corinthian’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, like a blade being unsheathed.

“You inherited his flair for dramatics,” he said, swirling his gin. “Though I must say, your threats are far more charming than his.”

Asteria tilted her head, her eyes glittering beneath the strobe. “I’m not charming. I’m furious. There’s a difference.”

He raised his glass in mock salute. “To fury, then. It suits you better than concern.”

She took another sip of her drink, letting the vodka burn down her throat before speaking. “You think I don’t care. That just because he wasn’t exactly the warmest parental figure, I wouldn’t notice when he vanished.”

The Corinthian leaned back, one elbow resting on the bar, his posture relaxed, predatory. “Oh, I think you noticed. I think you felt it like a crack in your spine. But you didn’t run to the gates of the Dreaming, did you? You ran here. To the noise. To the oblivion.”

Asteria’s smile was sharp. “I’m multitasking. Mourning and dancing. You should try it sometime.”

He chuckled. “I mourned him years ago. Long before he disappeared. He was always a ghost pretending to be a king.”

She turned slightly, watching the crowd pulse and writhe under the lights. “You know, for someone who claims to be liberated, you talk about him a lot.”

The Corinthian’s jaw twitched, just slightly. “He made me. That kind of thing leaves a mark.”

Asteria looked back at him. “And now you’re free to leave as many marks as you want. On hotel walls. On bathroom mirrors. On people’s faces.”

He shrugged. “Art is subjective.”

She leaned in, voice low and laced with venom. “You’re not an artist. You’re a tantrum with teeth.”

The Corinthian laughed, genuinely. “God, you really are his daughter.”

Asteria’s expression didn’t change. “And you’re still his mistake.”

That wiped the smile off his face.

They sat in silence for a moment, the music pounding around them like a war drum. The crowd was a blur of limbs and light, the air thick with heat and breath and the scent of something burning—probably synthetic.

“I miss him,” Asteria said suddenly, voice quiet. “Even when he was impossible. Even when he forgot birthdays and spoke in riddles and vanished for weeks. I miss knowing he was somewhere. Watching.”

The Corinthian didn’t respond.

She turned to him, eyes sharp again. “So if you know where he is—if you know what happened—you need to tell me. Because if I find out you’re lying, I won’t just gut you. I’ll make sure you never dream again.”

He smiled, slow and strange. “You think I dream?”

She stood, finishing her drink in one smooth motion. “Everyone dreams. Even nightmares.”

Then she turned, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.

And the Corinthian watched her go, his smile returning—smaller now, and tinged with something almost like regret.

Asteria didn’t move at first. The music surged around her, drowning the silence between them in bass and static, but she stood still—like the eye of a storm, glittering and fragile.

Then she turned, slowly, deliberately, her silver slip catching the strobe in flashes of molten light. Her eyes were glassy, not from the vodka, but from something older. Something softer. Something she hated showing.

“Please,” she said again, and this time the word cracked. “If you know anything, you have to tell me. I need to know he’s not—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

The Corinthian tilted his head, the smile on his face sharpening like a scalpel. “Not what? Dead? Lost? Reabsorbed into the cosmic ether like a good little myth?”

She flinched, and he saw it. Savoured it.

“You’re not built for this kind of grief,” he said, swirling his gin. “You wear it like sequins—pretty, but not protective.”

Asteria stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the concrete, her hair a damp halo of defiance. “I’m not grieving. I’m searching.”

He chuckled. “Same thing, really. One just has better lighting.”

She ignored the jab. “He wouldn’t leave without a reason. He wouldn’t leave me.”

The Corinthian leaned back against the bar, his white suit immaculate despite the chaos around him. “Oh, sweet girl. He’s left you a thousand times. You just didn’t notice because he did it poetically.”

Her jaw clenched, but her voice stayed steady. “You don’t know him.”

“I know him better than you think,” he said, tapping his glass. “I know what he fears. What he regrets. What he dreams of when he forgets to guard himself. And I know this—he’s not coming back. Not the way you want him to.”

Asteria’s breath caught in her throat. The lights flickered, casting her face in shadow and shimmer. She looked suddenly younger. Smaller. Like the girl who used to sit cross-legged in her mother’s garden, weaving spells from dandelions and daydreams.

She swallowed hard. “I just want to know he’s alive.”

The Corinthian’s smile faded, just a fraction. “Alive is a relative term, darling. Especially for beings like him.”

She looked away, blinking fast. The crowd surged around them, oblivious. A girl with LED lashes screamed with joy. Someone spilled a drink. The air smelled like sweat and ozone and something burning.

Then he said it.

“So. How’s your mother?”

Asteria’s head snapped back toward him, eyes blazing.

He grinned, cruel and curious. “Still writing tragic poetry? Still pretending she doesn’t miss him? Or has she finally hexed the moon and moved on?”

Asteria’s voice was low, dangerous. “Don’t.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, sipping his gin. “You left her, didn’t you? Packed your bags full of glitter and unresolved issues and ran off to play goddess in exile. She must be thrilled. All that space to mourn properly.”

“I didn’t leave her,” Asteria said, voice trembling. “I just needed room to breathe.”

He leaned in, sunglasses catching her reflection. “And now you’re suffocating.”

She didn’t answer. Her silence was thick, bitter, laced with guilt and longing.

The Corinthian straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “You know, for someone born of dreams, you’re remarkably bad at hope.”

Asteria stepped back, her eyes never leaving his. “And for someone made of teeth, you talk too much.”

He laughed, delighted. “Touché.”

She turned again, this time with purpose, pushing through the crowd like a blade through silk. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts a storm. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she couldn’t stay.

And behind her, the Corinthian watched, his smile fading into something unreadable.

The Corinthian watched Asteria vanish into the crowd, her silver slip flickering like a dying star. He didn’t smile. Not yet. He just stared at the spot she’d left behind, swirling his gin like it held answers.

Then, almost absently, he said, “I didn’t mean to be cruel. About Eila.”

Asteria stopped. Didn’t turn. Just stood there, back straight, shoulders tense.

He kept going, voice light, almost teasing. “I mean, I was cruel. But not maliciously. More… recreationally.”

She turned, slowly, one brow arched.

The Corinthian gave a sheepish shrug. “You know me. I poke at grief like a kid pokes at roadkill. Morbid curiosity, not malice.”

Asteria’s eyes narrowed. “She loved him.”

“I know,” he said, tapping his glass. “She loved him like he was a tragic poem she could rewrite. And he loved her like she was a dream he couldn’t quite hold. It was all very Shakespearean. Lots of sighing and silence.”

Asteria didn’t speak.

He leaned on the bar, sunglasses catching the strobe in fractured flashes. “Truth is, I’ve always had a soft spot for your mother. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe it’s the way she never flinched when she looked at me. Like she saw the teeth and thought, ‘Well, at least he’s consistent.’”

Asteria’s lips twitched. “She said you were honest in the way knives are honest.”

He grinned. “See? That’s practically affection.”

The music throbbed around them, a heartbeat made of steel and static.

“She has the most beautiful eyes,” he said, quieter now. “And I’ve seen a lot. Worn a few. But hers? Oracle eyes. Eyes that see too much. Eyes that make even nightmares feel like they’ve been caught cheating on their metaphors.”

Asteria tilted her head. “You’re saying you wouldn’t touch them?”

He raised his glass in mock solemnity. “Not even if I was starving. Not even if they were gift-wrapped in prophecy and dipped in honey. Some things are sacred. Even to me.”

She studied him, unsure whether to believe the sincerity or the sarcasm.

He winked. “Tell her I asked. Tell her I’m still terrible, but slightly sentimental. And that I miss her tea. Even if it always tasted like regret and rosemary.”

Asteria snorted. “She’ll hex you for that.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, raising his glass. “Wouldn’t be the worst.”

Then she turned again, slipping back into the crowd, her heart a little heavier, her mind a little clearer.

And the Corinthian watched her go, finally sipping his gin, the taste sharp and bitter—like memory.

The Corinthian swirled the last of his gin, then turned with the fluid grace of someone who’d never had to try too hard. The man beside him—mid-thirties, sharp jaw, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest recklessness—was nursing a whiskey and watching the crowd like he’d lost something in it.

“Bad night?” the Corinthian asked, voice smooth as silk soaked in sin.

The man glanced over, wary. “Just long.”

The Corinthian smiled, slow and deliberate. “Well, lucky for you, I specialize in short, unforgettable detours.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush skin. “I do. And I’m very good at making people forget what they were brooding about. Or who.”

The man chuckled, half amused, half intrigued. “You’re not subtle.”

“Subtlety is for people who don’t know they’re beautiful,” the Corinthian said, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. “You, my friend, should be worshipped. Or at least thoroughly ruined.”

The man blinked, then laughed. “You’re insane.”

The Corinthian grinned. “Only in the most charming ways.”

He gestured toward the dance floor. “Come on. Let’s go make some mistakes.”

And just like that, the man followed.

Because when a nightmare smiles like that, you don’t say no.

PRESENT DAY
WYCH CROSS, ENGLAND

The dome was silent.

Not the kind of silence that comes from absence, but the kind that hums with containment. A silence so thick it felt curated—like the world had pressed mute on purpose.

Inside, Dream sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his skin pale as moonlight. The glass around him shimmered faintly, catching the dim light like a memory trying to stay relevant.

He didn’t move much anymore. Movement was for those who believed in time.

Instead, he imagined.

He imagined he was a prisoner—not a king, not a god, not a concept—but a man. A man who had counted every day with chalk. One mark for each sunrise he couldn’t see. One line for every hour that passed without a whisper from the Dreaming.

In his mind, the glass was no longer transparent. It was a mosaic of white scars, chalked tally marks layered over each other until they blurred into a fog. There was more chalk than glass now. More memory than clarity.

He liked the idea of it. The ritual. The illusion of control.

He imagined the first mark—hesitant, defiant. Then the tenth. Then the hundredth. Then the thousandth, carved with the same precision, the same quiet fury. He imagined running out of space and starting again, overlapping lines like a palimpsest of waiting.

It kept him occupied.

Sometimes he imagined the chalk was bone. Sometimes ash. Sometimes the dust of forgotten dreams.

He didn’t speak. There was no one to speak to. But in his mind, he narrated.

“Day 1, I was furious. Day 47, I was curious. Day 300, I was quiet. Day 1,000, I was still.”

Outside the dome, the world moved. People danced. Nightmares smiled. Oracles wept.

Inside, Dream waited.

And the glass held him like a secret.

The two guards sat slouched in folding chairs just outside the dome, boots up on a crate of expired protein bars, the kind that tasted like regret and cardboard. The air was stale, the lighting flickering like it couldn’t commit to being ominous.

One of them—Kev—was chewing gum like it owed him money. The other—Daz—was halfway through a sausage roll he’d smuggled in from Greggs, crumbs dotting his uniform like battlefield debris.

They stared at the glass dome.

Inside, Dream didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there like a Victorian ghost auditioning for a perfume advert.

Kev squinted. “So what is he, then? Alien? God? Failed magician from the seventies?”

Daz snorted. “Nah, he’s one of those posh goths. You know the type. Writes poetry about ravens and wears velvet in July.”

Kev nodded sagely. “Bet he’s got a diary full of tragic metaphors. ‘Dear journal, today I brooded so hard I turned the moon off.’”

Daz chuckled, wiping his mouth. “He’s like if Tim Burton and a migraine had a baby.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.

Kev leaned forward, peering at Dream through the glass. “He hasn’t moved in days. Do you reckon he’s dead?”

Daz shrugged. “Nah. He’s probably meditating. Or sulking. Hard to tell with the cheekbones.”

Kev tapped the glass with his boot. “Oi! You alright in there, Dracula?”

No response.

Daz shook his head. “I swear, if he starts floating or chanting in Latin, I’m quitting. I didn’t sign up for haunted aquarium duty.”

Kev grinned. “I did. I specifically asked for the shift with the mysterious emo bloke. Makes me feel cultured.”

Daz rolled his eyes. “You thought ‘Kafkaesque’ was a type of sandwich.”

Kev pointed at Dream. “Still more personality than my ex.”

They both laughed again, but quieter this time. The dome had a way of making jokes feel borrowed.

Daz finished his sausage roll, brushing crumbs off his lap. “You reckon he dreams?”

Kev shrugged. “Probably dreams in black and white. With subtitles.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the unmoving figure inside.

Then Kev muttered, “Still. Creepy, innit?”

Daz nodded. “Yeah. But weirdly elegant. Like a haunted chandelier.”

They both stared a little longer.

And Dream, as ever, said nothing.

Kev squinted at the dome, chewing his gum with the kind of intensity usually reserved for tax audits. “I’m telling you, mate. It’s a Dracula.”

Daz raised an eyebrow, mid-sip of his lukewarm tea from a chipped thermos. “A what?”

“A Dracula,” Kev repeated, gesturing at Dream’s motionless figure. “Look at him. Pale, moody, probably sleeps in a coffin made of existential dread. Bet he drinks blood and quotes Byron.”

Daz snorted. “Nah, he’s too posh for blood. Probably sips metaphors and cries in cursive.”

Kev nodded solemnly. “Definitely a Dracula.”

Daz leaned back, stretching. “Reminds me of this blonde I saw once. Absolute goddess. Legs up to her armpits, hair like sunlight, lips like—well, never mind. Saw her buying a choc ice at the Shell garage off the A52.”

Kev blinked. “What’s that got to do with Dracula?”

“Nothing,” Daz said, waving a hand. “Just saying. Some people are born ethereal. Others buy choc ices in trackies and still look like they could ruin your life in three languages.”

Kev looked unimpressed. “You sure she wasn’t just hungry?”

Daz grinned. “Mate, she looked at me. Right in the eyes. I felt it. Like my soul owed her rent.”

Kev rolled his eyes. “You say that about every woman who makes eye contact.”

“Because I’m magnetic,” Daz said, smug. “I’ve got a vibe. Like danger, but with snacks.”

Kev snorted. “You’ve got the vibe of a man who’s been banned from three branches of Wetherspoons.”

Daz pointed at Dream. “Bet he’s never had a choc ice. Too busy communing with shadows and writing breakup poetry to the moon.”

Kev nodded. “Probably thinks dessert is beneath him. Or symbolic.”

They both stared at the dome again.

Daz sighed. “Still. Wouldn’t mind knowing what he dreams about.”

Kev shrugged. “Probably that blonde. Buying a choc ice.”

They laughed, the sound bouncing off the concrete like it was trying to escape.

Inside the dome, Dream didn’t move.

But maybe—just maybe—he heard them.

Daz leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, the last crumbs of his sausage roll clinging to his shirt like medals of honour. He stared at the dome, then turned to Kev with a grin that suggested absolutely no self-awareness.

“Anyway, I’m off to Majorca next week,” he said, stretching like a cat who’d just remembered it was royalty. “All-inclusive. Pool. Buffet. I’m gonna eat my weight in prawns and regret nothing.”

Kev raised an eyebrow. “You? Abroad? You get sunburnt walking past a toaster.”

Daz waved him off. “Nah, I’ve got a plan. Factor 50, bucket hat, and I’m bringing my own kettle. Can’t trust foreign tea.”

Kev blinked. “You’re bringing a kettle to Spain?”

“Obviously,” Daz said, as if it were the most rational thing in the world. “Also, I’ve got a date lined up. Met her online. She’s called Chantelle. Likes horses and crime documentaries. It’s basically fate.”

Kev snorted. “You’re gonna get catfished by someone’s nan.”

Daz ignored him, eyes drifting toward the dome. “Still, I’ll miss this place. The ambience. The existential dread. The mysterious goth in the snow globe.”

Kev chuckled, but Daz didn’t respond.

He was already asleep.

Head tilted back, mouth slightly open, snoring like a man who’d made peace with mediocrity.

Kev rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. Majorca’s gonna love you.”

Inside the dome, Dream opened his eyes.

No sound. No movement. Just a shift in the air, like the temperature had dropped a fraction.

He watched Daz’s sleeping form with the quiet intensity of a predator studying prey—not with hunger, but with purpose.

Dream didn’t need chalk now.

He had a crack.

In Daz’s dream, the beach was endless. The prawns were infinite. Chantelle was radiant and possibly fictional. But something was wrong. The sun flickered. The sea whispered. And the glass—oh, the glass—was everywhere.

It surrounded him. Reflected him. Mocked him.

And then Dream appeared.

Not as himself, but as a voice. A suggestion. A feeling.

“Break it.”

Daz turned in the dream, confused. “Break what?”

“The glass. It’s keeping you from the sea. From Chantelle. From the prawns.”

Daz frowned. “But it’s—”

“Break it.”

In the waking world, Kev was scrolling through his phone, oblivious.

Daz stirred.

His hand twitched.

Then, without warning, he stood, eyes glassy, face slack, and pulled his sidearm.

Kev looked up. “Oi, what the—”

Daz fired.

The bullet hit the dome with a sound like thunder and heartbreak.

The glass didn’t shatter.

But it cracked.

A thin, jagged line, like a scar across the surface.

Inside, Dream smiled.

And outside, Kev screamed, “You absolute bellend!”

Daz blinked, confused, gun still raised. “Did I just—?”

Kev grabbed the weapon. “You shot the bloody dome! What were you dreaming about, Die Hard on holiday?”

Daz rubbed his head, dazed. “I think… I think the prawns told me to do it.”

Kev stared at him. “You need help.”

The crack in the dome spread slowly, like a spiderweb spun from inevitability. It pulsed faintly, catching the dim light in fractured glints. The air around it shifted—thickened, darkened—as if the world had just remembered it was dreaming.

Inside, Dream stood.

No ceremony. No flourish. Just movement—quiet, deliberate, final.

He raised one hand, and the sand began to pour from his palm. Not ordinary sand, but the kind that shimmered with memory and myth. Each grain held a story, a sleep, a secret.

Outside, Kev was still shouting.

“You absolute lunatic! You shot the bloody dome! We’re gonna get sacked, or cursed, or eaten by a poetic fog!”

Daz blinked, still dazed. “I swear, it was the prawns…”

Then the glass gave way.

Not with a bang, but with a sigh. A soft, crystalline exhale as the dome collapsed inward, dissolving into dust and silence.

Dream stepped through the remnants, robes trailing like smoke, eyes dark as forgotten stars.

Kev froze. “Oh bollocks.”

Daz dropped his gun. “I think I need a lie down.”

Dream didn’t speak.

He simply raised his hand again, and the sand swirled—elegant, hypnotic, inevitable.

It danced through the air, curling around the guards like a lullaby made visible. Kev tried to protest, but his words slurred mid-sentence. Daz blinked twice, then collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

They fell together, snoring in harmony, sprawled across the concrete like discarded thoughts.

Dream stood over them, silent.

He looked down, not with contempt, but with something colder: indifference.

Then he turned, walking into the corridor beyond, the sand trailing behind him like a comet’s tail.

The Dreaming was waiting.

And its king had returned.

PRESENT DAY
WYCH CROSS, ENGLAND

The fire in the study had burned low, casting a dull amber glow across the room like the last breath of something once grand. Shadows stretched long and thin across the Persian rug, flickering with the rhythm of dying embers. Alex Burgess sat slumped in his armchair, a blanket draped over his knees, the edges frayed from years of use. His book—some dusty volume on esoteric philosophy—had slipped from his lap and lay open on the floor, its pages fluttering faintly in the draft.

Outside, Wych Cross was silent. The kind of silence that felt curated. Intentional. As if the house itself was holding its breath.

Alex’s head lolled to the side. His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

And then he slept.

In the dream, he was a child again.

Eight years old, maybe nine. Barefoot, wearing a wool jumper that hung off his small frame like a borrowed identity. The sleeves dangled past his fingertips, and the hem brushed his knees. His hair was lighter, his face rounder, untouched by guilt or time.

The halls of Wych Cross stretched before him—longer, darker, stranger than they had ever been. The wallpaper was peeling in places, revealing layers of forgotten patterns beneath. The sconces flickered with candlelight, though no flame was visible. The air smelled of lavender and dust and something older, something buried.

He walked slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet like they remembered him. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following his every step. Some of the faces he recognized—his father, his grandfather, grim and distant. Others were strangers, their expressions unreadable, their eyes too lifelike.

Then he saw it.

A black cat.

It sat in the middle of the hallway, perfectly still, its fur sleek and gleaming like polished obsidian. Its eyes were wide, luminous, twin orbs of silver that shimmered with something ancient. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move.

Alex stopped. “Hello?”

The cat turned without a sound and began to walk.

He followed.

The house shifted around him. Corridors bent at impossible angles. Doors appeared where none had been. The chandeliers above swayed gently, though the air was still. He passed rooms he didn’t remember—one filled with clocks, all ticking out of sync; another with mirrors that reflected not him, but someone older, someone afraid.

The cat led him up the grand staircase, its steps worn smooth by generations of footsteps. At the top, the attic door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness spilling out like ink.

The cat slipped through.

Alex hesitated, then pushed the door open.

The attic was vast.

Larger than it should have been. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow. Dust hung in the air like fog, catching the moonlight that filtered through the grimy windows. Old toys lay scattered across the floor—wooden blocks, a rusted train set, a rocking horse that moved gently, though no one touched it.

The walls were lined with shelves, each one crammed with forgotten things: broken clocks, faded books, jars filled with feathers and teeth. The air was thick with memory, with the weight of things left unsaid.

And in the center of the room stood Dream.

Tall. Pale. His robes flowed around him like smoke caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. His hair was black as void, his skin the color of bone. His eyes—oh, his eyes—were galaxies in collapse. Infinite. Unforgiving.

Alex froze.

The cat was gone.

Dream didn’t speak.

Alex stepped forward, his voice small, trembling. “I didn’t mean to—”

Dream raised a hand.

The attic fell silent.

Not cruel. Not kind. Just absolute.

Alex’s voice cracked. “I was just a boy. I didn’t know what they’d done. What they kept. I didn’t know you were—”

Dream’s gaze didn’t soften. The shadows around him deepened, curling like smoke around his feet.

“You knew enough,” he said, his voice like wind through a mausoleum. “Enough to benefit. Enough to choose silence.”

Alex’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor, the wool jumper pooling around him like a shroud. “I’m sorry.”

Dream stepped closer. The rocking horse stilled. The dust stopped moving. Even the moonlight seemed to hesitate.

“So am I,” Dream said.

The attic darkened.

The toys dissolved.

The shelves collapsed inward, swallowed by shadow.

And Alex Burgess, still a child in his dream, began to cry.

Alex knelt on the attic floor, the wool jumper sagging around his small frame, his hands trembling against the warped wooden boards. The shadows pressed in from all sides, thick and unmoving, like the attic itself was holding its breath.

Dream stood before him, unmoving, his robes trailing like smoke, his face carved from something older than stone. The air around him shimmered faintly, as if reality was struggling to hold its shape in his presence.

Alex looked up, eyes wide, voice cracking. “Please… I didn’t know. I didn’t ask for any of it. I was just a boy.”

Dream’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I didn’t want to keep you there,” Alex continued, desperation rising like floodwater. “I—I was scared. My father… he said you were dangerous. He said you’d destroy us if we let you out.”

Dream stepped forward, and the attic seemed to shrink around him. The rocking horse stopped mid-creak. The dust froze in the air.

“You profited from my imprisonment,” Dream said, voice low and resonant, like thunder muffled by velvet. “You inherited the crime. You perpetuated it.”

Alex’s breath hitched. “I didn’t mean to—”

Dream raised a hand.

Silence.

Not just in the attic, but in Alex’s throat. His mouth moved, but no sound came. His pleas dissolved into the air like mist.

Dream’s eyes burned with cold fire. “The crimes of your father were monstrous. But yours were deliberate. You had the power to choose. And you chose comfort. You chose silence.”

Alex’s eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak, to beg, but the silence held.

Dream stepped closer, and the shadows curled around his feet like loyal dogs.

“There will be no pardon,” he said. “Not for him. Not for you.”

The attic darkened further, the walls folding inward, the toys vanishing into dust. The windows cracked, spiderweb fractures spreading across the glass like veins.

Dream’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk.

“I was imprisoned for over a century,” he said, each word heavy with the weight of time. “Longer than a human lifetime. Longer than your father’s ambition could ever have imagined.”

Alex froze, his lips still parted in mute pleading.

“In that time,” Dream continued, “the world tore itself apart. Twice. Millions died in wars that reshaped continents. Nations rose from ashes, only to crumble again. Borders shifted. Flags changed. Kings were buried. Queens crowned.”

He stepped closer, and the air grew colder, as if history itself had entered the room.

“Empires collapsed. Revolutions ignited. The stars were mapped anew. Humanity reached for the moon, and forgot the dreams that once guided them.”

Alex’s eyes widened, the enormity of it pressing down on him like a mountain.

“All while I remained caged. Bound. Forgotten. Because your father sought power he did not understand. And you—” Dream’s voice darkened, “you let it continue. You let me rot in silence while the world changed without me.”

The attic groaned, the walls warping slightly, as if time itself was buckling under Dream’s words.

“You cannot fathom what was lost. What was broken. What was born in my absence.”

Alex tried to speak again, but the silence still held him.

Dream’s eyes narrowed. “And now you ask for forgiveness. As if a century of suffering can be undone with a plea.”

He turned, his cloak trailing shadows that whispered of forgotten dreams and broken promises.

“There will be no pardon.”

Dream’s voice deepened, resonating with ancient fury and sorrow.

“You barred me from my realm with your foolish circle,” he said, stepping into the center of the attic where the remnants of the summoning glyph still lingered like a scar. “A crude prison drawn in salt and desperation. You thought you could bind a concept. A force. A god.”

Alex shrank back, the silence still choking his throat.

“You threatened, cajoled, and pleaded for gifts that are neither mankind’s to receive nor mine to give,” Dream continued, his eyes gleaming like twin stars in a void. “Immortality. Power. Resurrection. You begged for miracles as if they were coins to be traded.”

The shadows around him writhed, echoing his disdain.

“You had no thought for the harm you must have brought to your world,” he said, voice now tinged with sorrow. “No dreams to guide the lost. No nightmares to warn the arrogant. No stories to shape the soul. You severed the link between humanity and its own unconscious. And you did so for greed.”

Alex’s tears streamed silently down his face.

“What fools you mortals are,” Dream whispered, not with cruelty, but with the weariness of one who has seen the same mistake repeated across millennia. “You grasp at eternity and forget the cost. You cage the infinite and wonder why your world begins to rot.”

He turned, the attic dimming further, the air thick with the weight of his judgment.

“You will not be forgiven. Not by me. Not by the realm you wounded.”

Alex collapsed to his knees, his voice finally breaking through the silence in a hoarse whisper.

“We didn’t want you,” he said, trembling. “We wanted Death.”

The words hung in the air like ash.

Dream turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but the temperature in the attic seemed to drop with every syllable that followed.

“Then count yourself fortunate,” he said, voice like distant thunder. “For the sake of your species, for the fragile thread of existence you cling to—you should be grateful that you failed.”

Alex looked up, eyes wide with horror.

“To capture Death,” Dream continued, “would have been to unravel the natural order. To halt the turning of the wheel. No one would die… and no one would truly live. Disease would fester. Minds would decay. The world would drown in its own stagnation.”

He stepped forward, and the attic seemed to recoil.

“You sought to bargain with forces beyond your comprehension. You reached into the dark, hoping to steal eternity, and you nearly shattered the balance of all things.”

Alex’s lips trembled. “We didn’t know…”

“No,” Dream said, “you didn’t. And that is the tragedy of mortals. You act without understanding. You grasp without wisdom. You summon gods and expect them to kneel.”

He paused, letting the silence settle once more.

“You imprisoned me. But had you succeeded in capturing my sister… the consequences would have been far more dire.”

Dream’s eyes glinted with something ancient and mournful.

“You should thank whatever mercy remains in the universe that Death does not answer to fools.”

Dream regarded Alex with a gaze that seemed to pierce through time itself.

“You kept me caged,” he said, voice low and measured. “You denied me my realm. You stole a century from the world of dreams.”

Alex whimpered, his body curled in on itself, the weight of guilt pressing down like a tombstone.

“And yet,” Dream continued, “you offered me shelter. Not out of kindness, but out of fear. Still, you kept the circle intact. You maintained the prison. You ensured I remained… contained.”

He stepped closer, and the attic darkened around him, the air thick with the scent of dust and forgotten things.

“For your hospitality,” Dream said, “I will grant you a gift.”

Alex looked up, hope flickering in his eyes—but it was a fragile, foolish thing.

“The gift of eternal sleep.”

The words fell like a verdict.

Alex’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His limbs slackened. His eyes glazed, not in terror, but in sudden, overwhelming calm.

Dream raised a hand, and the shadows folded around Alex like a blanket. His breathing slowed. His body stilled.

“No dreams,” Dream whispered. “No nightmares. Just silence. Forever.”

The attic grew quiet, save for the creak of the floorboards and the whisper of wind through the broken window.

Dream turned away, his cloak trailing the last remnants of Alex’s consciousness behind him.

Chapter 6: 1.03 | THE MISSING GALLERY

Chapter Text

800 BCE
THE DREAMING

"Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles filled with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria sat."
-Mary Wollstoncraft, Maria, or The Wrongs of Woman (1798)

Dream stood at the edge of a vast chamber carved from dusk and memory, where the ceiling was a swirl of constellations that had never belonged to any sky.

“I have something to show you,” he said, his voice quiet and deliberate, as though the words themselves held gravity.

Eila stepped forward. “A secret?”

He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “Not a secret.”

The floor beneath them shifted, no longer stone but a mirrored surface reflecting moments that had never happened. With a tilt of his head, Dream beckoned her through an archway veiled in strands of starlight.

A low hum filled the air, like the sound of a lullaby sung underwater. Somewhere ahead, the scent of parchment and fire lilies stirred.

“Then what?”

“Just come with me.”

Eila stood at the edge of something ancient—where the sky pulsed violet and gold, and the air seemed spun from silence. Around her rose the Gallery, tall and stately as the temples of her youth. The pillars were carved from alabaster, their fluted edges gleaming in soft starlight; above them, thick swaths of purple fabric draped from ceiling to floor, swaying faintly, as if stirred by music too old to remember.

Dream stood beside her, robes quiet against the marble floor. His presence was a kind of gravity, and yet the room seemed built to cradle her.

“I thought,” she said softly, eyes climbing the curve of an arch etched with olive branches, “that dreams were made only of what we imagine.”

“Not always,” said Dream. “This gallery is drawn not from invention, but from remembrance. Here live the works you have seen—those etched into your soul so deeply they returned to you in sleep.”

Her gaze travelled down the corridor, lined with warm lamplight and shadows. There they hung—fragments of frescoes from the Palace of Knossos, soft and crumbling. A Cycladic marble idol, serene in its stillness. The shield of Achilles, burnished and gleaming, as described in smoky verses by the firepit once, and dreamt of ever since.

Eila stepped closer to a wall where the Lion Gate of Mycenae had been recreated in perfect, mist-bound scale. Amber light ran along its edges, like honey slipping over stone.

“I saw this as a girl,” she whispered. “Clutched my aunt’s hand and cried without knowing why. That night I dreamt of lions carved from stars. I didn't think it would follow me here.”

Dream nodded. “What marks you finds root in the Dreaming.”

“And this one,” she said, pausing before a sculpture lit by gentle flame. A kouros—early, rough in form, yet graceful in stance. “I saw it in Thasos. It felt like it was watching me.”

“It is,” Dream replied. “All of these watch you. They know only the echo you left in them.”

She wandered deeper. Gold-leaf amphorae lined the base of the walls, each painted with scenes she half-recognized: Persephone holding an uncut pomegranate, Orpheus singing to laurels, a figure cloaked in stars beneath an olive tree. She touched one gently.

“Even the artists don’t know their work lies here.”

“They do not need to. You summoned them—not from ownership, but from devotion.”

Eila smiled. “So every time I see a new sculpture, or a painting on some forgotten temple wall—if it slips beneath my ribs and settles there—it will appear here?”

“Yes,” he said. “As long as your dreaming remembers.”

She tilted her head, eyes tracing the embroidered fabric above, stitched in patterns of fig leaves and flame. “You’ve made this temple for me... with all the things I never meant to keep.”

“You meant to feel them,” Dream answered. “That was enough.”

Eila turned slowly, the hem of her linen robe brushing against the marble in a hush. “It feels like a shrine to my own memory. Like my soul accidentally curated a museum while I slept.”

He said nothing, but the Gallery itself seemed to nod—a soft wind stirring the purple cloth into motion, revealing more of the corridor beyond.

“Come,” she said gently. “Let’s see what else I’ve brought home without knowing.”

And the Dreaming bloomed on.

Eila wandered deeper into the chamber, the soft lamplight casting warm shadows over her olive-toned skin. Her fingers brushed the smooth marble of the columns, cool as early morning fog on mountain stone. She glanced upward to the heavy swaths of purple fabric draping from the ceiling—thick, regal, veined with gold thread like tributaries of divine thought. They reminded her of the tapestries that once hung in her aunt’s house in Epirus, where each fold could conceal a story, a rumour, or a prophecy spoken too softly for daylight.

She paused before a fresco she had once glimpsed on the wall of a shrine—its pigments aged by centuries, a procession of figures in white and crimson robes, their faces partly turned toward flame. She had seen it during a festival, while incense smoked the air and someone recited verses of Hesiod. The image had gripped her—not by logic, but by something beneath it. And now, impossibly, here it was again. Dream had plucked it from the tangle of her memory like a leaf from a storm.

“Did I truly carry this all the way from that hour?” she wondered. “Is memory so porous that it breathes into dreams without asking?”

There were statues she had knelt before in childhood—Cycladic torsos, serene and unfinished, the pure curve of form that spoke more loudly than detail. Amphorae painted with deer and cypress; the burnt orange of their clay now steeped in the gallery’s soft amber light. A sculpture of Artemis, half-broken, her bow eternally drawn. Eila stood before it with a strange sense of familiarity, as if her own breath had once been carved into the marble.

She turned to Dream. “Do you know what this is?” she whispered. “It’s the temple I never dared to ask for. Built not from offerings, but from reverence left unspoken. I didn’t even know I’d wanted it.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Dreams gather what you don’t speak aloud.”

She smiled faintly, brows drawn in quiet thought. “Then this place… it is me. Not the loud me who chants prophecy or stands beneath thunder. But the private me. The dreaming one. The girl who stared too long at a flake of gold in mosaic and built a whole hymn around it in her sleep.”

She walked on, the marble sighing underfoot, passing more of what she had loved and half-forgotten. And with every step, the gallery unfolded like a scroll of stars—waiting to be read, waiting to be dreamt again.

Eila halted before a mosaic of constellations swirling over ancient seas, the stars made of cut lapis and shards of mirrored glass. They glimmered softly beneath the gallery’s light, beckoning, unfixed.

She turned slowly to Dream. He stood a pace behind her, as ever—unmoved but listening.

“Why did you make this?” she asked, voice barely louder than breath. “Why for me?”

Dream looked at her, and though his eyes held no glint of tears or sentiment, there was weight in them—a hush.

“Because you remember in ways others forget,” he said. “You carry things not just as relics, but as roots. And roots deserve soil.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “But you’ve never known me—not truly.”

“I don’t have to know with the mind. Dream reads longing. You built this place in moments you thought no one saw. I simply gave it walls.”

Eila stepped closer. “So this isn’t a gift. It’s a mirror.”

“A sanctuary,” he corrected gently. “A space to walk your own mythology, without needing permission.”

She smiled, more haunted than joyful, and reached out to trace the edge of the mosaic. Her fingers shimmered where they touched the stars.

Eila’s gaze lingered on the floating mosaic, the constellation pieces shimmering as though caught mid-breath. She turned toward Dream, eyes narrowing slightly in mock suspicion.

“You are too kind to me,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Do you always make surreal palaces for your guests, or is this one just my personal fever dream?”

Dream’s expression didn’t change—eternally solemn, like a poem refusing to rhyme. “Kindness need not be exclusive. But yours is… particularly elaborate, like a kaleidoscope turned inward. It took time to assemble.”

Eila tilted her head, considering. “So I’m a mosaic of whims?”

Dream’s eyes traced the shifting walls as if they could answer for him. “A library of half-lit moments,” he said. “Bound in leather, footnoted with longing.”

She squinted at him. “You’ve clearly been moonlighting as a sentimental thesaurus.”

“Only in the evenings,” he said solemnly. “And only when the moon is in italics.”

She huffed a laugh. “I should’ve known. This place feels like it was designed by someone who alphabetizes emotions.”

“Categorization is compassionate.”

“Depends on the categories,” she muttered, then turned as the corridor subtly morphed around them.

They wandered deeper into the gallery, and it responded like an attentive scribe—walls unfolding into translucent panes, each one flickering with the warmth of half-remembered summers. Behind one panel shimmered a coastal feast abandoned to sudden rainfall—olives bobbing in overturned bowls, linen cloaks swept away by wind like startled birds. Another showed a fig tree, sunstruck and tangled, its branches just beyond the grasp of a younger Eila’s ambition. Further down danced the outline of a donkey cart, its wheel squeaking faithfully every sixth rotation, like an old priest clearing his throat before a sermon.

Eila pressed a fingertip against the glass, watching a ripple spread like ink in water. “Is this meant to honour me or gently mock my hesitation?”

“Most things do both,” said Dream, his tone like still water at dusk.

She raised an eyebrow. “You speak like someone who’s never slipped into the sacred pool chasing a tortoise.”

“I don’t chase tortoises,” he replied. “But I understand misdirected devotion.”

She snorted—unexpected and musical. “Of course you do. You’re the steward of secrets even the stones forget.”

He inclined his head. “I store what tries not to be seen.”

Eila let her breath fog the glass, watching it bloom then fade. “Memory,” she mused softly, “has a flair for performance.”

The hallway grew quieter around them, as if the gallery itself had begun to listen.

They moved onward beneath a ceiling carved like rolling waves, its undulating surface catching traces of amber light. Ahead, the space widened into a circular chamber—its walls not stone, but tightly woven reeds dyed with ochre and blue. Suspended from the ceiling were garlands of dried thyme and lavender, and the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and saffron.

In the centre stood a basin—not of water, but of sound. Eila stepped toward it slowly. From the curved bowl rose scattered voices: laughter layered atop lullabies, fragments of tales told beside hearths, the rustle of a robe as someone passed her once in the street and murmured her name. A small bird’s call from the canopy above her village. A thunderclap that had once startled her into poetry.

She leaned in. The sounds did not play in sequence—they braided.

“You wove this?” she asked Dream.

“No,” he said. “You did. In remembering.”

She stood very still. “I never knew sound could ferment.”

“Memory preserves in many forms. Some sour. Some sweet.”

A long pause.

Then Eila grinned softly and turned to him. “If I tell you I once tried to bottle the wind, would you laugh?”

“I would ask which kind.”

“The north wind,” she said. “Bold choice, I admit. I thought if I trapped it under clay, I could release it during summer festivals.”

“Did it work?”

“I caught a spider and some dust. The wind escaped. But I declared it a success and insisted my sister wear it as perfume.”

Dream nodded solemnly. “Innovation is rarely tidy.”

They walked slowly along the perimeter of the chamber, where the sounds grew quieter—more pensive. A dry cough from her grandfather, rhythmic like a ritual. The distant sound of reed pipes. The scrape of her younger self etching a symbol into bark, convinced it would protect her dreams.

“I used to think memory was a box,” she said, “but it’s clearly a trickster god in disguise.”

“And yet,” Dream said, “you welcome it every night.”

They reached a threshold of golden stone, where a new passage curled ahead—narrow, pulsing faintly with scent and shadow.

Eila glanced back at the basin. “Is there ever a sound that refuses to be remembered?”

“Yes,” Dream replied. “But even those leave echoes.”

Eila stood beneath an arch etched with signs she had drawn once in trance—symbols borne from dreams, glimpsed in firelight, or scrawled in sand while sleep still clung to her eyes. They glowed faintly, as if still trying to tell her something she hadn’t understood.

She turned to Dream, voice lower than before. “You could have built this for anyone. Why me?”

He stepped forward, and the gallery held its breath.

“Because your dreams do not just wander,” Dream said. “They build. They reach. They speak in tongues no temple dares to translate.”

Eila tilted her head. “That sounds like a warning.”

“No,” he replied. “An enchantment. You dream like a weaver with too many threads—and rather than choose, you braid the future and the past into something the present doesn’t know how to wear.”

Her gaze drifted to a fresco showing a distant storm—one she had dreamt three winters before, whose thunder still rumbled beneath her ribs. “And my prophecy? You don’t find that… troubling?”

“I find it exquisite,” Dream said. “The way you divine truth through fog. How you spin omen into fable.”

She turned back to him fully now, eyes searching. “Even when I’m wrong?”

“You’re never simply wrong,” he said. “You are early. Or perhaps the world is late.”

A long silence bloomed between them. Then Dream’s voice softened further.

“I gave you this,” he said, “because you dream like an artist and regret like a poet. Both deserve space.”

Eila blinked—once, slowly. Her gaze drifted to the patterns etched along the gallery floor, looping like vines that remembered how to sing. She smiled, a little sideways, then looked up at him.

“You’ve come to me four times in the last century,” she said. “That’s… unusual.”

“It is.”

“Most beings like you don’t seek oracles. They avoid us like wet sandals.”

“I’ve never liked dry prophecy,” Dream replied.

Eila laughed softly. “So is that what this means?” She stepped slightly closer, her voice somewhere between amused and careful. “Are we… friends?”

Dream was still. Thoughtful. The shadows around him shifted, as if they too considered the question.

“You are no ordinary oracle,” he said. “And I do not often linger.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” she murmured.

“No,” Dream said, “it wasn’t.”

She watched him a moment longer. Then smiled again. “I’ll take it as a maybe.”

Eila’s smile lingered, thoughtful and a touch uncertain. She looked down at the spiralling patterns carved into the floor, then back up at him.

“Does it offend you,” she asked slowly, “that I think one such as you seeks companionship?”

Dream didn’t answer right away. The shadows behind him softened, and something in the air shifted—like breath drawn in before a ritual verse.

“No,” he said at last, voice calm as dusk over a still lake. “It does not offend me.”

She watched him carefully. “Many would say you walk above such things.”

“Many mistake silence for detachment,” he replied. “And reverence for distance.”

Eila stepped closer, her gaze steady. “And what do you say?”

Dream looked at her—the oracle who spoke truth in riddles and stitched prophecy into sleep. “I say that even stars converse. That even winds linger longer near trees they favour.”

She nodded, slow and quiet. “Then I’ll not apologize for hoping we are more than myth crossing paths.”

“You need not,” said Dream. “This gallery is not a shrine. It is a meeting place. Built from you… but made to include me.”

Eila gave a soft, amused snort. “You have a way of making answers sound like riddles hand-stitched by old gods.”

“I speak the way your dreams taught me to.”

Dream’s gaze held steady, like the last flicker of a flame just before dawn.

Eila turned toward him fully, her expression half amusement, half protest. “I do speak in ways beyond riddles, you know. My occupation is not my soul.”

The corner of Dream’s mouth curved—barely. “No,” he said. “But you braid your soul through it more often than you admit.”

She crossed her arms loosely. “Because people expect prophecy. They listen only when it’s dressed as mystery.”

“Yet even when you whisper about clay pots and rain, they lean closer,” he said. “Your voice carries more than omen. It carries invitation.”

Eila smirked. “You’re flattering me into confession.”

“I’m watching a truth reveal itself without permission. That’s not flattery—it’s observation.”

She arched a brow. “Still poetic.”

“And still you listen,” Dream replied.

She rolled her eyes, though the smile stayed. “I listen because you speak like a man who’s already heard me.”

“Perhaps I have,” he murmured.

They stood in a hush carved from golden stone, and Eila reached out to trace the edges of a sigil etched beside the doorway.

“I think,” she said quietly, “that it’s easier to walk through dreams when someone’s walking beside you.”

Dream didn’t reply, but his shadow aligned with hers.

The chamber was quiet—carved from shadow and softened amber, the kind of quiet that didn’t hush but waited. Eila traced the edge of the doorway; symbols cool beneath her fingers. Then, without turning, she spoke: “I’d like to be your friend, Oneiros.”

The words hung there—neither shy nor bold but offered like a fig placed gently on a shrine.

Dream’s gaze didn’t shift, but the space around him did. The light deepened, fabric stirred, and the gallery itself seemed to pause—as if her words had been inscribed into its foundations.

“I do not collect friends,” he said.

“I didn’t ask to be collected,” she replied. “I asked to be known, without being catalogued.”

He looked at her then, truly looked—not the way dreamers are glimpsed through curtains of mist, but the way stars are watched when they fall in the wrong season.

Dream’s gaze lingered, distant and deliberate, as though weighing her words against the architecture of eternity. The silence pressed in—not empty, but velvet-dark and heavy with latent meaning.

“Friendship has never been my dominion,” he said, the words tumbling like faded leaves across an old stone well.

Eila stepped closer. The floor beneath her whispered in tones of lavender and ash, dreamstuff curling around her ankles like curious smoke. “Then let me trespass,” she replied gently. “You can decide later whether I should be cast out—or welcomed.”

His silence deepened, but this time it felt like listening. The gallery shifted—arches bending, shadows folding inward. Dream’s form shimmered, a ripple across the fabric of himself.

“I have walked among worlds that crumble under the weight of attachment,” he said. “And I have been the architect of their undoing.”

“Then walk beside one that holds,” Eila replied. “Not because it’s fragile. But because it’s brave.”

Dream tilted his head, studying her not as a curiosity, but as a change in the pattern. “Do you truly believe I can belong in something so... tender?”

She smiled—not bold, but steady. “You already do. The question is whether you’ll allow yourself to notice.”

Present Day
THE DREAMING

The sands of the Dreaming were no longer golden, nor soft beneath the weight of longing—they lay greyed and granular, brittle as powdered bone. They stretched in uneasy silence, the wind too weary to sculpt them, the stars overhead dimmed to a cautious glow. There was no footfall, no whisper of imagined tides—only a stillness that felt older than time, and deeper than sleep.

At the centre of the quiet, half-buried in the shifting dunes, lay a figure cloaked in absence.

“Sir. Sir!” came a voice—cracked with disbelief, trembling with hope. “Oh, my goodness… Sir. It’s me. It’s Lucienne.”

She was kneeling now beside him, one hand reaching, one pressed to her chest as if steadying her heart. The sand had already begun to settle over his shoulders, stubborn as memory.

Dream opened his eyes—silvered and sunken, his face pale with time unmeasured. A breath returned to him slowly, as if borrowed from some other place.

“Lucienne,” he said, the name drawing shape to his voice, anchoring him back to a world where loyalty still dared to endure.

She nodded, relief coursing through her in waves. “You’re home, my lord.”

“I am.”

He rose, slowly, as though the realm itself resisted remembering how tall he once stood. Together, they walked toward the immense gates that marked the edge of the Dreaming—once radiant and proud, now dulled and laced with cracks.

Their surface was carved with spiralling vines and symbols of old stories, etched in languages no longer spoken. Tiny figures danced along the borders—creatures from the corners of imagination—now crumbling like statues left out in storm.

Lucienne hesitated before the threshold. “Forgive me, sir, but… the realm, the palace… they are not as you left them.”

Dream stepped through.

And what greeted him was silence.

His palace—once a marvel of twisting towers and opalescent stone—stood fractured and hollow. The air no longer shimmered. The trees had withered into splinters. The dreaming was no longer dreaming—it was surviving.

Dream’s expression did not shift. But the quiet grew heavy.

“What happened here?” he asked, voice low and cold. “Who did this?”

Lucienne’s voice trembles as she steps across the fractured marble floor, fingers brushing over cracks that spiderweb through the stone. “My lord, you are The Dreaming, The Dreaming is you. With you gone as long as you were, the realm began to… decay and crumble.”

Dream pauses beneath an archway where once-lustrous tapestries now hang in tatters. He surveys the ruin with a pained frown. “And the residents? The palace staff?”

Lucienne lowers her gaze to the dust-carpeted hall. “I’m afraid most have gone.”

Dream’s brow arches, surprise flickering in his silvered eyes. “Gone?”

Lucienne exhales, voice soft as the dying wind. “Some went looking for you. While others thought, perhaps, you’d grown weary of your duties and…”

Dream’s shoulders stiffen, hurt sharpening his tone. “What? Abandoned them? Had they so little faith in me? Do my own subjects not know me?”

Lucienne bows her head, voice hushed. “If I may, sir, it wouldn’t be the first time one of the Endless had just…”

Dream cuts her off, the authority in his voice echoing down the emptiness. “Enough. I will not have Dreams and Nightmares preying on the waking world. I will bring them all back. I made this realm once, Lucienne. I will make it again. The Dreaming must be restored.”

Lucienne’s voice caught on the last of the shattered marble underfoot as she stepped closer, shadows pooling around her boots. “There is more, my lord,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty corridor ahead.

Dream inclined his head, cloak whispering against the floor. “Go on.”

Her breath trembled like wind through hollow bones. “The gallery is gone.”

He paused beneath the broken arch where stained glass once cast rainbow shards on polished stone. “Yes, I expected as much after you detailed the library’s fate—”

“Eila’s gallery,” Lucienne interrupted, voice low. “It was among the first of your creations to disappear.”

She turned, tracing invisible lines on a wall now smooth where ornate carvings had once curled. “One morning, I walked this hall toward the library. The soft glow of trapped dreams used to leak from behind those silvered doors. That afternoon, the doors were gone. No frame, no threshold—just blank wall and dust.”

The hush that followed felt too heavy even for the ruins. Dream pressed a fingertip to where the threshold should have been, cold stone greeting him in place of warmth. His breath caught. “Oh.”

Finally, his voice emerged, low and restrained. “Is there any remnant of it?” he asked, as though speaking too loudly might chase away the answer.

Lucienne shifted, folding her arms behind her back. “A few fragments,” she said. “Dreamstuff faded but clinging to the edges. I found one tile in the archives, etched with part of her constellation map. A corner of a mural—paint peeled and sleep-soaked.”

Dream pressed his fingers to the wall. It didn’t respond. Not yet.

“That gallery,” he murmured, “held the shape of her dreaming before she named it. I do not understand how it could vanish entirely. She built with more than intention. She built with presence.”

Lucienne nodded. “There’s residue, faint as dusk. I can gather what remains.”

His shoulders stayed square, his tone neutral—but his hand remained against the stone as though willing it to remember.

“Do so,” he said. “Preserve what you can. Even embers remember fire.”

Dream’s fingers curled slightly against the stone wall, as though he could coax truth from the cold surface. He turned, the pale gleam of his gaze falling on Lucienne.

“Tell me,” he said, quieter now, “what became of her?”

Lucienne did not answer at once. She walked to the edge of the chamber, retrieving a slim ledger etched in silver thread. She held it gently, as if the pages held breath.

“She vanished, returned to the waking world the day before the gallery vanished itself. Quietly. By choice. There was no farewell.”

Dream nodded slowly. “She walked its halls like breath through a body. The gallery was not hers by creation… but by presence. She gave it soul.” Dream’s eyes darkened with thought. “Perhaps she knew it could not endure without her. Or perhaps she feared it would.”

“She left no explanation,” Lucienne murmured. “But I think… she trusted you would understand.”

Dream lowered his hand from the wall, the movement almost reluctant—like withdrawing from a memory not yet fully recalled. He turned, letting his gaze trace the emptied space where once her gallery shimmered with colour and quiet strength, a sanctuary woven from thought and resonance. The silence now felt cavernous, as if the room itself mourned her absence.

“Did she say anything to you?” he asked, voice measured but lined with strain. “Even in passing?”

Lucienne’s eyes held his. “She left without a word. What do you make of that? Will you go after her?”

He met her question steadily. “Her silence is deliberate. It marks an ending as much as any farewell.” He paused, the faint light in his eyes flaring. “I will seek her—not to force her return, but to understand why she chose to vanish.”

Lucienne nodded, as though weighing each of his words. “And if you find her, what then?”

Dream’s lips curved in a shadow of a smile. “Then I will offer her the only thing she ever asked for: quiet company in her chosen peace.”

The chamber seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the first step of his pursuit.

"For now, Lucienne, I task you with determining the state of my realm. A census is required, to ascertain who remains and who has absconded from The Dreaming, besides Eila."

"Yes, my Lord."

PRESENT DAY
SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA

The motel room was a mausoleum of cheap design and recent violence. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the sour scent of mildew and old cigarettes. A single overhead bulb flickered erratically, casting staccato shadows across the walls like a broken metronome ticking toward madness.

The Corinthian stood in the center of it all, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, his shirt crisp, his cuffs unstained. He looked down at the body sprawled across the bed—a man in his late thirties, face slack with the finality of death. The eyes were gone, of course. Removed with surgical precision. The sockets were clean, almost reverent.

He knelt beside the corpse, not hurriedly, but with the grace of ritual. From the inside pocket of his coat, he drew a velvet pouch—black, soft, worn at the edges. He opened it with care, as if unveiling something sacred. Then, using a pair of silver forceps, he placed the eyes inside. One. Then the other. They glistened like wet marbles, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost alive.

He paused.

Not out of guilt. Not out of reflection. But because something had shifted.

The room was still, but the stillness had changed. It was no longer the silence of aftermath—it was the silence of attention. The kind that prickled at the back of the neck. The kind that suggested something vast and unseen had turned its gaze toward him.

He rose slowly and walked to the mirror above the sink. His reflection greeted him: handsome, composed, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. But the glass was wrong. It shimmered faintly, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a breath of wind.

He leaned in.

For a moment—no longer than a blink—the mirror ceased to reflect. Instead, it revealed a void. Infinite. Starless. Except for one point of light. Cold. White. Watching.

The Corinthian didn’t flinch. He smiled.

“You’re back,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “Finally.”

He turned from the mirror, the grin widening. Not in fear. Not in surprise. But in anticipation. The game had resumed. The leash had been cut. And the master had returned.

He looked at the body again, then at the pouch in his hand. “He’ll come looking,” he murmured. “He always does.”

He walked to the door, opened it. The hallway beyond was empty, but the shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending toward him like curious limbs. The world felt thinner now. More permeable. The Dreaming was bleeding through.

He stepped into the night.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees with a whisper that sounded almost like a name. He didn’t listen. He was already humming—a low, tuneless melody that had no origin and no end. Something old. Something hungry.

He slipped the pouch into his coat, adjusted his collar, and began to walk.

“Let’s make it worth his while.”

The motel door creaked shut behind him, muffling the hum of the flickering bulb and the silence of the dead man within. Outside, the night was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to skin like a second layer. Across the street, a small city park lay in shadow—iron benches, overgrown hedges, a broken swing swaying gently in the breeze.

The Corinthian crossed the road without looking. Cars passed, but none slowed. He moved like someone who knew the world would bend around him.

The park was empty, save for a scattering of litter and the distant rustle of nocturnal life. He chose a bench beneath a broken streetlamp, its light sputtering like a dying star. He sat, legs crossed, coat immaculate, and pulled out a sleek black phone from his inner pocket.

He dialed a number from memory. No contacts. No notes. Just instinct.

The line clicked once. Then twice. Then a voice answered—male, clipped, cautious.

“Who is this?”

The Corinthian smiled, though the man couldn’t see it. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, voice smooth as silk over glass. “Ms. Ethel Dee.”

A pause. Then: “I don’t know who that is.”

“Mm.” The Corinthian leaned back, watching the swing creak in the wind. “See, I think you do. I think you’re one of her associates. Or at least, you were.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “What do you want with her?”

The Corinthian’s fingers brushed the velvet pouch inside his coat. His grin widened, slow and deliberate.

“I want to ask her a question.”

The line went quiet.

Then: “She’s not available.”

The Corinthian’s smile didn’t falter. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping for a conversation.”

“You won’t get one.”

He glanced up at the broken streetlamp above him, its light sputtering like a dying thought. “You sound nervous.”

“I’m cautious.”

“Caution’s a cousin to fear,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “And fear means I’m close.”

The man on the other end exhaled. “You don’t know what she’s done.”

“I don’t care what she’s done,” the Corinthian replied. “I care what she knows.”

“She won’t talk.”

“She will,” he said, standing now, brushing dust from his coat. “Eventually.”

“You think you’re the first to come looking?”

“No,” he said, stepping off the curb. “But I’ll be the last.”

The line went dead.

He pocketed the phone and walked into the night, the swing behind him creaking once, then stilling.

PRESENT DAY
NEW YORK

The gallery held its breath.

Silence reigned, broken only by the soft, deliberate ticking of a clock tucked somewhere out of sight. Its rhythm was peculiar—slower than expected, as if time itself had grown contemplative within these walls. The air was dense with the scent of aged wood, old varnish, and something faintly metallic, like the memory of coins.

Raphael stood before the painting, his figure etched in silhouette by the low amber light that spilled from a single brass sconce. It wasn’t illumination so much as suggestion—light that caressed rather than revealed. The Caravaggio loomed before him: Saint Jerome Writing, or a masterful imitation. The saint’s face was carved in chiaroscuro, half-swallowed by shadow, the other half lit with a grim, spiritual intensity. His eyes were hollowed, as if he’d stared too long into truths no man should write. His fingers gripped the quill with a tension that bordered on violence, and the skull beside him gleamed with a morbid polish, like it had been handled recently—perhaps reverently, perhaps not.

Raphael leaned in, his breath shallow, his hands tucked behind his back like a pilgrim before a relic. “The brushwork is brutal,” he murmured. “You can feel the weight of the moment. Like Jerome’s writing something he knows will damn him.”

Behind him, Ethel watched from her throne-like chair, legs elegantly crossed, one hand resting on the armrest with the poise of someone accustomed to dominion. Her silk blouse shimmered in the low light, a deep garnet hue that suggested dried blood and whispered danger. Her earrings—slender, silver, and sharp—caught the light like tiny blades.

“You know your Caravaggio,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, like water poured over stone.

Raphael offered a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not as well as Eila.”

Ethel tilted her head, a feline gesture. “Eila?”

“A friend,” he said. “Or she was. We haven’t seen each other in... a very long time. My fault, really.” His voice softened, touched by something wistful. “But before that, she was incandescent. Especially when she talked about Caravaggio. She used to say his paintings weren’t made of paint, but with guilt and candlelight.”

Ethel’s eyes narrowed, the intrigue sharpening. “She sounds dramatic.”

“She was,” Raphael said, a trace of fondness threading through his words. “She could tell you which pigments he ground himself, which models he reused, which paintings he finished in a rage. She once claimed she could identify his fingerprints in the varnish.”

He turned back to the painting, his gaze reverent. “She’d know if this was real.”

Ethel rose, her movement fluid and deliberate. Her heels whispered against the marble floor, making no sound, as if the gallery itself conspired to preserve the sanctity of the moment. She came to stand beside him, her presence quiet but commanding.

“It’s real,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “I acquired it in Palermo. From a man who didn’t know what he had. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care anymore.”

Raphael didn’t speak. He simply stared, the weight of memory pressing against him like a tide.

Raphael’s eyes lingered on the painting, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on Eila, on the last time he saw her, on the way she used to speak about Caravaggio like he was a ghost she’d met in a dream.

He straightened, slowly. “She’d give anything for this.”

Ethel’s gaze didn’t waver. “And what would you give?”

Raphael didn’t answer right away.

The question hung in the air like incense—sweet, smoky, and impossible to ignore. He looked at Ethel, really looked at her, as if trying to determine whether she was asking out of curiosity or cruelty. Her expression gave nothing away. She was carved from restraint, her features composed, her eyes unreadable.

Raphael turned to her. “Name your price.”

She walked to a lacquered writing desk and retrieved a slip of parchment and a fountain pen. With slow, deliberate strokes, she wrote a number and slid it across the desk.

Raphael looked down.

The figure was staggering. Enough to buy a vineyard in Bordeaux. Enough to make most collectors scoff and walk away.

He didn’t.

“That’s a lot for guilt and candlelight,” he said.

Ethel didn’t blink. “It’s a Caravaggio.”

Raphael leaned back, arms folded. “You could buy a fleet of private jets for that.”

“I don’t like jets,” she said. “They attract men who say ‘synergy’ unironically.”

He smirked. “You’re charging me for the myth.”

“I’m charging you for the silence,” Ethel replied. “And the fact that I don’t need to sell it to you.”

Raphael tapped the parchment. "Your price is steep.”

“It’s modest.”

“It’s theatrical.”

Ethel gave a slow, feline smile. “You came here with a story and sentiment. I deal in neither.”

Raphael exhaled through his nose, glanced once more at Saint Jerome Writing. “I’ll give you half of that.”

Ethel raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even pretending to be serious.”

“I’m being nostalgic. Nostalgia is expensive, but not as expensive as you deem it to be.”

She turned, walked to a tall cabinet with brass fittings, and unlocked it with a key that hung from a chain around her neck. Inside, wrapped in archival silk and shadow, was another canvas. She didn’t unveil it—just gestured toward it like a magician offering a darker trick.

“I have something else,” she said. “Judith Beheading Holofernes. The Toulouse painting. Found in an attic in 2014. The one that made half the art world faint and the other half foam at the mouth.”

Raphael’s expression shifted. “You have that?”

“I do,” she said. “And unlike Jerome, Judith doesn’t ask for forgiveness. She just finishes the job.”

He stepped closer, tension sharpening in his posture. “And the price?”

Ethel walked back to the desk, wrote a new number on a fresh slip of paper, and slid it toward him.

€170 million.

Raphael stared. “That’s not a price. That’s a declaration of war.”

“It’s a declaration of value,” she said. “This painting has blood in it. Real blood. You can smell it if you stand close enough.”

He didn’t laugh. “Eila loved that piece. Said Judith looked like she’d already decided to kill the next man too.”

“She sounds like someone I’d have admired.”

“She’d have stolen your wine and insulted your taste in shoes.”

Ethel smiled. “Then I’d have charged her double.”

Raphael looked at the number again. “€170 million.”

“It’s not just a painting,” Ethel said. “It’s a reckoning. And you’re not just buying it for her. You’re buying it to prove you still know how to bleed.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then: “Would you take €140 million?”

Ethel considered. “Only if you admit it’s for you as much as it is for her.”

Raphael met her gaze. “It’s for both of us. But mostly for the part of me she left behind.”

Ethel nodded. “Then Judith is yours.”

They shook hands.

And somewhere in the gallery, the clock ticked once—louder than before.

They shook hands, and the deal was sealed.

Raphael lingered, his fingers brushing hers a moment longer than necessary. Ethel didn’t pull away—she simply raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling like a cat who’d just caught a bird staring too long.

“You know,” Raphael said, stepping back, “you look good for someone who’s been alive since gaslight was considered cutting-edge.”

Ethel’s smile sharpened. “And you look tired for someone who’s had a century to rest.”

He laughed. “I don’t rest. I brood. It’s more dramatic.”

“Clearly,” she said. “You arrived here like a man auditioning for a tragedy.”

Raphael glanced at the painting again. “I thought it was a romance.”

“With Judith?” Ethel asked. “She’s not the romantic type. She’s the kind who kisses you once and then hands you your head.”

He turned to her, eyes glinting. “You speak from experience?”

Ethel walked to the cabinet and began re-locking it, her movements elegant and deliberate. “I’ve kissed worse. And beheaded better.”

Raphael leaned against the desk, watching her. “You know, I always wondered if immortality would make people wiser or just more stylish.”

Ethel turned, her garnet blouse catching the light like a slow flame. “It makes them bored. And boredom breeds taste.”

He nodded. “That explains the shoes.”

She looked down at her heels—black suede, impossibly sharp. “They’ve outlived empires.”

Raphael grinned. “And broken hearts?”

“Only the ones worth breaking.”

He stepped closer again, voice dropping just slightly. “You ever get tired of playing the collector?”

Ethel’s gaze held his. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re not one?”

They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged—not with threat, but with recognition. Two relics of a world that had forgotten them, trading barbs like currency.

Raphael finally broke the silence. “If I weren’t here for Judith, I’d ask if you came with a price tag too.”

Ethel laughed—low, rich, and rare. “Darling, I’m not for sale. I’m the one who writes the receipts.”

He walked slowly around the room, letting the silence stretch. “You ever think about stopping?”

“Living?”

“Collecting.”

Ethel considered. “Only when I’m bored. Which is rare. People keep making mistakes. It’s very entertaining.”

Raphael turned back to her. “And what about love?”

She raised her glass. “That’s the most entertaining mistake of all.”

He laughed, then paused. “You ever make it?”

Ethel’s eyes flicked to the painting, then back to him. “Once. It cost me a Botticelli and a kingdom. I regret the Botticelli.”

Raphael smiled. “That’s the most Ethel thing I’ve ever heard.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “And you? You ever fall in love with someone who didn’t vanish?”

He hesitated. “Once. She vanished anyway.”

Ethel nodded. “Then you did it right.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the gallery around them humming with old secrets and older regrets.

Raphael drained his glass. “You know, if you weren’t so terrifying, I’d ask you to dinner.”

Ethel stood, walked to him, and took the empty glass from his hand. “If you weren’t so sentimental, I’d say yes.”

"Lovely to see you as always, Ethel. Thanks for the painting," he kissed her hand. "Do give me a call if you come across anything else I'll like, or if you just want to hear my wonderful voice."

"Don't you have a lady to apologise to?"

He nodded. "Something like that."

Chapter 7: 1.04 | IMPERFECT HOSTS

Notes:

I think I prefer the atmosphere of the comic scene with Cain and Abel more than I do the show, but I had to keep the Gregory storyline for the show (obviously). The letters in the comics were a bit dull.

Chapter Text

THE DREAMING

The dusk spilled across the earth like wine from a cracked chalice, staining the soil with the color of old blood. Cain stood beneath the weeping branches of a tamarisk tree, his shadow long and forked like a serpent’s tongue. His voice, when it came, was the hiss of a burning altar—sharp, sacrificial.

“Don’t be a moronic lump of blubbering, quaking, pathetic lard,” he said, each word a stone cast at the temple of his brother’s trembling faith. “Open the box. Unwrap it.”

Abel flinched, as if the words themselves had teeth. He had always felt like the lesser offering—sweet, soft, and doomed to be consumed. Cain’s voice reminded him of thunder before the flood, of the way Father’s eyes darkened when he spoke of exile. Abel had never known what it meant to be chosen, only what it meant to be spared—for now.

Abel, soft as manna and twice as unsure, clutched his hands to his chest like a prayer he didn’t know how to finish. “Uh… b-but it isn’t my birthday…”

Cain laughed—a sound like the golden calf being shattered. “Of course it isn’t your birthday, powderbrain. You don’t have a birthday.”

Abel blinked, his eyes wide and wet, like the first lamb staring into the knife. “Umm. No. I, uh, don’t, do I?” His voice was a reed in the river, bending to every current. “You promise it isn’t going to, hmm, explode? Promise?”

He remembered the last time Cain had given him something—a fig, overripe and crawling with ants. Cain had called it a gift, but Abel had tasted bitterness for days. He had learned to fear generosity when it came wrapped in Cain’s grin. Still, he wanted to believe. Wanted to believe that brotherhood could be more than a shadow cast by the Tree of Knowledge.

Cain’s grin curled like the smoke from a rejected offering. “Now, why would I give you an exploding present? What kind of brother would I be if I did that?”

Abel’s gaze fell to the box, which sat between them like a sealed covenant—or a coffin. “My kind of b-brother,” he whispered, voice trembling like Job’s last breath. “The, uh, the kind who kills me whenever he’s, uh… mad at me. Or bored. Or just in a lousy m-mood.”

He had dreamed of Cain once, standing over him with a stone in his hand and tears in his eyes. In the dream, Cain had wept as he struck him, as if sorrow could sanctify violence. Abel had woken with the taste of earth in his mouth and the scent of iron in his nostrils. He had not spoken of it. Dreams were dangerous things—they carried prophecy like pollen.

Cain’s chuckle was the sound of Eden’s gates slamming shut. “Hehh. Let’s let fraternal bygones be bygones, eh, pudgy?” He nudged the box forward with the toe of his sandal, and the dust rose like the ghosts of unblessed ancestors.

“Now… just open your blasted present.”

The wind paused, as if waiting for judgment. A fig leaf fluttered to the ground, and somewhere in the distance, a ram bleated—lost, or perhaps chosen.

Abel stared at the box. It looked innocent enough, but so had the fruit in Mother’s hand. He wondered if this was how the world ended—not with fire, but with a gift.

Then came the knock.

Three slow thuds, like the heartbeat of something ancient and buried. It echoed through the clay walls of their dwelling, soft but deliberate, as if the Ark itself had tapped its hull against the edge of their reality.

Cain’s head snapped toward the door, his grin evaporating like dew under divine wrath. “What in the name of dust and ribs was that?”

Abel’s breath caught. He had never heard a knock that didn’t come from wind or beast. Visitors were rare in the land east of Eden. The only ones who came knocking were angels—or things pretending to be.

“Maybe it’s Father,” Abel whispered, though he knew it wasn’t. Adam never knocked. He entered like judgment, heavy and wordless.

Cain narrowed his eyes. “Father doesn’t knock. He storms. He lectures. He smells like sweat and regret. And anyway, Father left the Dreaming long ago.”

Another knock. This time quicker, more insistent. Like the fist of a prophet pounding on the gates of Sodom.

Abel felt his skin prickle, as if the air had turned to nettles. “Maybe it’s Mother,” he said, voice barely audible.

Cain snorted, but it was a hollow sound. “Mother doesn’t knock either. She just appears. Like guilt. And that's only when she leaves that cave of hers.”

They both stared at the door, carved from cedar and stained with the oil of old sacrifices. It seemed to pulse now, as if something behind it breathed.

Abel’s thoughts swam. What if it was a messenger? What if it was a test? What if the box and the knock were two halves of the same riddle, and he was the answer waiting to be broken?

Cain stepped forward, his hand hovering near the latch. “If it’s an angel,” he muttered, “I swear I’ll punch it in the halo.”

Abel didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. The knock had stirred something in him—something older than fear, older than Cain’s rage. It felt like the moment before the flood, when the sky held its breath and the animals began to tremble.

The box sat between them, unopened. The door waited, unopened.

And the knock came again.

Abel’s voice fluttered out like a moth from a cracked jar—fragile, uncertain, drawn toward the flame but fearing the burn.

“Don’t you think we ought to, e-uh, hmm, wait for a while?” he murmured, each syllable stumbling like a lamb with a broken leg. “I-uh-I, mm, well…”

He sighed, the sound soft as a dove mourning in the wilderness. His breath felt heavy, like incense rising from an altar no one had blessed.

“I mean… maybe it’ll go away on its own…?”

He wanted to believe that silence could be restored if they simply ignored the knock. That the world could return to its uneasy rhythm, like the lull between plagues. But the air had shifted. The knock had stirred something—like the ripple of a serpent beneath fig leaves.

Cain didn’t share his brother’s hope. His voice cracked through the quiet like lightning on Mount Horeb.

"Who's there? Who is it?"

He didn’t ask with curiosity. He asked like a man demanding the name of his accuser. His words were not a welcome—they were a challenge, a sword drawn at the threshold.

Abel flinched. He had always feared doors. They were symbols of choice, of exile, of the unknown. The first door had been Eden’s gate, and it had closed behind their parents with a sound that echoed through generations.

Now this door pulsed with possibility. Or punishment.

Cain stepped closer, his hand twitching near the latch. Abel watched him, heart thudding like the hooves of beasts before the storm. He wondered if the knock was not from without, but from within—some buried part of Cain trying to claw its way free.

Then came the sound.

Soft at first, like stone grinding against stone, then clearer—heavy, deliberate, the creak of ancient joints long unused. A rhythm of clawed feet dragging across the dust, a low rumble like thunder trapped in a cathedral vault.

Abel’s breath hitched. Cain tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a prophet reading smoke.

"It's Gregory." Cain surmised, his voice flat as a tombstone. "Has to be."

Gregory. Their gargoyle. Towering, hunched, and carved from something that looked like stone but felt like old sin. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, not with malice, but with the dull warmth of a hearth fire that had seen too many winters. He was frightening to behold—horned, clawed, and draped in moss like a forgotten altar—but he was theirs.

He had been with them since before memory, found curled beside the fig tree one morning, snoring like a landslide. Father had tried to chase him off with fire and scripture, but Gregory had simply blinked and sneezed ash. Mother fed him scraps. Cain taught him tricks. Abel once cried into his shoulder, and Gregory had patted his back with a claw the size of a shovel.

Abel’s fingers curled into his tunic. “M-maybe it’s ruh-really something pretending to be Gregory…” he whispered. “Something big and nuh-nasty.”

He had heard stories—Mother’s tales of spirits that wore stone skins, of watchers who fell from grace and wandered the earth with cracked halos. He remembered the tale of the cherub who turned to ash, and the idol that wept blood. He had never trusted statues. Even Gregory’s silence had felt like a warning.

Cain scoffed, the sound like a chisel striking marble. “Don’t be pathetic. Why would something big and nasty pretend to be Gregory?”

Abel didn’t answer. He had seen gargoyles blink when no one was watching. He had heard them hum hymns in reverse. He knew that evil didn’t always roar—it sometimes crouched.

Cain stepped back from the door, gesturing with mock gallantry. “But just to be on the safe side,” he said, lips curling like a serpent’s grin, “you can open the door.”

Abel stared at the latch. It looked simple, wooden, harmless. But so had the fruit. So had the stone.

Now that the sound had grown closer, Cain squinted through the narrow sliver of light between the door and its frame. He frowned, stepping back with a grunt.

“Now, come to think of it,” he muttered, voice curling like smoke from a scorched offering, “Gregory is extraordinarily big and nasty in his own right, anyway. It is Gregory, isn’t it?”

Abel had opened the door only a crack, but what he saw beyond it made his tongue twist like a serpent in drought. His mouth moved, but no words came—only stammered fragments, syllables collapsing like broken altars.

“Yes, b-but awuh uh—I-uh I-uh awuh ur…”

He couldn’t seem to get the words out. Not because of fear, but because of reverence. Because what stood before him was not just Gregory, their towering, moss-draped pet, but something else—someone else—cradled in the crook of Gregory’s massive arms like a relic too sacred to touch.

“Spit it out, gully-guts, what is it?” Cain barked from behind the door, impatience dripping from his voice like blood from a blade.

Abel’s eyes filled with light and shadow, with memory and myth. His voice, when it came, was a whisper wrapped in awe.

"It's him, brother. He's back...the prince of stories."

And there he was.

Dream.

Lord of The Dreaming. Monarch of Metaphor. Sovereign of Sleep.

He looked like a statue carved from moonlight and sorrow, his robes flowing like ink spilled across parchment. His hair was a crown of midnight, his skin pale as prophecy. He should have stood tall, regal, terrible in beauty—but he did not. He sagged in Gregory’s arms like a psalm grown weary, his limbs loose, his head bowed.

He was regal still, yes—but like a cathedral struck by lightning. Majesty cracked. Divinity bruised.

Gregory held him with the gentleness of a beast who knew the weight of gods. His claws, capable of rending stone, cradled Dream’s form as if afraid to wake him. The gargoyle’s breath steamed in the cold air, but his eyes—those glowing, beastly eyes—were soft. Protective.

Dream’s own eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. The wind stilled. The dust hung mid-air. Even Cain, behind the door, felt something ancient stir in his chest.

He was back.

The prince of stories.

And he looked like he had walked through every nightmare ever dreamt.

"...help me...please..." Dream croaked as he fell to the floor.

The words were barely audible, like the last breath of a dying poem. His voice, once the timbre of thunder behind closed eyelids, now rasped like dry leaves dragged across stone. He collapsed with no grace, no ceremony—just a soft thud, like a crown dropped in the dust.

Gregory did not move.

The great gargoyle simply sat, his massive haunches settled into the earth like ancient ruins. His wings, folded like forgotten pages, cast long shadows over the Dream Lord’s crumpled form. He watched with eyes that glowed faintly, not with fire, but with something gentler—concern, perhaps, or reverence. He did not whimper, did not shift. He simply bore witness.

Cain and Abel stood frozen.

Cain’s mouth was slightly open, his brow furrowed in a way that betrayed something deeper than confusion. He was a creature of cruelty, yes, but even cruelty has its gods. And this one—this broken, pale figure on the floor—was one of them. Cain felt it in his marrow. The wrongness of it. The sacrilege.

He stepped forward, then hesitated. His hands twitched, unsure whether to reach out or recoil.

Abel, meanwhile, had sunk to his knees. His eyes were wide, wet, and shimmering with something like grief. He didn’t understand what had happened, not fully. But he felt it. The way animals feel storms before they break. The way children feel the silence after a scream.

“He’s hurt,” Abel whispered, voice trembling like a candle in wind.

Cain didn’t respond. He was staring at Dream, as if trying to reconcile the myth with the man. The prince of stories, the weaver of worlds, reduced to this—skin like porcelain, breath shallow, eyes dim.

Dream lay there, his fingers curled weakly against the stone floor, his robes tangled like seaweed dragged ashore. He looked up at them, and in that gaze was everything: the weight of eternity, the ache of exile, the quiet plea of someone who had borne too much for too long.

“…help me…”

The words echoed again, softer this time. Not a command. Not a demand. Just a request. A whisper from a god who had forgotten how to be divine.

Gregory blinked once, slow and solemn, then lowered his head slightly—as if bowing.

Cain swallowed hard. Abel reached out, his hand hovering just above Dream’s shoulder.

Cain rubbed his chin, eyes still locked on the fallen figure. “Well, this is a fine mess,” he muttered. “The Prince of Stories, collapsed on our doorstep like a drunk bard after a bad night. What are we supposed to do—offer him tea and trauma counselling?”

Abel didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. His hand hovered just above Dream’s shoulder, unsure if touching him would help or shatter something sacred.

“We have to help him,” Abel said, voice thin but firm. “He asked. He said please."

Cain snorted. “Yes, and I once asked a banshee to stop screaming. Didn’t mean she owed me a favour.”

Abel turned to him, eyes pleading. “He’s not just anyone, Cain. He’s… he’s Dream. He’s the Dream. If he’s broken, what does that mean for everything else?”

Cain’s gaze flicked to Gregory, who still sat unmoving, watching the scene like a statue carved from loyalty. “Well, Gregory seems content to play nursemaid. Maybe we should just let the big lad handle it.”

Abel shook his head. “He’s not moving. He’s waiting. For us.”

Cain sighed, dramatically. “Of course he is. Because when gods fall, it’s always the fools and murderers who have to pick up the pieces.”

He crouched beside Dream, careful not to touch him. “Alright then, broken majesty. Let’s see what we can do.”

Dream stirred faintly, his lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came.

Abel looked to Cain. “Should we call someone? Lucien? The raven?”

Cain raised an eyebrow. “And tell them what? ‘Hello, your lordship’s face-planted in our foyer. Bring bandages and existential reassurance.’”

Abel frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Cain said, softer now. “We’ll help. But quietly. Carefully. No fanfare. No prophecy. Just… two brothers and a gargoyle, trying not to break what’s already broken.”

They both looked down at Dream again.

And for a moment, even Cain’s sarcasm fell silent.

PRESENT DAY
THE HOUSE OF MYSTERIES

Dream awoke in the darkness, too weak to even summon a light. His consciousness returned slowly, like mist curling back into a valley at dawn. He lay still, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind adrift in a sea of half-formed thoughts. The void around him pressed close, not with menace, but with indifference—an ancient silence that neither welcomed nor rejected him.

The air was musty, tired, old, it smelled of lost dreams and rotten fabric. Each breath tasted of abandonment, as if the room itself had been waiting for centuries to be remembered. Dust hung in the air like suspended time, and somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a sigh lingered, as if the walls themselves mourned.

Where am I? He thought, , though the question felt brittle, barely able to hold its own shape. His mind reached outward, searching for familiarity, for anchor points in the dark. But all he found was the echo of his own voice, swallowed by the gloom.

"Hello? M-my lord?" came a voice, trembling and unsure. It was soft, like a candle flickering in a storm, and carried with it a strange blend of reverence and fear. The speaker was close, but hesitant, as if afraid to disturb something sacred.

"You. I know you. You're, uh..." Dream’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Recognition stirred within him, fragile and incomplete, like a name half-remembered in a dream that slips away upon waking.

“I’m Abel, my lord,” the voice replied, growing steadier with each word. “From the, hmm, first story. The, er, victim.” There was no bitterness in his tone, only a quiet acceptance, as if he had long since made peace with his role in the tale.

"Yes. I do remember you. I'm sorry. It has been so long. Where are we?" Dream’s words carried the weight of centuries, of countless stories told and forgotten. His apology was not perfunctory—it was genuine, spoken from a place of deep weariness and sorrow.

“This is my brother’s House of Mystery,” Abel explained, his voice growing more confident, though still tinged with nervousness. “Gregory, umm, that’s Cain’s gargoyle—hmm, he brought you here. He found you in the, uh, Shifting Zones.” The words spilled out in a rush, as if Abel feared they might vanish if not spoken quickly. His eyes, though timid, held a flicker of hope.

"Yes. I was on my way to the castle." Dream murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. The words felt distant, as if spoken by someone else, long ago. The castle—his seat of power, his sanctuary—now seemed impossibly far, not just in distance but in meaning. He had set out toward it with purpose, but now that purpose felt like a shadow cast by a forgotten sun.

"I-uh-I-uh-I'll tell Cain you're awake." Abel stammered, already half-turning toward the door. His nervousness was palpable, but beneath it lay a quiet urgency, a need to do something, anything, to help. He didn’t know what Dream needed, but he knew Cain would want to know. Cain always wanted to know.

Abel paused at the threshold, glancing back. “He’s, umm, made you some food,” he said, almost apologetically. The idea of Cain cooking was absurd, unsettling even—but it was also strangely touching. A gesture, however crude, of care. Abel’s voice softened. “He said you’d need it.”

Dream laid in the bed, unmoving. His body felt like it had been carved from stone and sorrow. He was feeling weaker than he had in eons—perhaps weaker than he had ever felt. The bed beneath him was rough, the sheets threadbare, but it was the first place he had felt stillness in what felt like forever.

He closed his eyes.

Remembering.

It came not as a vision, but as a weight. A sensation. A storm behind his eyelids.

It was a dark and stormy nightmare. Not a dream, not a vision, but a place—a living tempest of fear and chaos. The kind of nightmare that feeds on gods and leaves only echoes behind.

Before his imprisonment, he knew the journey would have meant nothing to him. He would have crossed the Dreaming in a thought, arrived without effort, without consequence. He had been power incarnate, sovereign of sleep, untouched by fatigue or distance.

He would not have needed to travel. Not in the way mortals do. Not in the way he did now.

But weakened and exhausted, he had stumbled through the fringes of the Dreamtime. The edges of his realm, where dreams fray into madness and memory. He had walked, limped, crawled—his form barely holding together, his essence flickering like a dying star.

The dream he had used to bind Burgess in eternal waking used up the last of his strength. It had been a final act of defiance, a curse woven from the last threads of his power. And it had cost him dearly.

And he was far too weak.

He did not know how long he remained there. Time in the Dreaming was fluid, mercurial. It could stretch or collapse, bend or vanish. He might have been lost for moments or millennia. All he knew was that he had wandered, and the wandering had nearly undone him.

He remembered the wind on his face, staring down at the dreamscape below him. The wind had carried whispers, fragments of stories, pieces of himself scattered across the realm. He had looked down and seen his kingdom—broken, beautiful, waiting.

And then...he was here.

The room around him was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single lantern hung from a crooked nail in the wall. Its light danced across the stone, casting long, uncertain shadows that seemed to shift with every breath. The House of Mystery was not a place of comfort—it was a place of riddles, of half-truths and haunted silences. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to be spoken that had been buried for centuries.

Dream’s body ached in ways he did not recognize. Not the pain of battle, nor the sting of magic, but something deeper—an erosion of self. His essence felt thinned, stretched across too many stories, too many sacrifices. He could feel the Dreaming pulsing faintly within him, like a distant heartbeat, but it was quiet now. Dormant. He was a god unmoored, a sovereign without a throne, and the weight of that absence pressed down on him like a shroud. Even his thoughts moved slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the fragile stillness that had settled over everything.

"Ahem." Cain spoke, , his voice slicing through the quiet like a knife through velvet. It wasn’t loud, but it carried—a theatrical clearing of the throat, deliberate and dramatic, as if announcing the entrance of a character in a play.

“Good even, Your Highness, Prince Morpheus,” he said, stepping into the room with a flourish that felt both mocking and reverent. “I’ve made you some food.” He held a tray in his hands, its contents steaming faintly—bread, broth, something that might have once been meat. It was humble, crude, but offered with a strange sincerity. “We’ll soon have you back on your feet again,” he added, his grin crooked, his eyes sharp.

Dream turned his head slowly, his gaze settling on Cain with the weight of recognition. “You are Cain, aren’t you?” he asked, voice low and frayed, like parchment worn thin by time.

“That’s me, yer worship,” Cain replied, bowing with exaggerated flair. “Purveyor of penny dreadfuls, shilling shockers, blood and thunders and fust-rate nightmares.” He straightened, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. “Or I was. Things have been strange since you’ve been gone.”

He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to feel meaningful. The lantern light caught the edge of his face, casting half of it in shadow, as if even his expression couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

“Tell me, Cain…” Dream said, his voice gaining a sliver of strength, “do you possess anything of mine?”

The question hung in the air like a spell, ancient and binding. Cain’s grin faltered, just slightly. His eyes flicked toward the tray, then back to Dream. Something shifted in the room—an old tension, a forgotten debt, the whisper of a story waiting to be told.

"Anything I created?" Dream asked, his voice steadier now, though still wrapped in exhaustion. The question was not idle—it carried weight, like a commandment spoken from a mountaintop. His eyes, pale and piercing, fixed on Cain with the quiet intensity of a god reclaiming what was once his.

Cain shifted uncomfortably, his bravado flickering. “Anything of yours… I wouldn’t think so… no… no…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. His voice, usually so full of swagger, now sounded uncertain, like a man trying to talk his way out of a prophecy.

Abel, who had been hovering near the doorway like a nervous cherub, suddenly perked up. “Yes you do!” he blurted, eyes wide. “Uhh, both of us do. Our letters of, hmm, commission, remember? They, uh, they have his signature on them. He muh-made them.”

Cain spun toward his brother, eyes blazing. “You… button burster! You low-down, spying, peeking, prying, butterfingered—” His words tumbled out like curses from a cracked altar, theatrical and venomous, but lacking true malice. It was the kind of fury reserved for siblings—loud, colorful, and ultimately harmless.

Dream raised a hand, not in threat, but in quiet command. “Fetch me these letters,” he said, each word etched with quiet authority. “Fetch me anything of mine.”

Abel fumbled at his belt, fingers trembling. “I, uh, have mine on me, sire,” he said, pulling out a folded parchment, yellowed with age and creased from years of nervous handling. “And Cain has his too.”

Cain grumbled, rummaging through his coat with exaggerated annoyance. “Of course I do. Never leave home without a reminder of my eternal servitude.”

Abel stepped forward, holding out his letter with both hands, as if offering a relic to a saint. “Here, take it,” he said softly.

Dream reached out, his fingers brushing the parchment. As he touched it, something shifted in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. A ripple of recognition. A thread of power, faint but real, tugging at the edges of the Dreaming.

Dream took the parchment from Abel’s trembling hands, his fingers brushing the brittle edges like a sculptor rediscovering a lost fragment of his own work. The letters were simple in appearance—ink faded, seals cracked—but they pulsed faintly, like sleeping embers beneath ash. He held them aloft, and the air around him thickened, as if the Dreaming itself leaned closer to witness. With a whisper not meant for mortal ears, he spoke a word older than language, and the letters shimmered. The ink bled upward, unravelling into threads of silver light, curling around his fingers like vines returning to their root.

Cain stepped back instinctively, shielding his eyes. Abel dropped to one knee, not out of fear, but awe. The letters dissolved—not burned, not torn, but released—like butterflies shedding their wings. From the fragments rose a soft hum, the sound of forgotten promises and half-remembered dreams. The magic within them, once dormant, now surged toward its maker. It did not resist. It recognized him. The power was not stolen, not borrowed—it had always belonged to him, merely waiting for his return. As the light coiled into Dream’s chest, his posture straightened, his eyes deepened, and the shadows around him grew sharper, more defined.

When the last thread of magic vanished into him, Dream exhaled—not with relief, but with quiet finality. The Dreaming stirred in response: distant towers realigned, stars blinked in new constellations, and the sand beneath his feet grew warm with memory. He looked down at his hands, now steady, now whole.

“Mine,” he said softly, not to Cain or Abel, but to the world itself. And the world, in its own way, answered.

The light faded. The letters were gone, their magic absorbed, and for a moment, Dream stood in silence, his form steadier, his presence more defined. But as he reached inward, searching for the reservoir of power he once commanded, he found only a shallow pool. The strength was real, yes—but thin, like moonlight reflected on water. He closed his eyes, listening to the pulse of the Dreaming, and felt its response: loyal, but weakened. The realm still bore his mark, but it no longer bent fully to his will.

He turned away from Cain and Abel, his gaze distant, as if peering through the veil of worlds. “It is not enough,” he murmured, the words heavy with quiet dread. “To summon the Fates, I must offer more. They do not come for whispers and fragments.” His voice was calm, but beneath it lay the tension of a god who knows the cost of failure. The Fates—ancient, impartial, and bound only by ritual—required sacrifice, significance, power drawn from the marrow of meaning. What he held now was a spark. What he needed was fire.

Cain, sensing the shift, dared to speak. “Then what, Lord Dream? What do you offer them?” Dream did not answer. He was already walking, slow and deliberate, toward the threshold of the Dreaming. He would need to gather more—artifacts, memories, truths buried in time. The Fates would not be summoned by sentiment. They demanded something deeper. Something dangerous.

Dream paused at the edge of the hall, his silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight. “Is there anything else?” he asked, not turning back. “Anything else I made. Anything that bears my mark.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of inevitability. He was not pleading. He was preparing.

Abel hesitated, wringing his hands. His eyes darted to Cain, then back to Dream. “There… there is Gregory,” he said softly. “You made him. Long ago. He’s yours, isn’t he?” The words hung in the air like a fragile offering. Gregory the gargoyle—loyal, gentle, impossibly old—was more than a creation. He was family. But Abel knew the rules. Magic had its price, and the Fates would not come without tribute.

Cain exploded. “No!” he roared, stepping between them. “Absolutely not! You don’t get to take him! He’s ours now—he’s mine! You left, Dream. You vanished. And we kept him alive. We fed him, we loved him, we earned him!” His voice cracked with fury, but beneath it was heartbreak. “You want power? Go dig up your own bones. Leave ours buried.” Abel flinched, but Dream simply watched, his face unreadable. He did not argue. He did not demand. He waited—for the truth to settle, and for the cost to be named.

Abel stepped forward, voice trembling but resolute. “Cain… he’s not just ours. He’s his. Gregory was made by Dream. He’s part of the Dreaming. And if—if he can help, even a little, then shouldn’t we let him choose?” His eyes were wide, pleading not just for permission, but for understanding. “Gregory would want to help. He’s always wanted to help.”

Cain turned away, jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never do. It’s not about magic or duty or fate. It’s about family. Gregory’s the only good thing we’ve ever had. And you want to hand him over like a coin to pay a toll?” He spat the words like venom, but his voice cracked at the edges.

Dream watched them both in silence, the storm of emotion swirling around him like wind around a mountain. Then, slowly, he spoke. “I will not take what is not freely given.” He turned toward the courtyard, where Gregory often perched in quiet vigil. “I will ask him. It is his choice. Not yours. Not mine.” His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something ancient—a reverence for will, for sacrifice, for the sanctity of consent. Cain said nothing, but his silence was thunderous. Abel followed Dream, heart heavy, hoping Gregory would understand what was being asked of him.

The bed creaked softly as Dream shifted, the weight of regained magic pressing against his bones like memory. He sat up slowly, each movement deliberate, as though the world itself needed time to adjust to his presence. His long fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, grounding him. The shadows clung to him like old friends, reluctant to let go. But he rose, nonetheless—tall, pale, and impossibly still. The air around him shimmered faintly, as if reality held its breath.

He crossed the room without a word, his bare feet silent against the stone floor. Cain and Abel watched from opposite corners—one tense, the other hopeful—but Dream did not acknowledge them. His gaze was fixed ahead, beyond the walls, beyond the flickering candles. He moved like a tide returning to shore, slow but unstoppable. The door opened with a whisper, and the night greeted him with cool wind and starlight. The Dreaming stirred at his presence, subtle and reverent, like a cathedral responding to prayer.

Outside, perched on the low wall of the courtyard, Gregory waited. His stony wings folded gently, his eyes glowing with quiet affection. He tilted his head as Dream approached, sensing something different—something solemn. Dream stopped a few paces away, the moonlight casting long shadows between them. He looked up at the gargoyle, and for a moment, said nothing. The silence was not empty. It was sacred.

Dream stood before Gregory, the wind tugging gently at his robes, the stars above flickering like distant memories. “Gregory,” he said, voice low and solemn, “I need to summon the Fates. I require power—power born of meaning, of creation. You were made of dreamstuff, shaped by my hand, given life through love and loyalty. You are mine… but I will not command you.” He paused, eyes meeting the gargoyle’s glowing gaze. “I ask. Will you return to the sands from which you came?”

Gregory tilted his head, his stone features softening. He understood. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. Slowly, with a grace that belied his bulk, he stepped down from the wall and bowed—deeply, reverently. The gesture was not submission. It was devotion. Abel gasped, tears already forming. Cain turned away, jaw clenched, fists trembling. Dream closed his eyes, and raised a hand.

The air thickened. The stars above pulsed in rhythm with Dream’s breath. Gregory began to glow—not with fire, but with golden light, ancient and pure. Cracks formed along his surface, not of destruction, but of transformation. From within, streams of shimmering sand poured out, swirling upward like a reverse hourglass. The wind caught it, lifting it into spirals that danced around Dream, forming symbols, constellations, fragments of forgotten dreams. Gregory’s wings dissolved into feathers of light, his eyes into twin suns, and his body into a cascade of radiant dust.

The sands of creation embraced him, reclaiming what once was given. And as the last grain vanished into Dream’s outstretched hand, the courtyard fell silent. Dream stood taller now, his power renewed, his heart heavy. “Thank you,” he whispered. The Dreaming echoed back: Thank you.

Dream turned to leave, the sands settling around his feet, the night folding in behind him like a closing curtain. Abel stepped forward, hesitant but earnest. “Goodbye, Lord Dream,” he said softly. “I hope… I hope it was enough. I hope the Fates listen.” He paused, then added, “And I hope you remember Gregory. Not just what he gave you, but who he was.”

Dream inclined his head, a gesture of solemn respect. “I will remember,” he said, and with that, he vanished into the shadows of the Dreaming, his path lit by the faint glow of reclaimed power.

Abel stood in silence for a moment, watching the space where Dream had been. Then he turned to Cain, who was still facing away, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Are you mad?” Abel asked gently, already knowing the answer.

Cain didn’t look at him. “Of course I’m mad,” he muttered. “I’m always mad. But now I’ve got a reason.” His voice was low, bitter. “He took Gregory. Doesn’t matter how pretty the magic looked. Doesn’t matter that he asked. He’s gone. And we’re the ones left behind.”

Abel nodded, eyes downcast. “We always are.”

The silence lingered between them, heavy and aching. Abel shifted, rubbing his arms as if trying to warm himself against the chill that Gregory’s absence had left behind. Then, cautiously, he glanced at the small box resting on the nearby table—the one Cain had thrust at him earlier, wrapped in rough cloth and sealed with wax. “That… that present,” Abel said, voice barely above a whisper. “You still want me to open it?”

Cain turned, his expression unreadable. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?” he said, more tired than angry now. “You didn’t want it before. Maybe now you’ll stop being such a coward and just look inside.”

Abel hesitated, fingers twitching. “I didn’t want to open it because… well, because it’s from you. And your presents usually bite, or explode, or scream.” He managed a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But maybe… maybe today’s different.”

Cain snorted. “It’s not. But go on. Open it. Might as well ruin the day properly.”

Abel stepped forward, hands trembling, and reached for the box.

Abel peeled back the wax seal with trembling fingers, the cloth falling away like shed skin. The box sat heavy in his hands, pulsing faintly with something unpleasant. “Here goes,” he muttered, bracing himself as he lifted the lid.

The explosion was immediate.

A wet squelch tore through the air as the box erupted in a spray of blood, sinew, and something that might once have been a tongue. Abel shrieked, stumbling backward, arms flailing as bits of viscera clung to his face and shirt. A severed eyeball bounced off his shoe with a cheerful plop. The walls were streaked with crimson, and the stench of rot filled the room like a punch to the lungs.

Cain burst out laughing, doubled over, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, oh, that was perfect! You should’ve seen your face!” He wheezed, pointing at Abel, who was now frozen in horror, dripping with gore. “I told you to open it! I told you!”

Abel whimpered, wiping a chunk of something unidentifiable from his cheek. “Why would you do that? After Gregory—after everything—why would you think this was funny?”

Cain straightened, still chuckling, though his eyes were darker now. “Because it is funny. Because we’re monsters, Abel. And monsters don’t get happy endings. We get exploding meat boxes and dead gargoyles. That’s the joke.”

Abel didn’t respond. He just stood there, soaked in blood, heart aching, wondering if Cain would ever stop laughing.

PRESENT DAY
THE DREAMING

Abel was in the kitchen, wiping gore off the ceiling and muttering to himself about “proper gift etiquette,” when he noticed something strange on the table. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. No sound, no shimmer, no flash—just suddenly present, as if the world had blinked and left it behind.

An egg.

Large, smooth, and faintly glowing. Its surface shimmered with flecks of gold and deep blue, like starlight trapped in stone. Abel froze, sponge dripping onto the floor. He stepped closer, breath catching. The egg pulsed gently, warm to the touch, humming with a familiar magic.

Then, with a soft crack, it hatched.

The shell split open like a blooming flower, and from within emerged a tiny gargoyle—golden, radiant, and blinking up at Abel with wide, luminous eyes. Its wings were small and folded, its claws delicate, its face unmistakably Gregory’s… but new. Innocent. Reborn. Abel dropped to his knees, tears spilling freely. “Oh… oh, hello,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”

The baby gargoyle chirped, nuzzling into his chest, leaving streaks of golden dust on his shirt. Abel laughed, a sound full of wonder and relief. “You’re back. You’re back.”

Cain stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling. “Oh, brilliant,” he muttered. “A glittering consolation prize. How very Morpheus of him.”

Abel looked up, still cradling the hatchling. “He didn’t have to do this.”

“No,” Cain snapped, “he chose to. Which is worse. It’s a bribe. A golden apology. ‘Sorry I turned your best friend into sand—here’s a shiny replacement!’” He paced, gesturing wildly. “It’s manipulative. It’s theatrical. It’s him.”

Abel stroked the baby gargoyle’s head, which purred like warm stone. “Maybe. But it’s still Gregory. Or part of him. Or something new. And I love him already.”

Cain groaned. “Of course you do.”

The golden gargoyle blinked, then sneezed a puff of glitter into the air.
Cain rolled his eyes. “I hate him.”

Abel rocked the golden hatchling gently, eyes shining. “I think I’ll name him Irving.”

Cain choked on his own scoff. “You what?”

“Irving,” Abel repeated, smiling down at the baby gargoyle. “It suits him. He looks like an Irving.”

Cain stormed into the kitchen like a thundercloud in a waistcoat. “You can’t name a gargoyle Irving, Abel. That’s a name for accountants and moderately successful dentists. Gargoyle names begin with G. It’s tradition. It’s canon. It’s cosmic law.”

Abel blinked. “Gregory didn’t mind.”

“Gregory was the tradition!” Cain snapped. “Gregory. Gallius. Gormund. Gnasher. Goliath, for pity’s sake. Gargoyles are G-named. It’s how you know they’re gargoyles and not, I don’t know, enchanted footstools.”

The baby gargoyle chirped, clearly unbothered.

Abel looked down at him, then back at Cain. “Fine. Girving.”

Cain paused. “Girving?”

“Yes. It starts with G.”

Cain narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a real name.”

“It is now,” Abel said proudly, hugging the hatchling. “Hello, Girving.”

Girving sneezed again, this time coating Cain’s shoes in golden dust.

Cain stared at his feet. “I hate him more now.”

Cain stomped off and returned moments later with a dusty, leather-bound tome the size of a tombstone. He slammed it onto the kitchen table with theatrical fury, sending a cloud of flour and ancient curses into the air.

“The Codex Gargoylium,” he declared, flipping pages with the aggression of a man wronged by nomenclature. “Compiled by the Monks of Gristlethwaite. Annotated by the Order of the Groaning Spire. Definitive.”

Abel cradled Girving protectively. “He likes his name.”

Cain ignored him. “Gazpacho,” he read aloud, stabbing the page. “Gormagon. Gladstone. Ganymede. Gnashtongue. Grizzleback. Gorebliss. These are gargoyle names. Names with bite. Names with legacy. Not Girving, which sounds like a tax auditor who collects antique spoons.”

Abel smiled. “I think it’s charming.”

Cain flipped another page. “Gorefang. Gutterhelm. Gallivant. Gallstone.”

“Gallstone?” Abel asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Very popular in the 14th century,” Cain muttered. “Don’t judge.”

Abel didn’t respond. He was gazing down at Girving, who had curled into his arms like a warm lump of sunlit stone. The baby gargoyle blinked slowly, then reached up with one clawed paw and gently touched Abel’s cheek.

A soft golden glow spread from the touch—not magic exactly, but something older. Memory, maybe. Or trust.

Abel smiled, tears prickling again. “He’s Girving. That’s who he is.”

Cain looked at them both, mouth twitching. “You’re impossible.”

Girving chirped, then hiccuped a puff of glitter that settled on Cain's book.

Cain sighed. "And now the Codex is fabulous."

Abel chuckled. "It's an improvement."

Cain rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. "We are not calling him Girving."

"Then...Goldie."

Cain didn’t answer. He just reached for the nearest blunt object—a cast-iron skillet still warm from breakfast—and swung it with the weary precision of a man fulfilling a cosmic obligation.

Abel crumpled to the floor with a soft grunt, blood pooling quickly across the cracked tiles.

Goldie blinked.

A single drop of Abel’s blood splashed onto his golden snout. The baby gargoyle sniffed it, then let out a low, mournful chirp that echoed faintly through the kitchen like a bell tolling in a distant cathedral.

Cain sighed, setting the skillet down. “You’ll get used to it,” he muttered, nudging Abel’s body with his foot. “He always comes back.”

Goldie waddled over and curled beside Abel’s lifeless form, wings draped protectively over his chest.

Cain watched for a moment, then muttered, “Goldie. Hmph. Might as well.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “But if you start glittering every time he dies, I’m getting a mop enchanted.”

THE SANDS OF THE DREAMING
PRESENT DAY

The wind stirred his cloak, black as the void between stars. Around him, the dunes whispered—soft voices of sleeping minds, dreams half-formed and fading. The sky above was neither day nor night, but something in between: a canvas of shifting hues, like memory trying to remember itself.

He stared at the horizon, where the golden dust of a newborn gargoyle shimmered faintly in the distance. He could feel it—Goldie’s birth, Abel’s joy, Cain’s irritation. The Dreaming had absorbed it all, as it always did.

But Morpheus did not smile.

He turned to Lucienne--gazed upon the anxious expression of his librarian--and took three steps in her direction, remaining seven away. The sacred number.

"Is it wise to summon The Fates, my Lord?" She asked, voice low. "Why not your eldest brother, Destiny of The Endless? Or seek out Eila? Ask one who does not ask great boons of you for small information?"

Morpheus did not look to her gaze. "There are many all-seeing, Lucienne, several I call kin, but none are without asking a boon. None give oracular knowledge for free. And even if I were to seek Eila and ask her, I would require knowing her whereabouts, and she is one of many who knows how to keep themselves hidden from Endlesskind."

Lucienne folded her arms. "But why The Fates? Why not oracles like Delphi who is almost always in the same place?"

"I would not have an oracle governed by a god give me my answers, when such answers are also given to their patron. Apollo of Olympus has no need to know of what I seek."

Lucienne nodded, her gaze distant. "I see." She paused. "The Three-In-One know much. Urth, Verthandi and Skald. If you are strong enough to summon her...?"

Morpheus turned, his eyes like twin voids. "Yes. Yes...I will call them. Leave me, Lucienne. I must work."

He stepped forward, and the sands beneath him began to spiral, forming a circle of invocation. Symbols older than gods etched themselves into the ground—knots and runes, serpents devouring their own tails, the loom of fate spinning in silence.

Lucienne bowed her head. “Then I will leave you to your work.”

She vanished into the wind, leaving Morpheus alone with the weight of choice.

He stood at the centre of the spiral, arms outstretched, voice low and resonant.

“Urth, who remembers. Verthandi, who lives. Skald, who dreams. I call you now, Three-In-One, Weavers of the Thread, Mothers of What Must Be. Come forth.”

The air grew heavy. The sands stilled. Somewhere, a spindle turned.

The Dreamworld, the Dreamtime, the Unconscious--call it what you will--is as much part of him as I am a part of it. And for the first time since his return, for the first time in 109 years, Dream reached out of his substance and he shaped the world.

His first gift to The Fates was a crossroads--they came from a Cambodian farmer, from his dreams of a new Ox cart.

His second gift was the gallows. The gallows comes from a young Japanese movie buff, her head rolling for a surfeit of old Hammer horror films.

The honey, the snake and the crescent moon were all easy for the dreamlord to find.

A black she-lamb came next, and was a much more difficult find for the Lord Shaper, but one danced in the dreams of a child in Adelaide, Australia. Dream took it to set the scene.

Yet still, his set remained incomplete. Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos would come for less than this, but he was in need of a boon, and the Three had always been fickle.

Church bells.

There.

Dully the church bells echoed and clanged in the lonely darkness twelve times. Dong. One. Dong. Two. Dong. Three. Dong. Four. Dong. Five. Dong. Six. Dong. Seven. Dong. Eight. Dong. Nine. Dong. Ten. Dong. Eleven. Dong. Twelve.

It was midnight.

The witching hour.

And they came.

The sands of the Dreaming had stilled, as if the realm itself dared not interrupt what was about to unfold. The invocation hung in the air like a thread suspended between worlds—taut, golden, and humming with ancient power. Symbols etched into the dunes pulsed faintly, each one a knot in the tapestry of time, each one a whisper of inevitability.

Then, the wind changed.

It did not blow, but turned—folding inward, spiraling like a spindle drawing thread from the void. The sky above cracked, not with thunder, but with silence. A seam opened in the fabric of the Dreaming, and from it stepped three figures, bound by one soul and three faces.

The one who is three.

The we who are they.

The Hecateae.

They did not walk—they arrived, as if they had always been there, waiting for the moment to be noticed. Their robes shimmered with the colors of dusk and decay, woven from strands of memory and prophecy. Their eyes held the weight of every story ever told, and every ending yet to come.

"Welcome ladies." Morpheus said, bowing his head. His voice was steady, but the Dreaming trembled beneath him.

The mother-face stepped forward, her eyes soft and terrible. Her hands were stained with the dye of a thousand threads, and her breath smelled faintly of lavender and grave dirt. “You look so thin, my darling,” she cooed, tilting her head. “You haven’t been eating properly, have you now?”

Morpheus did not answer. He simply stood, pale and still, like a statue carved from moonlight and sorrow.

The maiden-face--Clotho--smiled, her youth brittle and eternal. “Morpheus. It’s been a long time,” she said, her voice like wind through reeds—gentle, but sharp enough to cut.

The crone-face chuckled, her teeth yellowed and sharp. “Hehh. He wants something.”

“Lady Atropos,” Morpheus replied, inclining his head, “you have found me out. I do want something.”

The Three-In-One circled him slowly, their movements like the turning of seasons—inevitable, cyclical, and without mercy. Behind them, the sands began to shift, forming patterns that resembled looms, scissors, and winding paths. The Dreaming itself responded to their presence, reshaping to accommodate the weight of fate.

“You always want something,” said the mother, her voice now tinged with disappointment. “You dreamers never come to us for tea.”

The air shimmered with the weight of names, each syllable a thread in the great tapestry, each title a mask worn by eternity. Morpheus stood still, surrounded by the shifting faces of fate, and the moment hung like a pendulum between jest and judgment.

“Atropos?” the crone asked, voice low, reverent, uncertain. “No. Not now. You might as well call me The Morrigan.”

The name struck the air like a raven's cry--sharp, dark, and full of blood soaked prophecy. The crone-face grinned, her teeth like broken bones. Her shadow twisted behind her, forming wings.

“She’s right, my ducks,” said the mother-face, her voice warm and wicked. “Might as well call us Tisiphone, Alecto, and Megaera—and that takes us back, eh?” Her laughter was a lullaby sung in a burning nursery, sweet and scorched.

The maiden-face twirled, her robes catching the light like spilled wine. “Might as well call us Diana, Mary, and Florence. Ha ha! Uh, sorry.” Her giggle was a dagger wrapped in silk.

Morpheus bowed his head, the corners of his mouth twitching with something like amusement—or fear. “Forgive me,” he said, voice like velvet laid over stone. “You will always be the Three Graces, ladies.”

“Flatterer!” they chorused, their voices overlapping like waves crashing on three shores.

“Ooh, he’s the clever one!” the crone cackled, her eyes gleaming with mischief and menace.

“So,” Morpheus asked, the question curling like smoke, “what should I call you?”

The maiden stepped forward, her eyes bright with borrowed innocence. “I’m Cynthia,” she said, and the name rang with moonlight and forgotten rites.

“She’s Mildred,” said the crone, gesturing with a hand that had once cradled kings and strangled tyrants. “I’m Mordred. Stupid name. I ought to be Morgaine,” grumbled the crone, her voice like rust scraping against prophecy.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mother-face murmured, almost to himself. “I just got them confused, was all.”

The Three-In-One laughed, and the sound echoed through the Dreaming like bells tolling for a wedding and a funeral at once. Names, after all, are only the beginning—and the beginning is always tangled.

"Witch Queen, you know of my imprisonment, of my travail, of the Time that was stolen from me--"

"They have stolen Time from you? What of that? You have all the Time there ever was!" Maiden exclaimed.

"They stole more than Time. When I established this realm I created tools to administer it. My tools are lost. I require your help."

It was a rare thing—rarer than eclipses in twin skies—for one of The Endless to seek aid. Rarer still to seek it from those who stood beyond even their dominion: the Triune who wove, measured, and severed the threads of fate itself. Beings older than gods, older than stories. Beings who enforced the laws that bound Endlesskind like stars to their courses.

“Help? Heee—Listen to him! Did you help us against Circe?” The crone asked, voice stoked with venom, rusted blade drawn across ancient stone, each syllable a curse half-spoken.

“It does not matter,” Dream replied, his voice the hush of midnight winds over forgotten graves. “This is my realm. It has laws. Old laws. Laws etched into the marrow of reality. And all who dwell within it bend to those laws, as you three bend to your own. Could one of you exist without the other two? I need three answers. You are bound by the covenant to give them.”

“Aye, my dearie,” crooned the Mother-face, her tone warm as hearthfire and twice as deceptive. “One answer then. One answer from each of us.”

Dream stepped forward, the shadows of his cloak curling like smoke around his feet. His eyes met the Maiden’s—Clotho, Cynthia, Megaera—she who spins the thread. “Maiden. There was a pouch of sand. Dream-sand. It was stolen from me.”

She smiled kindly. “The pouch was last purchased by a magic-user in London by the name of Joanna Constantine.”

“She has it still?” The Dreamlord dared to ask—foolishly, hope flickering like a candle in a crypt.

“One question, one answer. The rules, Lord of The Dream Realm.” She whispered, her voice the rustle of silk over bone.

He bowed his head, the weight of ancient law pressing down like a crown of thorns. “I see. Then your question, All-Mother. Lachesis. Mildred. My helm—what became of it?”

“Traded, my dove,” she said, her voice a lullaby sung in a graveyard. “Traded to a demon in the days when mortals still feared the dark. It has long since vanished from the waking world.”

“Which demon?” he asked, the name a blade he longed to wield.

“One question, my honeysuckle, and one answer.”

He turned to the Crone, the severer of threads, the ender of tales. Atropos. Mordred. The dusk of fate. “A final question. My stone. My dreamstone. The ruby moonstone. Who holds it now?”

“Hee!” she cackled, the sound like teeth chattering in a tomb. “Your gem passed through a mother to her son, who drank deep of its dream-magic, until it—and his dreams—were torn from him by the superhumans. Seek the League of Justice, if you would know its current bearer.”

“But where—?” He stopped himself, the law coiling around his throat like a serpent.

“One answer only,” she said, eyes gleaming like dying stars. “You know the rules.”

Dream inclined his head, the gesture both reverence and resignation. “Thank you, weird sisters.”

“Ha-ha hah ha ha! Did you hear that, my sister-self?”

“Ooo hoo hohoh hooo! ‘Thank you,’ he says! You don’t thank the fates, Dreamkkin!” Maiden cackled.

“Ahahahaha! Heee! We haven’t help you!” Mother chorused.

“Your troubles are only just beginning!” They sang, and as quickly as they had come, they were gone.

Exhaustion bit at Dream’s soul. He had answers of a sort. But this would be an uphill quest.

So, Dream thought. Much has changed, much is strange on Earth since I was ripped from my dream home. What first?

Where would he begin?

Not the helm. It was traded to a demon, which meant it resided in Hell, and even at full strength, bearing all his hallmarks of office, he would still face formidable threat in Hell. Lucifer Morningstar, monarch of Hell, was a force to be reckoned with—strongest save the creator. Bearer of unprecedented power.

It would be foolish to begin there.

Perhaps he could begin with the ruby, but that would require visiting the League of Justice as the Fates had claimed, and having only just been freed from his imprisonment, the Dreamlord could not say that he was particularly eager to find himself among any in The Waking World that possessed power. The last he had encountered was Roderick Burgess, and he was still incredibly bitter over that.

Even though this Joanna Constantine was a magic user, she was but one mortal. Just one. She was just a mortal. What could possibly go wrong?

2025
LONDON, ENGLAND

The sun hung low in the sky, a burnished coin slipping behind the veil of drifting clouds. Hyde Park shimmered in the golden hush of late afternoon, its trees casting long, dappled shadows across the winding paths and manicured lawns. The air was thick with the scent of summer grass and distant roses, and the occasional bark of a dog punctuated the gentle hum of city life.

Eila sat alone on a weathered green bench beneath a horse chestnut tree, her legs curled beneath her, the pages of The Count of Monte Cristo spread open in her lap. She read slowly, deliberately, as if each sentence were a riddle spoken by the Delphic Oracle—cryptic, potent, and laced with divine irony. The story had begun to feel less like fiction and more like prophecy, as if Edmond Dantès were not merely a man but a cipher for something older: a shade from the underworld, risen with the scent of salt and vengeance clinging to his robes.

She admired the architecture of the tale—the way betrayal unfolded like a tragic chorus, each act echoing with the inevitability of fate. Dumas, she thought, wrote like a man possessed by the Furies, his pen guided by the same hand that etched Orestes’ doom into the stones of Argos. And yet, there was mercy in the margins. A flicker of grace. Eila wasn’t sure yet if it would triumph.

The book rested heavy in her lap, its spine worn, its pages soft from rereading. She traced the edge of a chapter with her thumb, wondering whether revenge was ever truly complete—or whether it simply changed its mask and waited in the wings for the next performance.

A breeze stirred her hair, lifting strands like whispers, and she tucked them behind her ear without looking up.

Then she saw her.

Mad Hettie.

She was unmistakable—an ancient figure wrapped in layers of shawls and skirts that looked like they’d been stitched together from forgotten centuries. Her boots were scuffed, her hat askew, and she walked with the purposeful shuffle of someone who knew exactly where she was going, even if the world had long stopped asking. Around her danced three dogs—none of them quite ordinary. One was a greyhound with eyes too human, another a shaggy terrier that seemed to flicker at the edges, and the third a squat bulldog with a collar of tarnished silver bells.

Eila’s heart gave a small, delighted leap. She closed her book with a soft thump, slid it into her satchel, and raised a hand.

“Hettie!” she called, her voice threading through the rustling leaves.

The old woman paused, one dog growling softly at a squirrel that had dared to cross their path. Hettie turned, squinting through the afternoon light, then broke into a crooked grin.

“Well, if it ain’t the clever girl with the clever eyes,” she cackled, making her way toward the bench. “Reading about revenge, are we? Dangerous pastime, that.”

Eila smiled and scooted over to make room. “Only if you finish the book.”

Hettie sat beside her with a sigh like old wood settling, the dogs curling at her feet. “Tell me, then. What’s Monte Cristo got that we don’t?”

Eila glanced at her, eyes twinkling. “A hidden fortune. A secret identity. And a very long memory.”

Hettie chuckled, tapping her cane against the ground. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

Eila leaned back, watching the dogs settle like sentinels at Hettie’s feet. The bulldog gave a low, rhythmic snore, as if marking time. The terrier blinked in and out of shadow, and the greyhound stared into the middle distance, as though seeing something that hadn’t yet arrived.

“You’ve lived through a few Tuesdays like that, haven’t you?” Eila asked, half teasing, half serious.

Hettie’s eyes narrowed, the creases around them deepening like fault lines. “Child, I’ve lived through centuries of Tuesdays. Some with blood in the gutters, some with roses on the windowsills. Revenge is a wheel, not a dagger. It turns, and turns, and turns again.”

Eila nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of the words. “But Dantès—he makes it feel like justice. Like the gods are watching.”

“The gods always watch,” Hettie said, her voice low. “But they rarely intervene. They prefer theatre. Tragedy. The kind where mortals think they’re in control.”

She reached into her shawl and pulled out a small pouch, tied with a fraying ribbon. It jingled faintly, like coins or bones. She held it out to Eila without explanation.

“What is it?” Eila asked, not taking it yet.

“Memory,” Hettie said. “Or prophecy. Depends on how you open it.”

Eila hesitated, then took the pouch gently, feeling its strange weight. It was warm, as if it had been resting near a fire—or a heartbeat.

“I don’t know if I want to know the future,” she murmured. "I see enough as it is, Henrietta."

Hettie smiled, her teeth like old ivory. “Then read your book. Let Dumas tell you what happens when you chase ghosts. But if you ever need to speak with the dead—well, you know where to find me.”

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves like applause. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, marking the hour.

Eila looked down at the pouch, then back at Hettie. “Do you think Dantès ever found peace?”

Hettie stood, her dogs rising with her in perfect silence. “Peace is for the innocent. The rest of us settle for poetry.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her silhouette folding into the golden haze of Hyde Park, the dogs trailing behind like shadows from another world.

Eila sat alone again, the bench now feeling like a threshold rather than a resting place. The pouch in her hand pulsed with quiet mystery, its ribbon frayed like the edge of a forgotten story. She turned it over once, then again, as if waiting for it to speak first.

Then, with a breath held like a prayer, she untied the ribbon.

The pouch opened with a soft sigh, and into her palm spilled three coins—ancient, worn, and unmistakably Greek. Their surfaces were dulled by time, but the engravings still whispered through the patina: Athena’s owl, a Corinthian Pegasus mid-flight, and the unmistakable profile of Apollo, his gaze eternal and unreadable.

Eila’s breath caught.

She had seen replicas before, in museums and textbooks. But these were no replicas. These were heavy with history, with the scent of olive groves and oracle smoke. She turned one over and felt a chill run through her fingers, as if the coin carried not just weight, but memory.

The owl stared back at her, its eyes wide and knowing.

She thought of Dantès again—of treasure buried in the Isle of Monte Cristo, of secrets hidden in plain sight. But this was older. Wilder. These coins weren’t currency. They were offerings. Messages. Keys.

She looked around the park, suddenly aware of how quiet it had become. The breeze had stilled. The dogs were gone. Hettie was nowhere in sight.

Eila closed her fingers around the coins, their coolness grounding her. She felt as though she’d been handed a question, not an answer.

And somewhere deep inside, a voice—not hers—whispered:

“Three coins for three choices. Choose wisely, child of the threshold.”

Eila stared at the coins nestled in her palm, their weight pressing into her skin like small, deliberate truths. She knew what they were—not just relics, not just artifacts. These were drachma, the kind the Fates dealt in when gifts were absent and time ran thin.

Hettie hadn’t given her a pouch of curiosities. She’d given her currency.

Eila had read enough—more than enough—to know the rules. The Moirai, the three sisters who spun, measured, and cut the thread of every life, didn’t barter in sentiment. They didn’t care for prayers or promises. But they did accept payment. If you had no gift to offer—no song, no sacrifice, no soul—then you paid in drachma. Ancient coin for ancient judgment.

She turned the owl-marked coin over again, watching the light catch its worn edges. Athena’s wisdom, sharp and silent. The Pegasus shimmered faintly, as if it might take flight from her palm. And Apollo—his profile was serene, but his eyes held the cold clarity of prophecy.

Eila’s thoughts spiraled, not in panic, but in a kind of reverent awe. Hettie had given her a choice. Or perhaps a warning. Or perhaps both.

“Three coins for three choices,” the voice had said. She didn’t know if it was memory or magic, but it had settled in her bones like truth.

She thought of the book again—The Count of Monte Cristo—and how Dantès had paid for his vengeance with years of silence, solitude, and transformation. He had no coin, but he had become one: minted in suffering, spent in retribution.

Eila wondered what kind of currency she was becoming.

She closed her fingers around the drachma, feeling their cool certainty. Somewhere, the Fates were watching. Somewhere, a loom paused mid-spin.

And somewhere, Hettie was smiling.

Chapter 8: 1.05 | DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

Notes:

This is a combination of the show and the comic in terms of this chapter.

Chapter Text

2025
LONDON,ENGLAND

"Stars shinin' bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you"
Birds singin in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me

Say "Nighty-night" and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me."
- DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME, The Mamas & the Papas (1968)

A DINER IN LONDON

The diner sat on the edge of a quiet street, its chrome façade catching the late afternoon light like a memory polished to a shine. The sign above the door flickered gently—Stella’s, in cursive neon, half pink, half blue, like it couldn’t decide which decade it belonged to. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of coffee, grilled cheese, and something sweet baking in the back.

Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their seams worn but lovingly patched. A waitress in a retro apron moved between tables with the ease of someone who’d seen every kind of heartbreak and still believed in dessert. The jukebox in the corner, sleek and digital but styled like it was built in 1957, played softly—“Dream a Little Dream of Me” drifting through the speakers like a lullaby for the wide awake.

Stars shining bright above you…

The song wrapped around the room like a silk scarf, brushing against chrome napkin holders, sugar shakers, and the quiet hum of conversation. A couple sat in the corner booth, sharing fries and secrets. A man in a suit typed furiously on a tablet, his coffee untouched. A teenager with dyed green hair and headphones sipped a milkshake, mouthing the lyrics like they were a spell.

Outside, the world was fast—electric cars, smart ads, drone deliveries. But inside Stella’s, time had slowed. Not stopped. Just softened.

And in the booth by the window, someone sat alone, watching the light shift across the tabletop, listening to the song like it was meant just for them.

The light outside had shifted—no longer the golden haze of early afternoon, but a cooler, softer glow that made the chrome trim gleam like moonlight. The windows, slightly fogged from the kitchen’s warmth, framed the street like a sepia-toned photograph. A delivery drone zipped past, its hum barely audible over the music and clinking cutlery.

Say nighty-night and kiss me…

The song lingered, looping gently as if the jukebox knew this was the kind of tune that didn’t need replacing. It was a balm, a whisper from another time. The waitress—her name tag read Rita—paused to refill a coffee cup, her eyes catching the flicker of a holographic ad outside. She sighed, not annoyed, just wistful. The world had changed so fast, but Stella’s hadn’t. That was the point.

A small screen embedded in each booth glowed softly, offering menus, news, and even poetry if you asked nicely. But most of the regulars ignored it. They preferred the laminated menus, the ones with grease smudges and doodles in the margins. A man in his seventies sat at the counter, stirring his tea slowly, watching the bubbles rise and pop. He wore a tweed cap and had a newspaper folded beside him—real paper, not digital. He tapped his foot to the music, a quiet rhythm that matched the sway of the ceiling fan overhead.

In the far corner, a young woman with a sketchpad was drawing the diner itself. Her pencil moved quickly, capturing the curve of the stools, the shine of the napkin dispenser, the way Rita’s apron fluttered as she walked. She paused, listening to the music, then added a tiny note in the corner of the page: “Dream a Little Dream of Me” — 13:29 BST.

Outside, the clouds gathered like gossip, hinting at rain. But inside Stella’s, the world was still. A place where time folded in on itself, where dreams hung in the air like steam from a fresh cup of coffee.

Johanna Constantine sat at the counter like she’d been carved into the place—an immovable figure in a shifting world. The diner buzzed around her in soft tones: the clink of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, the occasional hiss from the kitchen where someone was burning toast again. But Johanna was still, save for the slow curl of smoke rising from the cigarette between her fingers and the occasional sip from her coffee, which had long since gone lukewarm.

The phone call had ended minutes ago, but the tension hadn’t. It clung to her like a second skin. Vic’s voice still echoed in her ears—tight, urgent, threaded with something that sounded like fear. Not the theatrical kind. The real kind. The kind that made people whisper instead of scream.

She flipped the notebook shut and slid it back into her coat. Her fingers lingered on the rim of the coffee mug, tracing the chipped edge absently. Outside, the clouds had thickened into a bruised sky, the kind that promised rain but hadn’t yet committed. The light through the diner windows had dimmed, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor.

Rita passed by again, offering a silent refill. Johanna nodded once, and the mug was topped up without a word. They had an understanding, she and Rita. No small talk. No questions. Just coffee and quiet.

The jukebox shifted tracks, but not by much. The next song was another relic, soft and slow, like the diner itself was trying to soothe something it didn’t understand. Johanna didn’t hear it. Not really. Her mind was already elsewhere—on the address Vic had sent, on the name she’d mentioned, on the way her voice had cracked when she said “It’s not just the house, Jo. It’s the air.”

She reached into her coat again, this time pulling out a small tin. Inside were the tools of her trade: salt, matches, a vial of holy water, a folded scrap of parchment etched with a binding sigil. She checked each item with the precision of someone who’d learned the hard way that forgetting even one could mean disaster.

The diner door opened, letting in a gust of wind and a man in a rain-slicked coat. He glanced around, saw Johanna, hesitated, then chose a booth far from the counter. Smart man. She didn’t look like someone you wanted to sit beside. She looked like someone who’d seen things. Things that didn’t belong in polite conversation.

Johanna finished her cigarette, stubbed it out, and drained the rest of her coffee. She stood, dropped a few notes on the counter, and nodded once to Rita, who nodded back without meeting her eyes.

As she stepped outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, soft and cold against her face. She pulled her collar up and lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp lines of her face.

The address Vic had sent was only a few miles away. A townhouse near the river. Old. Quiet. Wrong.

Johanna Constantine walked into the rain like it owed her something.

Johanna Constantine stepped out of Stella’s and into the rain like it was an old acquaintance. The door swung shut behind her with a soft thud, muffling the last strains of Dream a Little Dream of Me as if the song itself didn’t want to follow her out.

The pavement was slick, puddles blooming in the cracks like bruises. She lit a cigarette with a practiced flick, shielding the flame with her hand, and took a long drag. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the mist. Her boots struck the ground with purpose, each step echoing faintly in the quiet street. The world outside the diner felt colder, sharper—less forgiving.

She passed the mural again, the angel with the cracked halo, and didn’t look up this time. Her eyes were fixed ahead, scanning the street for the taxi Vic had promised would be waiting. A black cab idled at the far end of the block, its headlights casting long, pale beams through the drizzle. The driver leaned against the bonnet, coat pulled tight, watching her approach with the wary neutrality of someone who’d seen enough to know when not to ask questions.

Johanna moved like someone who didn’t hesitate. Her coat flared slightly with each stride, rain beading on the shoulders, cigarette burning low between her fingers. She reached the cab, flicked the cigarette into the gutter, and nodded once to the driver.

He opened the door without a word. She climbed in, settled into the worn leather seat, and exhaled slowly. The door shut with a solid thunk, sealing her off from the street, the diner, the song, the quiet.

The driver slid behind the wheel, glanced at her in the mirror. “You Constantine?”

She didn’t answer. Just gave him the address.

The cab pulled away, tires hissing on wet asphalt, and Johanna didn’t look back. Stella’s faded into the rain behind her, swallowed by the city’s rhythm. Ahead, something waited. But for now, there was the hum of the engine, the soft patter of rain on glass, and the silence she wore like armour.

THE CHURCH
LONDON, ENGLAND

The cab pulled up outside the church, its tires hissing against the wet curb. The building loomed above the street like a relic from another century—soot-stained stone, iron gates, and a bell tower that hadn’t rung in years. Ivy clung to the walls like old secrets, and the rain had settled into a fine mist that blurred the edges of everything.

Johanna stepped out, boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud. She didn’t thank the driver. Just shut the door behind her and lit another cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand. The cab pulled away, leaving her alone with the church and the quiet.

She stood for a moment, taking it in. The place had a weight to it—not just age, but something deeper. The kind of silence that felt watched.

And then she saw her.

Mad Hettie was perched on the low stone wall near the gate, wrapped in layers of mismatched fabric—shawls, scarves, a coat that might’ve once been velvet. Her hair was wild, streaked with grey and rust, and her eyes sparkled with the kind of clarity that made people uncomfortable. She looked like she’d been waiting there for hours. Or centuries.

Johanna exhaled smoke and stepped closer. “Hettie.”

Mad Hettie grinned, revealing a row of teeth that were mostly her own. “You’re late, love.”

Johanna glanced at the church. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

“Oh, you’re always expected,” Hettie said, swinging her legs like a child. “Places like this don’t forget people like you.”

Johanna studied her for a moment. “You know what’s inside?”

Hettie cackled softly. “Course I do. But I’m not the one going in, am I?”

The mist thickened, curling around the church steps like fingers. Johanna flicked ash from her cigarette and looked up at the tower.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mad Hettie’s grin faded into something more solemn. Her voice dropped low, almost reverent. “He’s coming, you know.”

Johanna paused mid-step. “Who?”

“The Sandman,” Hettie whispered, eyes gleaming with something ancient. “He’s waking up.”

Johanna scoffed, turning back toward the church door. “He’s a fairy story, Hettie. A myth. Like bogeymen and bedtime prayers.”

Hettie slid off the wall, her feet barely making a sound. “Fairy stories don’t stay buried forever, love. Especially not the ones people stopped believing in.”

Johanna didn’t respond. She just pushed open the heavy door, the creak echoing like a warning. Behind her, Hettie watched with a knowing look, the mist curling tighter around her ankles.

“Fairy stories,” she murmured to herself. “Funny how they always come back when the world forgets how to dream.”

Johanna didn’t look back. The church door loomed ahead, heavy and ancient, and she moved toward it with the kind of resolve that masked unease. Her boots echoed against the stone path, each step swallowed by the mist curling low around the ground.

Behind her, Mad Hettie stood rigid, her voice slicing through the quiet like a bell toll.

“He’s coming, Johanna!” she cried. “The Oneiromancer!”

Johanna stopped, just for a breath. The word hung in the air—strange, old, and charged with something deeper than myth. She turned her head slightly, not enough to face Hettie, but enough to let the words reach her.

“You really need to stop reading your own press,” she muttered. “Dream-mages and sleep kings—he’s a bedtime story, Hettie.”

But Hettie wasn’t laughing now. Her eyes were wide, her voice trembling with something that wasn’t fear, but reverence. “He’s not a story. He’s the story. And he’s waking up.”

Johanna pushed open the church door. The hinges groaned like something remembering its purpose, a sound that echoed through the nave like a warning. She stepped inside without another word, the darkness swallowing her whole. Dust hung in the air like suspended time, and the stained glass windows cast fractured light across the pews, painting the floor in bruised reds and blues.

Outside, Hettie stayed by the gate, whispering to the mist as if it were an old friend. Her voice was low, almost reverent. “The Oneiromancer is coming. And the world’s about to remember how to dream... or how to scream.” The mist curled around her ankles like obedient dogs, listening.

Inside, Johanna’s boots clicked against the stone floor, each step a declaration of irritation. She expected Vic—half-baked psychic, full-time drama queen—to be waiting with incense and a half-arsed ritual. But instead, there stood a figure of infinite twilight. His eyes held stars, not metaphorically, but literally—tiny pinpricks of light in a void that seemed to stretch beyond his skull. His face was coloured by the full moon, pale and distant, and his presence made the air feel thinner.

Gods, this was no man.

Johanna blinked, her instincts prickling like static before a storm. The air around the figure felt charged, heavy with something ancient and unspoken. She took a cautious step forward, boots scuffing against the worn stone floor. “Errr, who are you?”

The figure didn’t move, didn’t blink. He stood as if carved from dusk itself, his silhouette barely distinguishable from the shadows that clung to the church walls. His voice, when it came, was quiet but absolute—like a truth spoken aloud for the first time in centuries.

“You are Constantine.”

Johanna scoffed, the sound sharp in the stillness. Her arms folded across her chest, a reflexive shield against the surreal. “Yeah. It’s not like I’m Doctor Livingstone. But who are you?”

Her tone was flippant, but her eyes searched his face for something—recognition, threat, humanity. She found none. The figure remained motionless, his gaze steady, unreadable. Behind him, the stained glass windows flickered with the last light of day, casting fractured halos across the floor. Dust motes danced in the beams like forgotten memories.

Johanna shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how loud her breathing sounded in the cavernous silence. The man—or whatever he was—seemed to exist outside of time, like he’d stepped into the church from a dream half-remembered. And yet, he knew her name. Not just her name—her lineage. Her reputation. That unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

She narrowed her eyes. “Seriously, mate. You’ve got the whole cryptic thing down, but I’m not here for riddles. If you know me, then you know I don’t do well with vague.”

Still, the figure said nothing. But the shadows behind him seemed to shift, subtly, like they were listening.

"You have something of mine," was all he said.

How ominous, Johanna thought. Not creepy at all. She squinted at him, reassessing everything from the way he stood—like gravity had to ask permission—to the way his cloak seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in a century. Maybe he hadn’t, she considered. His skin had that pallor that wasn’t quite undead, but definitely not moisturised. It wasn’t a proper emo look, she decided—no eyeliner, no chains, no ironic band tee. He just happened to fit the category by accident, like a shadow that wandered into Hot Topic and never left.

"Still didn’t answer my question," she continued, voice sharper now, cutting through the thick silence that clung to the church walls. "Kind of hard to have a chat when you know who I am but won’t tell me who you are."

The figure tilted his head slightly, as if the concept of conversation was something he was still warming up to. His eyes—those star-speckled voids—seemed to flicker with distant thought.

"I suppose I should tell you that your acquaintance, Erica, or Ric as I am told she calls herself, is not actually here," he said, each word deliberate, like he was laying bricks in a sentence he didn’t want to build. "She did me a service in bringing you here."

Johanna’s jaw tightened. Of course Ric wasn’t here. That would’ve been too easy. She glanced around the church, half-expecting her to pop out from behind a pew with a smug grin and a half-empty bottle of absinthe. But no. Just shadows and stained glass and this walking existential crisis.

“So she ghosted me,” Johanna muttered. “Classic Ric.”

Johanna groaned. "So no exorcism?"

"No. Such matters were resolved."

She was not pleased about that. She wanted that pay check, and she wanted to prove to her cousin John that she could deal with high profile cases--higher-profile than the ones he dealt with. Whoever this man was, he just took away a hefty sum from her. It didn't matter if he was king or commoner, she officially was not a fan of him. Anyone who got in the way of her pay was no friend of hers. She turned back to the figure, irritation simmering beneath her skin. “Alright, mysterious stranger. You’ve got me here. You’ve got your cryptic tone. Now how about you tell me what this is all about before I start charging you by the minute.”

"What do you want?" She asked, deciding to temporarily park the matter of the denied pay. She'd air out her grievances later when she had a better understanding of who she was dealing with. If this was some supernatural entity, perhaps it might be better to keep her mouth shut, but if this was just some asshole, she'd make sure he knew how annoyed she was when she socked him in the jaw.

"Something of mine came into your possession some time ago. A leather pouched filled with sand. I would like it back. Where is it?" His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of inevitability—like a tide that had already decided to rise. The air around him seemed to hum with latent power, the kind that made Johanna’s skin crawl in the most professional sense. She’d dealt with demons, ghosts, and one very rude talking mirror, but this was something else. Something older.

"That pouch?" Johanna blinked, then let out a dry chuckle, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "That was ages ago. Yeah, I bought it in a garage sale in San Francisco," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I knew it was powerful. But I never even managed to get the drawstrings open." She remembered the pouch well—soft, worn leather that seemed to pulse faintly in her palm, like it had a heartbeat of its own. It had resisted every charm, every blade, every pry. Eventually, she’d tossed it into a box labelled “Too Weird to Bin” and moved on.

"Where is it now?"

"Haven’t got a clue," she admitted, shrugging. "I haven’t seen it in ages. But the odds are it’s down in lock-up, with me stuff from... Paddington. And from the Notting Hill place. And the East Croydon flat before that..." She trailed off, mentally cataloguing the trail of half-packed boxes and abandoned flats. Her life had been a series of relocations, each one leaving behind a little more clutter and a little less certainty.

"Let us retrieve it, then."

Johanna stared at him, incredulous. “You want to go digging through my storage unit? With me? In London?”

The figure didn’t flinch. His expression remained unreadable, carved from moonlight and silence.

"I hope you don't expect me to go on public transport with you dressed like that. Be dead embarrassing."

The Lord of Dreams sighed, and with the small kernels of magic he possessed, raised his hand. Without a word, the Lord of Dreams lifted a hand. The folds of his cloak shimmered, rippling like ink in water. In an instant, the flowing garment condensed into a long, charcoal coat—still elegant, still unnervingly pristine, but now passable for a man with expensive taste and a tragic backstory. "Is this better?"

Johanna gave him a once-over, lips pursed. “Eh. You still look like you write poetry about ravens and heartbreak, but it’ll do.” Johanna examined it. "Eh. I ought to introduce you to the big green bloke, you'd like him. He ain't got a sense of humour either."

LOCKUP
LONDON, ENGLAND

The lock-up smelled like damp cardboard and broken promises.

Johanna stood ankle-deep in a pile of mismatched boxes, her hair clinging to her forehead with sweat and frustration. The single flickering bulb overhead cast a jaundiced light across the cramped unit, illuminating dust motes and the occasional spider skittering across a cracked photo frame. The air was thick with mildew and the faint scent of old incense—probably from that time she tried to cleanse a cursed blender.

Two hours. Two bloody hours.

She yanked open another box, this one labelled "Misc. + Definitely Not Haunted", and groaned at the contents: a cracked porcelain doll with one eye missing, a bundle of dried herbs tied with red string, and a VHS tape ominously marked “DO NOT WATCH (again)”. No pouch. No sand. Just more of her life’s detritus, collected from years of half-finished jobs and supernatural oddities.

Behind her, Dream stood motionless, his coat now dusted with cobwebs and patience. He hadn’t spoken since they arrived, hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked. He simply watched, like a statue carved from twilight, waiting for the world to catch up to him.

The lock-up was chaos incarnate.

Stacks of boxes leaned precariously like drunken towers, each one scribbled with half-legible labels: “Ward off (maybe)”, “John’s crap (DO NOT TOUCH)”, “Misc. Arcane”, and one ominously marked “Teeth?”. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper, incense, and something faintly metallic—like dried blood or rusted iron. A single strip light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow that made everything look slightly haunted.

Johanna wiped her brow with the sleeve of her jacket, leaving a smudge of grime across her temple. Two hours of digging, and still no pouch. Her knees ached, her patience was fraying, and Dream—stoic, silent, and utterly unhelpful—stood in the corner like a forgotten statue.

She yanked open another box, this one filled with tangled rosaries, a cracked scrying mirror, and a jar of pickled eyeballs she didn’t remember acquiring. “Lovely,” she muttered, nudging the jar aside with a grimace.

Next came a suitcase from her Notting Hill flat, stuffed with moth-eaten cloaks, a bundle of letters from a banshee she’d briefly dated, and a taxidermied ferret wearing a monocle. She held it up, squinting. “I wondered where you’d gone, Lord Whiskerton.”

Dream said nothing.

She moved on to a crate labelled “Paddington: Do Not Open Unless Desperate”. Inside: a bundle of sage so old it crumbled in her hands, a cursed music box that played Greensleeves backwards, and a collection of antique keys with no known locks. One of them pulsed faintly in her palm, and she dropped it immediately.

“Nope. Not today.”

A shoebox revealed a stack of Polaroids—some mundane, some showing spectral figures mid-scream. She flipped through them absently, pausing at one of herself and Vic, grinning in front of a bonfire surrounded by salt circles. That had been a good night. Before things got complicated.

She sighed, slumping against a stack of crates. “It’s not here,” she said, voice flat. “Unless it’s hiding inside the cursed blender, which I am absolutely not opening.”

Dream stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room like a tide receding. “Then it is elsewhere.”

Johanna groaned. “Brilliant. I’ve got three more lock-ups, a haunted attic, and a storage unit in bloody Croydon. Hope you’ve got time, Sandman.”

The pouch was still missing. But the past—her messy, magical, half-forgotten past—was everywhere. And it was starting to whisper.

Johanna’s fingers brushed against the edge of a warped shoebox, buried beneath a stack of grimoires and a broken Ouija board that still twitched on occasion. She tugged it free, the cardboard soft with age and damp, and flipped open the lid.

Inside, nestled among faded ticket stubs, a cracked pendant, and a bundle of dried lavender, was a photograph. She paused.

It was her and Rachel.

The image was sun-bleached and curled at the corners, but the moment it captured was vivid—Rachel laughing, her arm slung around Johanna’s shoulders, both of them grinning like idiots in front of a bonfire on the beach. Johanna remembered that night. The salt in the air, the wine, the way Rachel had danced barefoot in the sand like she was trying to charm the moon itself.

Her chest tightened.

She hadn’t thought about Rachel in months. Not properly. Not without bitterness. But now, holding the photo, the memories came rushing back—warmth, laughter, and the quiet magic they’d shared before everything fell apart.

And then it hit her.

The pouch.

She remembered Rachel teasing her about it, calling it her “mystery marbles” and pretending it was cursed. Johanna had kept it on her for weeks, trying to crack it open, until one night she’d handed it to Rachel with a shrug and said, “You keep it. Maybe it’ll behave for you.”

Rachel had laughed and tucked it into her coat pocket.

Johanna stared at the photo, her breath shallow. “Bloody hell,” she whispered.

Dream, who had been silent and still as ever, stepped closer. “You remember.”

She nodded slowly, eyes still locked on the image. “I gave it to her. Years ago. Before we split.”

The lock-up seemed to shift around her, the clutter receding into the background. All that mattered now was the memory—and the trail it had just reopened.

“She’s in Lambeth,” Johanna said, voice steadier now. “Last I heard. Running some kind of herbal shop. If she still has it…”

Dream’s eyes shimmered faintly, like stars stirred by wind. “Then we must go to her.”

Johanna tucked the photo into her jacket, heart thudding. “Let’s just hope she’s still speaking to me.”

THE HOUSE
LAMBETH, LONDON

The cab pulled up outside a narrow Victorian terrace, its brickwork weathered by time and soot. Lambeth was restless tonight—sirens in the distance, the low hum of traffic, and the occasional shout echoing from a nearby pub. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the uneven pavement.

Johanna stepped out, the soles of her boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The air smelled of rain on concrete, mingled with the faint aroma of fried food and cigarette smoke. She glanced up at the house—three stories, bay windows, ivy curling around the drainpipe like it was trying to strangle the place. A small sign hung beside the door, faded but still legible: “The Green Veil – Botanicals & Remedies.”

It hadn’t changed much.

The porch light buzzed faintly, illuminating a row of potted herbs and a cracked ceramic owl. Wind chimes tinkled above the door, catching the breeze off the Thames. Johanna hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her jacket pocket where the photo still sat. Rachel’s laugh echoed in her mind, uninvited and vivid.

Behind her, Dream stood silent, his presence somehow untouched by the grime and noise of the city. He looked out of place here—too still, too clean, too eternal.

Johanna took a breath, stepped onto the porch, and knocked. Three firm raps. No turning back now. “This is her dad’s place. I got no clue if she still leaves where she used to, but I know he lives here. I see him occasionally when I got work around here.”

There was no answer at the door.

Johanna knocked again, harder this time, her knuckles echoing against the wood like a warning. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a jaundiced glow across the faded sign: The Green Veil – Botanicals & Remedies. The windows were dark, curtains drawn tight. No footsteps. No movement. Just the distant hum of Lambeth traffic and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street.

She stepped back, frowning. “Maybe she’s out,” she muttered, though the words felt hollow. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt... waiting.

Dream stood beside her, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the door as if it were a threshold to something far older than brick and mortar.

“The pouch is here,” he said, voice low and certain.

Johanna turned to him, brow furrowed. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

There was no emphasis, no arrogance—just fact. Like gravity stating its terms.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if he were listening to something beyond the reach of human ears. The air around them shifted, subtly. The scent of herbs and damp earth grew stronger, tinged with something metallic. Something wrong.

“The pouch is here,” he repeated. “And more than the pouch… this house is dangerous, Constantine.” His tone didn’t shift. No warning, no urgency. Just quiet disapproval, like he’d been dragged into something beneath his station. He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown—just stood there, unamused, as if the house itself was wasting his time.

Johanna felt it then—a pressure in her chest, like the atmosphere had thickened. The porch creaked beneath her boots, and the wind chimes above the door gave a discordant rattle, as if disturbed by something unseen.

She glanced at the windows again. Behind the curtains, the shadows seemed too deep. Too still.

“Well,” she said, reaching for the door handle, “dangerous is kind of my thing.”

2025
LONDON

Johanna laughed. "I thought Hettie was joking, you know? Though, I suppose I should have believed her," she confessed. "She told me than an oracle lived in London and was right."

Something stilled within Dream. "An oracle in London? England has seldom been home to oracles. Which oracle were you told lived in London?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Some Greek one," Johanna quipped, shrugging in a manner too nonchalant for the Dreamlord's liking. "Not Delphi. Can't remember." It was as if none of it was of any interest to her, and she couldn't understand why he might be interested. "This was ages ago anyway. I don't think oracles tend to stay in one place."

He decided to dare to guess and test the feeling brewing in his gut. "The Oracle of Dodona. Is that the oracle she spoke of?"

A flicker of recognition glittered across Johanna's eyes, followed by an unintentionally revealed look of impress that he had managed to figure it out in mere moments. "Yeah. You know her?"

"One might say that." One might say that indeed.

Johanna knew that was perhaps the understatement of his Endless life, but who was she to judge. He sounded as much a wounded lover as she was.

"So, what? She leave you?"

"No. I suppose the argument could be made that I left her, Miss Constantine, but you wrongly presume the nature of my relationship with the Dodonian oracle."

She was not so easily convinced. "You trying to tell me you haven't shagged? Why else would you be so quick to assume it's one specific oracle that's been local if you didn't know her so well?" Johanna narrowed her eyes, lips twitching with amusement. “You’re dodging the question. You knew her well enough to guess her name off the cuff. That’s not casual.”

Dream’s gaze lingered on the dust motes drifting through the air, as if they carried memories. “I have known many beings, Miss Constantine. Some for a moment, some for millennia. She was... memorable.”

Johanna scoffed. “Memorable. That’s the word men use when they don’t want to admit they were gutted.”

He turned to her, expression unreadable but voice steady. “She was not a wound. She was a mirror. And I, like many, did not care for the reflection.”

“Sounds like a wound to me,” Johanna said, folding her arms. “You talk like she held up your soul and found it wanting.”

Dream’s mouth curved, not quite into a smile. “She held nothing. She simply saw. And I, in turn, saw what I had long refused to name.”

Johanna tilted her head, considering him. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be the anthropomorphic personification of dreams, you’re remarkably bad at hiding your feelings.”

Dream’s gaze did not falter, but his voice carried the weight of centuries. “I do not hide them, Miss Constantine. I simply do not parade them. The moon does not weep when it wanes, though its light diminishes all the same.”

Johanna snorted. “That’s poetic nonsense. You’re sulking, plain and simple. You’ve got that look—like someone just told you your favourite cathedral’s been turned into a Tesco.”

He blinked slowly, as if parsing the metaphor. “I do not sulk. I reflect.”

“Sure,” she said, leaning back against the worn arm of the chair. “And I suppose the brooding silence is just part of your charm. You know, you could try being a little less cryptic. Might help people like you more.”

“I am not in pursuit of affection,” Dream replied. “Nor am I built to be understood. I am the boundary between waking and sleep, the architect of what mortals dare not speak aloud. Liking me is irrelevant.”

Johanna let the silence hang for a moment, watching him with a kind of amused disbelief. The room was dim, lit only by the grey London light filtering through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Dust floated in the air like suspended time, and Dream stood in the middle of it all—still, composed, and maddeningly theatrical.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the desk. “You know, you say things like that and expect people to just nod along. But it’s bollocks. People don’t get to opt out of being understood. You exist, you affect things, you leave marks. That’s the deal.”

Dream’s eyes, dark as the void between stars, flicked toward her. “I do not seek to leave marks. I am the canvas upon which others paint their fears and desires. I am not the artist.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the city moved on—cars, footsteps, the distant hum of life. But inside, the air felt heavier, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

“I have been close to many,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “And they have all, in time, turned away. Not because I am cruel, but because I am constant. Mortals crave change. I am not change. I am the dream that returns night after night, unchanged, unyielding.”

Johanna stood, pacing slowly across the room. Her boots thudded softly against the wood. “You ever think maybe that’s the problem? You’re so wrapped up in being this eternal, unknowable thing that you forget people aren’t trying to change you. They’re just trying to see you.”

Dream turned to face her fully now, his posture regal, his expression unreadable. “And what would they see, Miss Constantine? A kingdom built on illusion? A monarch who rules over shadows and silence? There is no comfort in knowing me. Only consequence.”

She stopped, arms folded, and gave him a long look. “You talk like you’re a bloody curse. But I’ve seen curses, and you’re not one. You’re just... lonely. And too proud to admit it.”

His jaw tightened, just slightly. “Loneliness is a mortal affliction.”

“Sure,” she said, walking past him toward the door. “But you’ve spent enough time among us to catch it.”

Dream didn’t move. He simply watched her go, the folds of his coat trailing like smoke behind him. And though he said nothing, the silence he left in her wake felt less like dismissal—and more like a confession he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud.

“Your nightmare will trouble you no longer, Constantine. Consider it a boon as payment for your assistance tonight.”

“The only payment I’ll take is you getting a grip and acknowledging that you can’t be some mysterious, broody god forever. Moody gods make for a shit time for us mortals.”

Chapter 9: 1.06 | A HOPE IN HELL

Notes:

Chapter preview (It's coming soon)

Chapter Text

2025
THE DREAMING

There are many ways in which Hell has come to be described over time. Thomas Hobbes chose to describe Hell as 'truth seen too late', Trevin Max described the infernal domain as being 'full of people who think they deserve heaven'. The Bible outlined four inescapable truths about hell...that, firstly, it is a place of torment (Luke 16:23); secondly, it lasts forever (Revelation 14:11); thirdly, there is no escape (Matthew 25:46); and lastly, you did not have to go (II Peter 3:9).

The ecclesiastical description of Hell is that of a horrible place of fire and torment; in Dante's Inferno, and in northern climes, it was thought to be an icy cold region, a giant refrigerator.

Perhaps the best description of Hell, according to Lucifer Morningstar, came from Randy Alcorn: 'Hell is not evil; it is a place where evil gets punished. Hell is not pleasant, appealing or encouraging. But Hell is morally good, because a good God must punish evil.'

For Lord Dream of The Endless, Hell was the home of those who gave into nightmares rather than aspiring to live by dreams. Which was why he was reluctant to journey to Hell, knowing he would be weak there--vulnerable. Even if he was monarch of his own realm, in the damned domain, he was naught but subject to the will of The Morningstar. What was a dream in comparison to the one who defied The Creator?

None save The Creator could summon more power than whomever called themselves sovereign of Hell and held its key in tight grasp.

Lucienne, too, knew and understood this, which was why she tried most ardently to sway her lord to not go to Hell, and to at least send an emissary in his place. "It would be the right thing to do, My Lord," she impressed once more.

Chapter 11: DAUGHTER OF ATLAS

Chapter Text

12th or 13th century BCE
DODONA

"...And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man--
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought
And rolls through all things."
-Wordsworth, Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey (1798, II. 94-103)

The forest at Dodona breathed with ancient dreams. Each tree stood like a sentinel, bark etched with the passage of centuries, their branches tangled with whispers too old for mortal ears. The air here was thick with the perfume of prophecy—bitter laurel, crushed myrrh, and something deeper still: the weight of destiny yet spoken.

Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, moved silently through the grove. No footstep disturbed the leaf-strewn earth. He was shadow given form, his cloak trailing mists woven from slumber and starless night. Where he passed, the trees leaned subtly toward him, their bark groaning like slumbering voices half-woken.

Before him stood the Oracle’s oak—her tree. The heart of the grove. Taller than the others. Older. Its gnarled limbs curled into the sky like a hand clawing at eternity, its bark blackened with the stains of old sacrifice and older secrets. The roots coiled across the forest floor like serpents drinking from unseen wells.

Morpheus stepped before the tree and raised a hand. He did not speak, not aloud—his summons was of dreamstuff and thought, sent along the roots and into the hollow heart of the oak.

The wind stilled. The trees held their breath.

A hum began to echo through the grove. Low at first, then rising—a lilting, dissonant melody, as if the wind were singing through broken reeds. It was not a song, not entirely, but the breathless utterance of truths half-formed. From within the oak, light bloomed: pale green and gold, as though the sap itself had caught fire.

She stepped forth from the bark like a ghost made flesh. A woman of earth and wind and time. Her hair flowed in braids of moss and ivy, her eyes bright as honeyed fire. Her skin bore the rough texture of tree bark along the arms, yet her movements were supple, hypnotic, like the sway of a branch in breeze. She hummed as she emerged, fingers tracing lazy spirals in the air, her voice still carrying that strange tune. A song only the gods remembered.

“Oh, you stirred it,” she said to the tree, not yet looking at Morpheus. “Hush now, hush, old darling. You haven’t been called like this since the stars still sang. Hush.” She placed a kiss against its bark, and the tree groaned like an old man remembering love.

She turned then, blinking slowly, and the tune faded on her lips.

Her gaze settled upon the figure of the Endless as though recognizing something both distant and intimately known.

"You are Oneiros, third of the endless. Father of the Oneiroi. Lord Shaper. Lord Morpheus." The name echoed through the sacred grove, carried on a breeze laced with the scent of myrrh and olive blossom. "Do you come to me as Morpheus, Icelos, Hypnos, or Phobetor?"

"You are learned in my name, Lady Oracle?"

"I am learned in all names within the expanse of Time, Lord Oneiros," she replied, her voice like wind rustling through a scroll long forgotten. From the hollow of an oak older than kingdoms, the Oracle stepped forth. She bore the form of a woman and the essence of something older still--her skin bore the hue of fertile earth, her eyes like polished amber, flickering with flirelight not cast by flame. Vines wove through her hair like a living crown. "You seek the answers of prophecy, yet you seek it not with the blessed Maiden, Mother and Crone?"

The Oracle stepped further from the tree. Her gaze narrowed, though her tone remained serene. "Have you angered The Kindly Ones, Shaper?"

The Dream Lord, tall as silence and wrapped in shadows deeper than moonless night, shook his head with grave stillness. His robe moved like ink spilled in water, revealing only glimpses of his shape, his face pale as bone beneath a starless cowl. "I should hope I have not. I have not called upon The Kindly three-in-one in many centuries, prophetess. I seek the answers of one more earthly than they. A sister of the Pleiades."

"How learned you are on my history, Shaper." She circled him slowly, steps as soft as petals falling, her fingers trailing along the bark of her sacred oak. "One cannot help but be flattered that one of the endless took the time to know the oracle he comes calling to. Tell me, what do you wish for my oak to whistle to you, Oneiros of The Endless?"

"To know why Lord Zeus, your god, seeks an audience with me."

At this, the Oracle paused, lips parting with an odd, melodic sound—a whistling trill, neither song nor speech, like reeds trembling in the mouth of a god. "There is a price to knowledge," she murmured. "What currency have you to pay for it?"

"A boon within my power when you see fit."

She seemed pleased with his response, and inclined her head, eyes gleaming like molten bronze. "Bind your boon and then ask your question, Shaper."

Morpheus stepped toward her oak. With a single touch—graceful, almost reverent—he laid his pale fingers on the rough bark. The air shimmered. Magic thrummed low and deep like a subterranean bell. The tree stirred; its limbs straightened, leaves turned a deeper green, blossoms unfurled from buds that had long since slept. The ground drank the renewal like sacred wine. "Your tree shall not wilt nor weep nor wain as long as my boon is owed to you," he intoned. "And as a token of good faith, I shall ensure it flowers well thereafter." He returned to her, the stars caught in his cloak flickering faintly. "Now, why does Lord Zeus seek with me, Lady Oracle of Dodona?"

Her eyes darkened momentarily, and then she spoke, her tone sharpened with the gravity of her purpose. "My god seeks the deliverance of a baleful dream to one Agamemnon, commander of the Greek army. He bids you spur him to war against the Trojans."

"You speak not in riddles."

"I speak as the mouth of my god, Lord Shaper. Were my god a god of riddles, I would speak in kind, but he is not, so I am not. You sought me not because of my meter, but because I serve the god who seeks your work. I have riddles to tell. It is simply that now is not the time to hear them."

She turned, her form swaying like branches in a breeze, and began to recede into the embrace of her oak once more. The bark welcomed her, curling around her limbs like ivy reuniting with its root. "Go, Lord Shaper, Zeus Bouleos demands your works."

Morpheus remained for a moment, his form still as shadow beneath a frozen moon. He studied the Oracle, how she blended with the oak, how her breath became the rustle of leaves. A nymph child indeed, he thought—bound not only by nature, but of it.

"Your answer is most appreciated, Lady Oracle."

"Your appreciation is noted, Lord Shaper, by myself and by the book of Destiny. I bid you farewell, for now."

With that, she was gone, and the grove stood silent once more—save for the faint whisper of prophecy in the wind.

11th century BCE
DODONA

"Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by--
Though varying--indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue--
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks--itself unspeakable--"
(II. 832-9), Byron, The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

The wind carried no scent this night. No blossom, no ash, no blood—only cold. The grove had not sung in years. Even the murmurs of the leaves had gone quiet, as if the trees themselves feared what walked the world beyond them.

But when Morpheus returned, the grove stirred. The mist pulled back from his presence like silk caught on thorns. Old roots twisted as if remembering him. The earth did not greet him with welcome, but with recognition—like a dream one had not dared to dream in too long.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, his silhouette framed by the broken moonlight. Where his foot fell, moss bloomed briefly beneath him before fading, dreamlike, back into stillness.

At the centre of it all, the Oak endured.

No longer young, no longer singing—but alive. The only constant in a world that had grown uncertain even to gods.

She emerged from behind it before he could summon her. She had sensed him, of course. She had been waiting.

The Oracle of Dodona moved with the deliberate grace of a creature that did not exist entirely in this time. Her hair flowed like ink in water, streaked now with silver twilight and memory. Her robes were stitched with the signs of eclipses, and her feet left no mark on the ground. She wore the years as the Oak wore its bark: thickened, but not broken.

She stopped a few paces from him and studied his face as one might study a constellation thought long vanished.

“You’ve changed,” she said, her voice a low rustle through dry leaves, not unkind, merely observant, and it wasn’t a compliment or a judgment. It was simply truth.

He returned her gaze with that still, ocean-deep silence of his, a slow blink the only indication of thought.

Then he spoke, his voice smooth and cold as a winter stream.

“The world has changed.”

A slow smile curved the corners of her mouth. “And so you came to one who does not,” she said, tilting her head as if weighing the truth of her own words.

Morpheus's eyes narrowed faintly beneath the hood of his cloak. “You are not unchanged, Lady Oracle.”

She chuckled—an airy, dry sound, like distant wind chimes spun by the breath of a dying season. “No,” she said, brushing her fingers along the oak’s bark with tender familiarity, “but I am still rooted.”

A silence passed between them, not awkward but reverent. As if both were hearing the echoes of their last meeting in the space between words.

Morpheus’s gaze drifted to the horizon, then back to her. His tone dropped an octave, heavy with intent.

“I have come to speak of Troy.”

She raised a single brow, amber eyes narrowing. “Troy has been ash for an age,” she said, a note of wariness curling around the edge of her voice.

“It is rising again,” Morpheus replied, his expression unreadable. “Not the city. The dream of it. The idea.”

At this, her expression sharpened. Her body tensed, not with fear, but with recognition. “Ah,” she breathed, stepping forward slightly. “And dreams, once buried, return hungry.”

He nodded once, solemn and deliberate. “There is a man who dreams of empire built on ruined echoes. He sees himself as Agamemnon,” he continued, his lips curling subtly at the name, “though he has never lifted a sword.”

Her eyes searched his face for a long moment. “I see,” she murmured, then asked, “Who asks?”

“The same who did before,” Morpheus said quietly, the name falling like a stone into still water. “Zeus Bouleos.”

The Oracle exhaled slowly, as though pushing away the scent of burning ships that still clung to her memory. Her fingers found a familiar groove in the bark beside her, and she traced it absently.

“My tree remembers,” she said, voice growing distant, almost mournful. “It remembers blood and fire and a thousand ships. And now the winds bring echoes of that same storm.”

She stepped forward, close enough that her presence brushed the edge of his. Her voice dropped to a hush, like leaves scattering across a temple floor.

“Do you seek my prophecy, Shaper, or my warning?”

Morpheus tilted his head ever so slightly. “Both,” he said, his tone simple, but unyielding.

The Oracle’s eyes lifted to the stars above. Their cold, indifferent light shimmered across her skin. Then, slowly, she looked back down to him.

“Then bind your boon anew, Morpheus of the Endless,” she said, extending one hand toward him, palm open and steady. “And I will tell you what the earth murmurs in its sleep.”

Without hesitation, he moved to the oak once more, laying his pale hand flat against its timeworn surface. Magic unfurled like ink in water—dreamstuff sinking into root and marrow. The air thickened. Petals bloomed from barren knots. Light shimmered from root to crown, like breath returning to an old god.

Then, she stepped forward again. Her voice was no longer soft. It rang now with the cadence of wind through caverns, of thunder rolling behind mountains.

And this time, her words were a riddle.

Her eyes glazed—not with madness, but with distance—as if she saw not just beyond the veil, but through it, into countless possible tomorrows all blooming and burning at once.

She spoke in rhythm now. Not like before. Not with simple speech, but with cadence—like the beating of a drum far beneath the earth, ancient and inevitable.

“When smoke wears the crown of a lion,
And silence walks armored in gold,
When the harp is strung with sinew,
And a name is bought for a kingdom sold—

Then shall the ashes of Ilium whisper,
And men dream themselves gods once more.
But beware, O Shaper of Dreams,
For those who wake what war has buried
Shall feed the sea with sons and oaths.”

The wind held still at her final line.

No owl called. No insect stirred. Even the stars above seemed dimmer, as if pausing to weigh her words.

Then she blinked, slowly returning to herself, and the power that had surged in her presence—like the crashing of tides held in a single breath—receded.

She looked to Morpheus, her voice quieter now, the riddle's echo still hanging between them like a hanging sword.

“You asked for prophecy and for warning. You have both.”

Morpheus’s face was still as stone, unreadable even to one who had spent millennia decoding the language of fate. He considered the riddle, turning each line over in silence, letting it settle into his mind like dust over a sealed tomb.

“And if the dream is not sent?” he asked, his voice as low as fog.

The Oracle’s gaze did not waver. “Then another shall send it in your stead,” she replied. “Dreams, Shaper, will always find a way. The gods may call you, but prophecy has its own will.”

She stepped back toward her oak, laying her palm flat against its bark.

“I hope you have learned, by now, that prophecy does not beg to be believed. It waits to be fulfilled.”

As her form began to blur once more into root and wood, her final words drifted through the grove like falling leaves:

“Troy rises in every age. The name changes. The fire does not.”

And then she was gone.

Morpheus remained standing before the oak, his cloak whispering faintly in the still air.

He did not speak.

He did not move.

He simply stood there, eyes half-lidded, listening—not with his ears, but with something older, something vast—listening to the riddle’s shape echo through the Dreaming.

The Oracle was gone.

Only the Oak remained, and the quiet tremble of ancient air.

Morpheus stood unmoving for a long moment, listening to the silence, the way a sculptor might listen to marble. He did not turn when the mist crept close again, when the shadows folded around him like a closing hand. His thoughts were a labyrinth. The riddle echoed through him—not like words, but like architecture.

He turned, finally, and with a whisper of movement, the forest vanished behind him. The roots of the Oak did not resist his departure. The grove seemed to sigh—either in relief or resignation.

And then he was elsewhere.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

THE DREAMING

The sky here was a deep velvet violet, stitched with constellations that had never existed in the waking world. Towering spires of obsidian twisted up into impossible arches. Rivers of stardust flowed through shadowed valleys. Night-blooming flowers opened and closed with breathlike rhythm across hills of slumbering memory.

Morpheus entered his realm like a drop of ink into still water, absorbed instantly, yet changing the texture of the world around him.

His palace rose before him—impossibly tall, strangely angled, doors of smoke and time set in mirrored stone. Inside, the throne room waited, empty and echoing, though it had no walls. It extended outward in all directions, into dreams both forming and fading.

He did not go to the throne.

Instead, he walked through the corridors of thought, descending deeper—past the Hall of Gates, past the Garden of Forking Paths, until he reached a narrow, spiral stair that led to the dreaming vaults.

Here were the unborn dreams. The dangerous ones. The ones yet to find their dreamers.

And among them, something was stirring.

Morpheus paused before a sealed dream-door—bone-white, bound in bronze, pulsing faintly with heat.

He had not touched this one.

But someone—or something—had.

He laid his hand upon the surface. Visions bled outward instantly, as if pressing against the glass of reality:

A golden crown in flames.
A city built of smoke and pride.
A faceless man raising armies with words.
A woman weeping over salt-stained bones.
Ships—so many ships—carved not of wood, but of marble and money.

“Troy rises in every age. The name changes. The fire does not.”

The Oracle's voice echoed in his mind once more.

And then—another voice followed it.

“You linger long, Dreamlord.”

Morpheus did not turn.

He knew the voice. Smooth as polished thunder. Proud. Imperial.

Zeus.

The Dreaming shifted slightly, subtly—like a court holding its breath as a king entered uninvited.

The god stepped forth from nothingness, clad in robes of stormclouds and golden lightning. His beard was thick with rain. His eyes were full of war.

“You received my message.”

Morpheus nodded slowly. “I did.”

Zeus’s brow furrowed, annoyed at the lack of deference. “And have you prepared the dream?”

A long pause.

“No,” Morpheus said.

The sky above them flashed white, then black again.

Zeus took a single step forward. It was the kind of step that reshaped valleys.

“Do you defy the will of Olympus?”

Morpheus lifted his gaze now, calm, unshaken.

“I do not defy Olympus,” he said. “But dreams are not orders, and I am not your herald.”

Zeus’s jaw tightened, lightning crackling across his shoulders. “You aided me once.”

“And now,” Morpheus said, voice low, “I remember what price was paid when I did.”

A beat of silence.

The king of gods regarded the king of dreams—and for a moment, it was unclear who truly ruled.

Then, Zeus laughed. A dry, bitter sound, like a storm choking on its own thunder. “So you let the mortals war without your touch?”

Morpheus turned back toward the vault door. The dream still pulsed behind it, restless.

“Mortals dream war easily,” he said quietly. “They do not need me to give them reason. Only permission. And I will not give it lightly again.”

Zeus’s form wavered, flickering like heat on the horizon.

“Then beware, Dreamlord,” he said, voice fading as he withdrew. “If the dream is not yours, it will be another’s. And I will not care whose hand delivers the spark. I will have my war, just as I had Illium's.”

And then he was gone.

The air grew still.

The dream-door before Morpheus pulsed again. Softer now. But no less dangerous.

He stood alone in the dark.

10th century BCE
DODONA

From the shadows beneath a cypress moon, he came again.

Morpheus.

His form was the same, and yet not. A century had passed, and the Lord of Dreams bore it in subtleties: an added weight to his silence, a deeper shadow to his gaze, as though even he had known sorrow that did not pass with the turning of aeons.

He stepped into the clearing. The mist parted like reverent hands.

The Oak greeted him not with creaking limbs, but with song—a single high note, like wind through glass, mournful and curious. He placed a hand on its bark once more, and this time, no summons was needed.

She came.

Not from the tree, not this time.

She stepped out from behind it, as though she had simply been waiting.

Older, yes—but ageless. The kind of change that comes not with decay but with deepening. Her hair was longer, tangled with silvered vines and starlight. Her robes trailed across the forest floor, sewn now with oracular glyphs that shimmered faintly with every movement, some glowing briefly in response to his presence. Her eyes, still amber, were darker at the edges, as if they'd glimpsed more than even gods should bear. Her very skin carried the texture of bark and bronze, as though her spirit had rooted itself ever more deeply into the earth and time alike.

She smiled when she saw him.

"Oneiros," she said, as if the name tasted like a half-forgotten dream. "Oneiros Oneiros Oneiros. Your name is old on the tongue."

"You were not expecting me?" he asked, his voice soft but sonorous, the hush of midnight echoing within it.

"I was," she replied, tilting her head. Her earrings—small discs of olive wood—tapped together like tiny bones. "But not with this weight. Something presses on your spine, Oneiros. What burdens you now?"

He did not answer immediately. His gaze swept the grovem noting every vine, every flower, every fallen tree like names carved into memory. "I came to offer my condolences regarding your sisters, Lady Oracle."

At that, her expression did not change, but something in her posture slowed, stilled—like the air before a long silence. "I thank you, Shaper, but condolences are not necessary. I do not mourn sisters that are not dead."

She stepped past him, fingers brushing a nearby olive branch. The leaves curled gently under her touch. "They are among the sky now, held up by their father. No longer are they pursued by Orion. My god gave them peace. I in turn am at peace."

Morpheus turned to follow her gaze, but he did not look at the stars.

“You are not lonely?”

She laughed once, gently, like a breeze through ancient curtains.

“I am the last echo of the Pleiades, yes. The only one who remains tethered to root and rain. But I am never alone. The tree speaks to me. The stones remember. I hear the dreams of beetles and the sighs of sleeping snakes.” She turned back to him. “And besides, what is loneliness to one such as us? Loneliness is simply part of the texture, Oneiros.”

He regarded her for a moment, silent as the grave of time.

“Still,” he said at last, “you speak of them often in your dreaming. Even now.”

“I remember them,” she replied, with neither sorrow nor smile. “Not as stars, but as sisters. The way they laughed. The way they bled. The way they left. The way they mothered and mourned.”

Her fingers traced the edge of the Oak, reverent. “And they remember me. When the wind passes between their lights, they whisper my name back to the earth.”

The Dreamlord inclined his head. “Then you are not forgotten.”

“Nor are you,” she said, and her gaze sharpened. “Though I wonder if you would rather be.”

That stopped him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the mist thickened, and with it, the feeling that something long-buried was rising between them again—not grief, nor longing, but a kind of recognition. A mutual understanding of what it means to endure.

“Come,” she said finally, stepping aside. “Speak your purpose, Oneiros. We have walked too far through silence tonight.”

When he spoke, it was not with hesitation, but with care—like someone opening a sealed door in a ruin.

“Tell me,” Morpheus said softly, “what becomes of one who outlives the purpose they were made for?”

The question hung in the air between them like a pendulum, slow and inevitable.

The Oracle tilted her head—not startled, but intrigued. Her fingers curled around a root, grounding her in the question.

“You speak of yourself?”

“Perhaps.”

She was quiet for a moment, long enough for the wind to shift, carrying the scent of myrrh and dry leaves through the clearing.

Then she leaned back, letting her head rest against the bark of the Oak. It hummed faintly beneath her skull.

“Purpose,” she said, “is a thing mortals require, like fire and language. But for those who are not bound by death, it is different. It becomes… an arrangement. A mask worn too long. Eventually it begins to wear you.”

Her voice was neither bitter nor warm. It was simply true.

“Have you outlived yours?” she asked.

Morpheus’s eyes flicked upward, toward where the sky filtered through twisted branches. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I was made to shape dreams. To keep the realm between waking and sleep balanced. To weave symbols into meaning. But I begin to wonder if what I tend is a garden that no longer blooms. Or if I am tending ashes, mistaking them for soil.”

The Oracle smiled—not with mockery, but with recognition.

“And yet you remain.”

“Because I must.”

She nodded slowly. “Then you are still bound. Perhaps not to purpose, but to the idea of it. And that can be a prison more subtle than chains.”

He turned his gaze toward her again.

“What of you?” he asked. “The gods do not speak as they once did. Fewer mortals seek omens in rustling leaves or whisper to the stones. And yet you endure. Why?”

The Oracle smiled, but this time it was distant—something like sadness, but older.

“Because the earth still turns. And while it turns, there is always someone who listens. Not many. Not often. But enough.”

She plucked a single acorn from the roots beside her, held it up to the moonlight.

“This,” she said, turning it slowly in her fingers, “is prophecy. Not the thunderous kind. Not the riddled words or burning visions. Just this: that even something small, something buried, can grow again when the time is right.”

Morpheus watched the acorn, his face unreadable. Shadows flickered across it like the hands of an old clock.

“Do you believe the world still listens?”

The Oracle let the acorn fall. It struck the ground softly, like a promise.

“I believe,” she said, “that sometimes, the world forgets. But forgetting is not the same as silence. And silence is not the same as death.”

A pause.

“And you, Dreamlord?” she asked. “Do you still believe in what you were made to keep?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, he looked again at the Oak. At the grove. At her.

And stayed.

Which, perhaps, was answer enough.

They sat in silence a while longer—her seated among roots and memory, him standing like a shadow made flesh. The wind returned, brushing past their forms like something searching for a door that had long since closed.

Then the Oracle spoke again, her voice quieter than before. Almost hesitant.

“You need not offer a boon, Oneiros.”

His gaze flicked toward her. Not sharply—just enough to acknowledge that he had heard, and that her words surprised him.

She did not look at him when she continued. Her eyes were on the ground now, tracing the path the fallen acorn had taken.

“You are the only one who still comes.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. No pride. Only truth.

“Once, I was sought by kings and tyrants. Priests carried oil to my grove. They chanted, bled, burned herbs they did not understand. They feared what I might say. Loved me for it. Hated me for it. But they came. Only Delphi is sought now. My delphinian counterpart serves greater purpose than I. Phoebus Apollo's chosen.”

She looked up at him now. Her amber eyes were dimmer, softer. Not weaker—but stripped of illusion.

“Now there are no lines at my roots. No questions on the wind. Only you.”

Morpheus said nothing, but something in his stillness deepened—like the hush before snowfall.

She offered a thin smile.

“I will give you prophecy freely, if you wish it. You are payment enough, Lord Shaper. The sound of your name spoken beneath my tree is worth more than the vows of emperors.”

He opened his mouth, as if to object—perhaps out of duty, or dignity—but she raised a hand gently.

“Do not insult my loneliness with charity,” she said, and there was no sharpness in it. Only weariness.

“This place is sacred, yes. But it is also still. Too still. When you speak, you stir the dust. You make the grove remember what it means to be needed. And I—” she paused, voice catching not with emotion, but with the strangeness of speaking it aloud, “—I remember what it feels like to be heard.”

She turned her face to the Oak behind her, laying her palm once more on its bark.

“Take what you need, Morpheus. My voice, my vision, my truth. No price. No binding. No blood. Just… the company of one who remembers when the world still asked questions.”

The Dreamlord lowered his gaze, and for a moment his face softened—not with pity, for he would not insult her with that either—but with something quieter. Kinship, perhaps. Recognition.

“Then I will accept,” he said, “but not as a gift. As an offering. From one old thing to another.”

The Oracle laughed softly—warm, this time. Like the sound of wind through dry reeds.

“Old things we are,” she said. “But not useless. Not yet.”

"You are still entitled to my boon though. That much remains true."

Morpheus stepped forward and sat beside her—not on the roots, but on the moss-draped ground, folding his tall frame with impossible grace. For the first time in memory, the two of them were seated as equals. Not god and seer. Not Dream and Vision.

Just two relics of a world that was forgetting its myths.

Above them, the Oak swayed—once, gently—as if giving its silent approval.

And the stars kept watching.

Chapter 12: 1.20 | Decaf, No Sugar

Chapter Text

PRESENT DAY
OXFORD, ENGLAND

The lecture hall in the Bodleian Library was a cathedral of academia—vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows filtering the grey light, and rows of students hunched over notebooks and glowing MacBooks. The air smelled of old paper, damp wool, and the faint trace of espresso from the café downstairs.

At the front stood Robert Gadling, guest lecturer, looking like he’d wandered in from a different century and hadn’t bothered to change. His black blazer was slightly frayed at the cuffs, his boots scuffed, and his shirt collar open just enough to suggest he didn’t care for formality. He leaned against the lectern with the casual authority of someone who’d seen empires rise and fall and still found time to read The Tempest for fun.

He tapped the microphone once, then spoke.

“Good afternoon. I’m Robert Gadling. I’ve been invited to talk to you about Shakespeare, which is a bit like being asked to give a TED Talk on oxygen. Everyone’s heard of him. Everyone has an opinion. And most of those opinions are wrong.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Let’s start with the basics. Shakespeare was not a god. He was not a prophet. He was not the literary equivalent of Da Vinci. He was a working playwright with bills to pay, actors to wrangle, and a very keen sense of what would sell.”

He clicked to the first slide: a portrait of Shakespeare looking vaguely smug.

“Look at him. That receding hairline, the slightly pursed lips. This is the face of a man who knew how to write a good fart joke and get away with it.”

More laughter. Gadling smiled.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. The man could write. He had rhythm, he had wit, and he had a knack for turning human misery into box office gold. But let’s not pretend he was some untouchable genius. Half his plots were borrowed. His historical accuracy was laughable. And his spelling? Inconsistent at best.”

Asteria, seated halfway up the tiered rows, raised a hand lazily. She wore a faded hoodie, Doc Martens, and the expression of someone who’d rather be anywhere else but was too curious to leave.

“Do you actually think he wrote all of it?” she asked, voice dry. “Because I’ve read Timon of Athens, and I refuse to believe anyone with a functioning brain thought that was a good idea.”

Gadling tilted his head, amused. “Ah, the authorship question. A classic. You’re a Baconian? Oxfordian? Marlovian?”

Asteria shrugged. “I’m a ‘this guy was a provincial glove-maker’s son with no formal education and somehow wrote Julius Caesar’ kind of skeptic.”

Gadling grinned. “Fair. The Stratfordian origin story is... thin. But here’s the thing: genius doesn’t always come with a pedigree. Sometimes it comes with a good ear, a lot of ambition, and access to a decent tavern.”

He turned back to the room. “Let’s talk about Hamlet. Everyone loves to quote it. ‘To be or not to be.’ ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’ But have you ever actually watched it performed? It’s five acts of existential dread, indecision, and a body count that rivals Game of Thrones.”

A student in the front row raised a hand. “But isn’t that the point? Hamlet’s paralysis is what makes him tragic.”

Gadling nodded. “Absolutely. Shakespeare was exploring the cost of thought. Hamlet thinks too much, and everyone dies. It’s brilliant. But also—let’s be honest—kind of exhausting.”

He clicked to a slide showing a diagram of deaths in Hamlet. It looked like a crime scene.

“Now, King Lear. A play about misrecognition, madness, and really bad parenting. Lear divides his kingdom based on flattery, disowns the one daughter who actually loves him, and ends up wandering around in a storm yelling at the sky. It’s poetic, it’s powerful, and it’s also a cautionary tale about estate planning.”

Asteria snorted. Gadling glanced at her.

“You don’t like Lear either?”

She leaned forward. “It’s just... melodrama. Everyone’s screaming, dying, or going blind. And Cordelia’s whole ‘I cannot heave my heart into my mouth’ thing? That’s not noble. That’s just bad communication.”

Gadling laughed. “You’ve got a point. Shakespeare’s women often suffer from a lack of agency—or die trying to reclaim it. But consider this: he gave us Beatrice, who outwits Benedick at every turn. Rosalind, who cross-dresses and orchestrates her own love story. Viola, who navigates a shipwreck, a love triangle, and still comes out on top.”

Asteria raised an eyebrow. “And yet they all end up married.”

“True,” Gadling said. “But in Elizabethan England, that was the closest thing to a happy ending. You want feminist closure, you’ll have to wait for Virginia Woolf.”

He moved on to Othello, dissecting jealousy and manipulation with surgical precision. He quoted Iago’s lines with chilling ease, then flipped to The Tempest, where he lingered on Prospero’s final speech.

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on.’ Beautiful. Also, probably cribbed from Montaigne. But Shakespeare knew how to steal with style.”

The students laughed again. Gadling glanced at the clock.

“Right. I’ve got five minutes left, so let me leave you with this: Shakespeare wasn’t perfect. He was messy, inconsistent, and occasionally dull. But he understood people. He understood power, love, betrayal, ambition, and the way time wears us down.”

He looked directly at Asteria.

“And whether he was a genius or a lucky hack, he gave us language that still cuts. That’s worth something.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then applause. Not polite, but genuine.

Gadling gathered his notes slowly. Asteria lingered, watching him with narrowed eyes. She still thought Shakespeare was overrated. But she was starting to suspect that Robert Gadling wasn’t just another visiting lecturer.

There was something about him—something old, and oddly familiar.

The students filtered out slowly, buzzing with post-lecture chatter. Some lingered to snap photos of the slides, others debated whether Macbeth was actually a horror play. The rain had started again, tapping softly against the stained glass.

Robert Gadling remained at the lectern, packing up his notes with deliberate slowness. He moved like someone who had nowhere to be, but had learned to pretend otherwise.

Asteria approached, hands in her hoodie pockets, boots echoing lightly on the stone floor. She stopped just short of the desk and tilted her head.

“You know,” she said, “you should probably stop lecturing on Shakespeare.”

Gadling looked up, amused. “Oh? Was I too harsh on the Bard? I thought I was being generous.”

She smirked. “You weren’t. You hate him. It’s obvious. You’ve hated him for centuries.”

He blinked, just once. “Centuries is a strong word.”

“Is it?” she said, stepping closer. “You talk about him like an ex you never got over. Every line you quoted had teeth. Every compliment came with a backhand. You didn’t just critique him. You resented him.”

Gadling leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “And what makes you think I’ve been nursing a grudge for four hundred years?”

Asteria shrugged. “Call it a hunch. Or maybe it’s the way you said ‘he stole with style’ like you were there when he did it.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched her with a faint smile.

She continued, voice low but firm. “Look, I don’t even like Shakespeare. I think half his plays are bloated, the women are underwritten, and the tragedies are just murder porn with fancy soliloquies. But you—” she pointed at him—“you talk about him like you knew him. Like he beat you at something.”

Gadling’s smile faded slightly. “And if he did?”

Asteria leaned in. “Then maybe it’s time you got over it. Because envy, as someone once wrote, is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.”

He laughed—soft, surprised. “Quoting Othello at me. Bold move.”

She shrugged again. “You made me sit through a lecture. I figured I’d return the favor.”

There was a pause. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windows.

Gadling looked at her, really looked. “You’re not like the others.”

“Obviously,” she said. “I’m not here to worship the Bard. I’m here to dismantle him.”

He nodded slowly. “You’d have liked Marlowe.”

“I do. He died young and didn’t have time to get boring.”

Gadling chuckled. “Fair. Though he was a bit of a bastard.”

“So was Shakespeare,” she said. “But at least Marlowe didn’t pretend to be profound.”

Another pause. Gadling glanced down at his notes, then back at her.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve given this lecture a dozen times. No one’s ever called me out like that.”

Asteria smiled. “Maybe they were too busy taking notes.”

He nodded. “Or maybe they didn’t recognize bitterness when they saw it.”

She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“Next time,” she said over her shoulder, “try lecturing on someone you don’t secretly loathe. It’s more convincing.”

And with that, she was gone—boots echoing down the corridor, hoodie pulled up against the rain.

Gadling stood alone in the empty hall, staring at the desk. He reached for his notes, then stopped.

The green-eyed monster. He hadn’t heard that line thrown at him in a long time.

And damn it, she wasn’t wrong.

Asteria stepped back in, rain dampening the shoulders of her hoodie. She didn’t come far—just leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

“Oh,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “You should give my mum a call.”

Gadling looked up, brow furrowed. “Your mum?”

She nodded. “Eila. She said you’ve been avoiding her. Something about ‘brooding in dusty corners and refusing to text back.’”

He blinked, then laughed—genuinely this time. “She would say that.”

Asteria smirked. “She also said you owe her a drink and an apology. In that order.”

Gadling sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course she did.”

Asteria turned to go again. “Don’t make her wait for ages, she can get a bit ratty when she feels abandoned.”

And with that, she disappeared into the rain.

Gadling stood there for a long moment, the echo of her footsteps fading, the ghost of old regrets stirring.

Then he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a battered phone, and stared at the contact he hadn’t touched in years.

Eila.

Maybe it was time.

PRESENT DAY
SURREY, ENGLAND

The sun was sinking low over the Surrey hills, casting long amber shadows across the garden. Eila’s cottage stood nestled among tangled hedgerows and ancient oaks, its stone walls softened by ivy and time. Lavender spilled over the winding path like it had somewhere urgent to be, and the air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly alchemical.

Hob Gadling paused at the gate, hands deep in his coat pockets, taking in the familiar crooked chimney and the wind chimes that still sounded like mischievous laughter. Before he could knock, the front door swung open.

Eila stood framed in the doorway, barefoot, wrapped in a loose linen shirt that looked like it had been borrowed from a poet. Her mug steamed gently in one hand, her expression somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation.

“Well,” she said, voice dry as ever, “look what the cat dragged in. And forgot to text for half a year.”

Hob grinned, stepping inside like he’d never left. “I was aiming for mysterious. You know—enigmatic wanderer returns from the academic wilderness.”

“You’re not mysterious,” she said, closing the door behind him. “You’re just allergic to phones.”

The cottage was exactly as he remembered—cluttered, warm, and humming with quiet magic. Books were stacked in precarious towers, half-burned candles lined the mantle, and a dog snored somewhere beneath a blanket that looked suspiciously like a tapestry. Asteria’s boots were by the door, one of them gnawed at the heel.

“You’ve redecorated,” Hob said, eyeing a new constellation of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

“I haven’t,” Eila replied. “You just forgot what colour the walls were.”

He dropped into the armchair with a sigh of exaggerated relief. “Gods, this place smells like memory.”

She handed him a mug—black tea, strong and unsentimental. “Asteria told me you lectured at Oxford.”

Hob groaned. “She ambushed me. Sat in the middle row like a judgmental crow and quoted Othello at me.”

Eila smirked. “She said you looked ‘weirdly good for your age.’ Which, coming from her, is practically a sonnet.”

Hob took a sip of the tea, letting the warmth settle into him like a familiar tune. He glanced at Eila, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“She said I looked ‘weirdly good for my age,’ did she?”

Eila nodded, amused. “With a tone that suggested she was evaluating your suitability for something scandalous.”

Hob chuckled. “She’s bold. I respect that. Though I have to admit, it’s a bit surreal being complimented by someone who’s technically older than me.”

Eila raised an eyebrow. “She’s twenty-three.”

“And I’m six hundred and fifty,” Hob said, gesturing vaguely. “But she’s lived in a world that’s moved faster than I ever did. She’s grown up in the age of algorithms and apocalypse memes. I still remember when mirrors were considered suspicious.”

Eila smirked. “You’re not seriously trying to make her admiration into a philosophical paradox.”

“I’m just saying,” Hob said, settling deeper into the armchair, “it’s strange being admired by someone who thinks I’m ancient, when I still feel like I’m figuring things out. She told you I was ‘ageless,’ didn’t she?”

Eila gave him a look. “She said you had ‘a kind of timeless gravity.’ Then she asked if you were single.”

Hob groaned. “Oh gods.”

“She was joking,” Eila added, though her grin betrayed how much she was enjoying this. “Mostly.”

“I’m going to need stronger tea,” Hob muttered.

Eila stood and wandered toward the kitchen, her linen shirt catching the firelight like parchment. “I’ve got something stronger,” she called over her shoulder. “But it bites back.”

Hob leaned his head against the back of the armchair, staring up at the ceiling beams. “Alright, now I really have to ask—how old is she actually?”

Eila’s voice floated back, teasing and dry. “Hob Gadling. You know better than to ask a woman’s age.”

He smirked. “Come on. I’ve been alive since the Black Death. I think I’ve earned a little indiscretion.”

She returned with a small bottle of something amber and mysterious, poured a splash into his mug, and sat down again, curling her legs beneath her.

“She was born the same year as Julius Caesar,” Eila said, watching his face.

Hob blinked. “You’re joking.”

“100 BCE,” she said. “Give or take a few lunar eclipses.”

He stared at her, the mug halfway to his lips. “She’s older than me.”

“By centuries,” Eila said. “Though she doesn’t act like it. She still gets excited about new fonts.”

Hob let out a low whistle. “I thought I was the ancient one in the room.”

“You’re still the most dramatic,” Eila said. “She may have seen empires rise and fall, but you’re the one who sulks when someone misquotes Byron.”

“I do not sulk,” Hob said, wounded.

“You brooded for three days over a misattributed sonnet.”

“It was Keats, Eila. There are standards.”

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “You danced through the Renaissance. She probably taught Cicero how to hold a wine cup.”

“She probably invented sarcasm,” Hob muttered. “And now she’s flirting with me.”

Eila raised her mug. “Welcome to immortality. It only gets weirder.”

Outside, the wind stirred the lavender, and the garden whispered secrets to the dusk. Hob took another sip, the stronger brew warming him in a way that felt older than fire.

Hob stood by the window now, mug in hand, watching the last light bleed out over the hills. The garden was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of lavender and the soft clink of wind chimes that sounded like mischievous laughter.

“You know,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, “I’ve been alive for over six hundred and fifty years. I’ve seen plagues and revolutions, watched cities rise from mud and fall into myth. I’ve danced in candlelit ballrooms and under strobe lights. I’ve been a soldier, a printer, a drunk, a poet, a lecturer. And still—still—I get surprised.”

Eila leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him with that quiet, knowing look she’d perfected decades ago.

“Surprised by what?” she asked.

He turned, a crooked smile playing at his lips. “By being flirted with by a Grecian as old as Caesar.”

Eila laughed, soft and sharp. “You make it sound like a historical reenactment.”

“It kind of is,” Hob said. “I mean, how do you even process that? She’s older than the concept of leap years. She probably watched the Library of Alexandria burn and took notes.”

“She probably started the fire,” Eila murmured.

Hob chuckled. “And now she’s complimenting my ‘timeless gravity.’ It’s absurd. It’s brilliant. It’s... new.”

He paused, letting the word settle.

“That’s the thing,” he said. “You’d think after all this time, I’d be numb to novelty. But it keeps happening. The world keeps throwing me curveballs. Like Asteria. Like you.”

Eila tilted her head. “Me?”

“You,” Hob said, walking back toward the fire. “You were new once. You still are, in a way. You keep changing. You keep surprising me.”

She smiled, slow and quiet. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Staying strange.”

Hob nodded. “Strange is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and something older than memory.

"I've been alive for several millennia, Hob. Nothing is strange to me now."

Hob turned to her, brow furrowed—not in disbelief, but in the kind of reverence reserved for truths too large to hold in one thought. The firelight flickered across her face, catching the edges of something ancient behind her eyes. Not weariness. Not detachment. Just depth.

“You say that,” he murmured, “but you still laugh like someone who’s surprised by joy.”

Eila’s smile was small, but it reached the corners of her eyes. “Joy’s the only thing worth being surprised by.”

He sat again, slower this time, as if the conversation had shifted the gravity in the room. “So you’ve seen it all?”

“Most of it,” she said. “The rise and fall of gods. The invention of bread. The first lie told in a marketplace. I watched language evolve like moss on stone. I’ve seen love change shape a thousand times.”

“And yet,” Hob said, “you still keep a dog that snores like a thunderstorm and a garden that smells like a potion.”

Eila glanced toward the blanket lump by the hearth. “He’s a good dog. And the garden keeps me grounded.”

Hob studied her for a moment. “Do you ever wish it would end?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for the bottle again, poured a second splash into her mug, and stared into the fire.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But then something happens. Asteria discovers a new typeface and insists it’s ‘divine.’ Or you show up at my door quoting bad poetry and smelling like old books. Or the sea calls.”

Hob nodded slowly. “And the strangeness begins again.”

Eila raised her mug. “To strangeness.”

He clinked his against hers. “To surviving it.”

Outside, the wind shifted. It carried the scent of salt now—sharp and insistent. The kind of wind that didn’t just pass through, but arrived with purpose.

Eila’s smile lingered as they drank, the fire casting soft gold across her face. Outside, the wind stirred the lavender again, whispering secrets only the garden understood.

Hob lowered his mug, exhaling slowly. “You know, I joke about it. Immortality. The weirdness. But sometimes it really does catch me off guard.”

Eila tilted her head. “Like being flirted with by someone born before the Julian calendar?”

He chuckled. “Exactly. I mean, I’m charming,” he said, with mock solemnity. “And slightly traumatized. She quoted Ovid at me. In Latin.”

Eila burst out laughing, the sound spilling into the room like warm honey. “You poor thing. Ambushed by a classics student with cheekbones and ambition.”

“She didn’t blink,” Hob said. “Just dropped a line about love being war and stared me down like she was grading my soul.”

“She’s testing you,” Eila said, still smiling. “She does that with people she respects.”

Hob raised an eyebrow. “She had the same look you used to have. Back in the 90s. That glint in the eye like she’s already solved the mystery and is just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.”

Eila’s smile softened, her gaze drifting toward the fire. “She gets that from her father.”

Hob nodded slowly. “She gets the boots from you.”

“And the habit of quoting dead poets at inappropriate moments,” Eila added, sipping her drink.

“She hit me with Catullus once,” Hob said. “I hadn’t heard that verse since Rome. I nearly dropped my lecture notes.”

Eila laughed again, but this time it was quieter, tinged with pride. “She’s got a sharp mind. And a sharper tongue.”

“Mostly,” Hob muttered. “But still. It’s a strange thing, being flirted with by someone who predates the fall of Carthage.”

“She’s older than you,” Eila said, matter-of-fact, "but she's a few decades short of Carthage, Hob."

“I know,” Hob replied. “And yet she still feels like a kid. Not in a patronizing way. Just... she’s got that spark. That hunger.”

“She’s never stopped learning,” Eila said. “That’s the secret. You live long enough, and the only thing that keeps you from turning to stone is curiosity.”

Hob looked into the fire. “I used to think immortality would make everything dull. But it’s the opposite. It makes everything sharper. Every moment has weight. Every glance, every word. Even the jokes.”

Eila smiled. “Especially the jokes.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. The dog snored louder, shifting beneath the tapestry. Outside, the wind had changed—no longer playful, but purposeful. It carried salt and something older than storms.

"You still owe me a drink by the way."

"Of course I do..."

PRESENT DAY
CORNWALL, ENGLAND

The Black Gull, Cornwall

The pub was tucked into the crook of a cliffside village, its windows fogged with sea mist and its beams low enough to make even Hob duck. The sign outside swung in the wind—a black gull mid-flight, wings outstretched like it knew something the rest of the world didn’t.

Inside, the fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting flickering light across mismatched chairs and a bar polished by centuries of elbows. Locals murmured over pints, the occasional bark of laughter rising above the hum. A dog lay sprawled under a table, snoring like it had survived three shipwrecks.

Eila and Hob sat in a corner booth, nursing drinks—whisky for him, something herbal and suspiciously green for her.

Hob swirled his glass, then looked up with a grin. “So, Asteria flirted with me again.”

Eila gave him a slow, theatrical blink. “Really? We’re still talking about this?”

“She called me ‘a walking contradiction wrapped in good cheekbones,’” Hob said. “I feel like that deserves a second mention.”

Eila groaned, but her eyes sparkled. “She’s winding you up. She does that. It’s her love language.”

“Well, it’s confusing,” Hob said. “I’m not used to being flirted with by someone who probably taught Sappho how to write a breakup poem.”

“She didn’t,” Eila said. “But she did once hex a Roman for ghosting her.”

Hob raised his glass. “Respect.”

They clinked drinks, the firelight catching in the amber.

Eila leaned back, stretching her legs beneath the table. “So what’s going on with you, anyway? Last I heard, you were seeing someone. Maggie?”

Hob’s smile faltered. “Yeah. Still am. Sort of.”

Eila tilted her head. “Sort of?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think she’s cheating.”

Eila’s brows lifted. “Oh.”

“Not confirmed,” Hob said quickly. “But she’s been distant. Weird about her phone. Cancelled dinner twice last week. And she suddenly has a lot of ‘late meetings.’”

Eila made a sympathetic noise. “That’s either infidelity or a very elaborate pyramid scheme.”

“I wouldn’t mind the pyramid scheme,” Hob muttered. “At least then I’d get a candle out of it.”

Eila chuckled. “You always pick the ones with secrets.”

“I like mystery,” Hob said. “I just don’t like being the last one to know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the pub’s warmth wrapping around them like a blanket. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, and the sea whispered something ancient to the shore.

Eila took a sip of her drink. “You want me to hex her?”

Hob laughed. “Tempting. But no. I think I just need to ask her. Straight up.”

Eila nodded. “Brave.”

“Stupid,” Hob said. “But brave.”

They drank, and for a moment the pub seemed to hush around them, like the fire was listening.

Eila set her glass down and gave him a sideways look. “So what are you going to do if she is cheating?”

Hob shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that carried weight. “Leave, obviously. I’m not going to beg someone to stay. Not anymore.”

Eila nodded slowly. “Good. You used to be terrible at that.”

“I know,” Hob said. “I once wrote a sonnet to a woman who’d blocked me on every form of communication.”

Eila snorted. “You mailed it to her cat.”

“She loved that cat,” Hob said defensively.

“She loved not talking to you.”

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from years of shared disasters.

Hob leaned back, looking up at the ceiling beams. “I just thought Maggie was different. She’s smart, funny. She asked me questions no one else does. Like what it felt like to watch the moon landing live, or whether I ever get bored of sunsets.”

Eila softened. “That’s rare.”

“Yeah,” Hob said. “But lately she’s been... somewhere else. Like she’s already halfway out the door.”

Eila reached across the table and tapped his knuckles. “Then maybe let her go. You deserve someone who’s all in.”

He looked at her, eyes tired but grateful. “You always say the right thing.”

“I say the honest thing,” Eila replied. “It just happens to sound wise when you’re drunk.”

They both smiled.

Then Hob tilted his head. “What about you? Anyone new?”

Eila made a face. “I went on a date with a guy who tried to impress me by saying he’d read half of The Iliad.”

“Half?”

“He said the second half was ‘too political.’”

Hob winced. “Oof.”

“And he kept calling me ‘mysterious,’ like I was a locked diary instead of a person.”

“Did you hex him?”

“No,” Eila said. “But I did make his houseplants whisper his ex’s name at night.”

Hob burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’m efficient.”

They sat in companionable silence again, the fire crackling, the dog under the table twitching in a dream.

Then Hob said, quietly, “Do you ever think we’re just... bad at this?”

Eila looked at him. “At love?”

He nodded.

She thought for a moment. “I think we’re good at loving. We’re just bad at choosing people who know what to do with it.”

Hob smiled, a little sad. “That’s poetic.”

“I’m mysterious,” Eila said, deadpan.

They both laughed again, and this time it felt lighter.

The fire crackled low, casting golden shadows across the worn wood of the table. Hob had gone quiet, his drink untouched for the last few minutes. Eila watched the flames dance, her expression unreadable.

Then, softly, she said, “To be honest, I never really wanted to go on that date.”

Hob turned to her, surprised. “No?”

She shook her head, eyes still on the fire. “I’ve been for the same man for the past three thousand years.”

That made Hob sit up. “Three thousand?”

Eila gave a small, almost bitter smile. “His name is Oneiros.”

Hob blinked. “The dream god?”

She nodded. “The man I gave my heart to. Not that it ever mattered.”

Hob frowned. “Why not?”

“Because he’s always been the sort of man you could never have the heart of,” she said. “He belongs to the night, to the spaces between sleep and memory. You can love him, but you’ll never hold him.”

Hob was quiet, listening.

“He’s Asteria’s father,” Eila continued. “But that doesn’t make me special. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

Hob’s brows knit. “You raised her.”

“I did,” Eila said. “But he’s had other children. A son with the nymph Calliope. And other great loves. There was a woman called Nada once. She burned for him. And he let her.”

Hob’s voice was low. “Did he love her?”

Eila nodded. “In his way. He loves like the tide—he comes and goes, and you’re lucky if he leaves something behind.”

She took a sip of her drink, then set it down carefully. “I used to think that being near him was enough. That if I stayed long enough, he’d see me. Choose me. But he doesn’t choose. He drifts.”

Hob reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. “You deserved more than that.”

Eila looked at him, eyes ancient and tired. “We all do. But some of us fall for gods, and gods don’t love like mortals.”

There was a silence between them, thick with things unsaid.

Then Hob said, “You ever tell him?”

"No."

Hob didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, the firelight catching the edges of her face like it was trying to soften the truth she’d just laid bare.

“You never told him?” he asked again, gently.

Eila shook her head. “What would’ve been the point? He already knew. He always knows. That’s the thing about Oneiros—he sees everything. Every dream, every longing, every half-formed hope. But he doesn’t act on them. He lets them drift past like clouds.”

Hob leaned back, absorbing that. “So you just… carried it?”

“For a long time,” she said. “Long enough that it became part of me. Like a scar you forget is there until someone brushes against it.”

The dog under the table snorted in its sleep, and the sound made Hob smile faintly. “You ever think about what you’d say to him, if you could?”

Eila considered that. “I used to. I had whole speeches. Angry ones. Tender ones. I even wrote him a poem once, but it dissolved in my hands before I could finish it. That’s what happens when you try to write about a god—you end up writing about yourself.”

Hob nodded slowly. “And now?”

She looked at him. “Now I think I’d just ask him why. Why give someone your gaze, your time, your child—and still keep your heart locked away?”

Hob didn’t answer. He just reached for his drink again, took a slow sip, and let the silence settle.

Then he said, “You know, I’ve never envied the gods. Not once.”

Eila raised an eyebrow. “Not even for the power?”

“No,” Hob said. “Because they don’t know how to stay. They don’t know how to choose. And they don’t know what it means to be chosen back.”

Eila’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached for her own glass and clinked it against his.

“To mortals,” she said.

“To messy, breakable, beautiful mortals,” Hob replied.

They drank, and for a moment, the pub felt like the safest place in the world.

The glasses clinked, and the moment hung between them—warm, fragile, threaded with old truths.

Eila set hers down and leaned her chin into her hand, studying Hob with that look she reserved for questions that mattered.

“Did you ever hear from him again?” she asked. “That mysterious god you meet once every century.”

Hob blinked, caught off guard. “You know about that?”

Eila gave a small shrug. “You mentioned it once. Ages ago. You were drunk and poetic and said something about ‘the only man who ever looked at me like time was irrelevant.’”

Hob chuckled softly. “Sounds like me.”

“So?” she asked. “Did he come back?”

Hob hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not last time.”

Eila’s brows lifted. “He missed it?”

“Yeah,” Hob said. “I waited. Same place. Same day. I even brought two glasses, like an idiot.”

Eila’s expression softened. “You don’t know his name, do you?”

Hob looked into his drink. “No. I never asked.”

“Why not?”

He thought for a moment. “Because it never felt like it mattered. He wasn’t someone you asked things of. He just… was. Like a dream you remember too vividly to question.”

Eila leaned forward. “But you’ve met him more than once?”

“Every hundred years,” Hob said. “Like clockwork. Until he didn’t.”

“And you still don’t know who he is?”

Hob shook his head. “He’s not mortal. That much I know. There’s something… ancient about him. Like he’s stitched into the fabric of reality. But he never said what he was. Never gave a name.”

Eila leaned back, her gaze steady. “When you see him again, you should tell him he’s an arse for missing your last meeting.”

Hob blinked, then laughed—soft, surprised. “You think that’d go over well?”

Eila’s mouth curved into something sharp and fond. “Doesn’t matter. Say it anyway.”

She picked up her glass, then added, “And when I next see Oneiros, I’ll tell him he’s an arse too.”

Hob looked at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “You think they’d care?”

“No,” Eila said. “But they should.”

The fire crackled, casting gold across her face. She looked older in that moment—not in years, but in knowing. In the kind of weariness that comes from loving things that don’t stay.

“They move through our lives like we’re scenery,” she said. “But we feel it. We wait. We ache. And they just… drift.”

Hob nodded slowly. “He always felt like a storm I couldn’t see coming. Beautiful. Terrifying. Gone before I could ask why.”

Eila reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. “Then next time, ask.”

Hob met her gaze. “And if he doesn’t answer?”

“Then you’ll know,” she said. “And knowing is better than wondering.”

They sat in silence, the pub murmuring around them, the dog under the table twitching in its sleep.

Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, and somewhere in the distance, the sea whispered the names of gods who never stayed long enough to be called home.

Chapter 13: 1.21 | THE PRIOR ENGAGEMENT

Notes:

I thought this chapter would be a good opportunity to write parallel scenes between Dream and Eila every time that Dream met Hob since Dream's relationship with Hob and his choice not to tell Eila ends up impacting her relationship with him.
I felt like teasing the first section of this chapter since it's going to be a long one

Chapter Text

1389
ENGLAND

"...Third poll tax in three years, what else could we have done?"

"...All I'm saying is when Ball and Tyler were killed, the spirit of the working man died with them..."

"...Penny ale and cold bacon. Penny ale and cold bacon. I would have good hot meat and French wine..."

"...War, plague, and two bloody popes, fighting like weasels in heat. The end of the world is soon, you mark me..."

"...murder, nor rape. We need a return to law, and to order. The King should act against these bandits..."

In 1389, Dream and Death walked into an Inn. It was certainly the beginning of a great punchline. A far greater punchline than any of the conversations that Death had subjected Dream to listen to and observe, all in the name of seeing mortals on their terms instead of his.

It was a rather dull affair, Death and Dream sat at a table, a penny ale each, listening and watching the mortals. The ale tasted as if it had cost even less than it had. A foul mortal creation if Dream would say so.

Foul as some of the dreams that mortals had. Mortals had such selfish, uninteresting dreams these days.

"--Look, I've seen Death. I lost half my village to the black death. I fought under Buckingham in Burgundy, and you know what a pig's ear that was. It's not like I don't know what death is." A voice said behind them.

How uninteresting, Dream thought. Another mortal who claims to know Death but does not recognise her as she sits as the next table.

A man named Geoffrey...Chaucer...had vaguely caught Dream's attention, if only momentary in his argument with his drinking companion. Supposedly, his companion and he were debating in what language they should write their verses.

"...Geoffrey, I see no great wrong in writing in the langue des travaillistes rather than La Belle Français; but English has its own forms of Verse. Piers Plowman. That's what people want. Not filthy tales in rhyme about pilgrims."

"But I enjoy rhyming, Edmund. And I enjoy tavern tales told of an evening...up her dress and she says. "Are you hunting for rabbits again, Friar?". I am not so easily swayed..."

His ears turned away from Chaucer, a mental note made to approach him in a dream at some point, if only to satisfy his penchant for finding story tellers. Said ears ended up returning to the fool behind him who was parading a ludicrous understanding of Death, one that Dream had noticed his sister had found rather amusing, something Dream failed to understand.

"...Y'are a fool, Hob. Death comes to every man. Thirty years, if he escape the plague or the flux, or the French. Sixty years, with fortune, and if God is willing. Then they put you in the ground to await the day of judgement," one of his drinking companions attempted to convince him.

The man that Dream and Death had now come to know as Hob would have none of it. "There you go--proves my point. All I'm saying is this. Nobody has to die." He continued on after taking a swig of his ale. "The only reason people die, is because everyone does it. You all just go along with it. It's rubbish, Death. It's stupid. I don't want nothing to do with it."

Dream internally rolled his eyes, and turned to his sister, attempting to deter his ears from such dull conversation. "A delegation of faerie came to me, last night. They are talking about abandoning this plane forever."

The ever-knowing Death saw through Dream's diversion. "Shush. Listen to the people."

And reluctantly, he agreed.

"I mean, what's it good for, eh? Think about it. I made my mind up arse deep in Burgundy mud. 'Hob Gadling,' I told myself, 'every man and woman dies, they say,'", he smirked to himself, "'except the wandering Jew, Ahasuerus, who denied our Lord. Yeah. Fair enough. Everyone dies, I thought, but why the Hell should I? I might get lucky. There's always a first time."

At that moment, Death encouraged Dream to stand and step a few paces toward the table.

"No, It's rubbish, Death is. I mean, there's so much to do. So many things to see. People to drink with. Women to swive. You lot may die. I expect you will 'cos you're stupid. Not me, though." He continued, incredibly adamant.

Dream turned to his sister, "It might be interesting...?" He proposed, but his words came as a question, almost eager to know both whether his sister could allow it and whether she would allow it.

Her response: "Very well" was a satisfying one, and filled him with a curiosity. Death had never once decided not to claim a mortal, and therefore granted them immortality, simply because the mortal was so adamant that they would never die.

She had only chosen not to claim mortals twice, and they had been Dream's own children. The first, so that his son might enter Hades and not be slaughtered, the second, because of the unspoken agreement between Dream and Death that the fate of his son would not be repeated with his daughter.

"Are you going to tell him, or am I?" She asked.

"I shall." And he meant it. He wanted to, and derived some satisfaction from being the one to do so.

"Very well, little brother." And with that, she was gone, off to perform her duties once more. So little time did she get between collections these days. As the population grew, her time of reprieve grew less and less, and part of Dream could not help but pity his sister who never slept and never rested.

Even though it was not needed for any of The Endless, each of them still took time to themselves occasionally. All Death had was her day once a century, and brief minutes between collections.

Dream made his way to Hob Gadling's table. "Did I hear you say that you had no intention of ever dying?"

"Yeah. Yeah. That's right. It's a mug's game. I won't have any part of it." Hob replied, words partially slurred by the ale.

"Then you must tell me what it is like. Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling. In this tavern of the White Horse. In a hundred years."

Dream had begun to see the appeal of this little game.

Those at the table laughed in unison. "A-ha-ha-ha! A hundred years! Yes and I'm Pope Urban!" One cackled. "Oh, he's hot you there, Hob Gadling," came the next. "A sting! A touch! Your game is called, Hob!"

The fourth came just as quickly with his retort: "And I'm Pope Clement! Oh, Hoo-hoo, I shall split my sides of laughter..."

Hob could do naught but roll his eyes. "Don't mind them. They're thick as King Dick, the lot of them. A hundred years' time. On this day." A smile reached the unknowing immortal's face."I will see you in the year of our Lord, fourteen hundred and eighty nine, then."

And with that, the Dreamlord took flight from the tavern.

"Who was that the, Hobbie?"

"Haven't a clue, but I'll tell you what, Crispin: I'll ask him next time I see him. In a hundred years' time."

"Ooh-ha-ha, don't. I can laugh no more. You'll kill me!"

Dream and Death walked into an inn and left with one more immortal in the world.

1389
THE DREAMING

The Dreaming was quiet in the way a cathedral is quiet—not empty, but reverent. The air held the scent of parchment and petrichor, and the sky above the palace shimmered with a soft, amber dusk that had lingered for hours, unwilling to fade.

Eila sat beneath the arch of a colonnade, her feet tucked beneath her, a scroll of half-written prophecy resting in her lap. She had been watching the horizon, sensing the ripple before it arrived—the subtle shift in the fabric of the realm that always preceded Dream’s return.

He came as he always did: quiet, deliberate, a silhouette of shadow and thought. His cloak moved like smoke, trailing behind him in slow, deliberate folds. There was something different in his gait, though—something softened, or perhaps sharpened. Eila couldn’t tell which.

She didn’t speak. She rarely did when he first returned. Words were too heavy in those moments, too clumsy. Instead, she watched him move through the garden, his fingers brushing the edge of a dream-lily as he passed. It bloomed instantly, petals unfurling in a burst of silver light.

Eila looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been gone longer than usual.”

Dream didn’t pause. “I was with my sister.”

Eila tilted her head. "Teleute?"

He nodded.

Eila nodded, her gaze still on the horizon. Death. Of all his siblings, she was the one he spoke of with the least resistance. There was a gentleness in him when he mentioned her, a kind of reverence that softened the edges of his usual austerity.

She didn’t ask where they had gone, or what they had spoken of. She didn’t ask why he smelled faintly of tavern smoke and rain-soaked cobblestone, or why the Dreaming itself seemed to hum with something new—something like anticipation.

Instead, she reached for the scroll again, her fingers brushing the half-written lines. The ink had dried, but the story hadn’t ended. Not yet.

Dream turned to leave, his cloak catching the wind like a sigh. As he walked away, the lilies bloomed in his wake, and the stars above shifted slightly, as if realigning themselves to a new rhythm.

Eila stood.

She didn’t call out, didn’t raise her voice. She simply stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the marble floor, and said softly, “Would you stay a while?”

Dream paused, though he didn’t turn.

Eila moved to his side, her gaze on the path ahead. “We haven’t spent proper time together in… a very long time.”

The wind stirred again, carrying the scent of dream-cedar and distant thunder. Dream’s expression was unreadable, but something in his posture shifted—less rigid, less remote.

“I thought,” Eila continued, “we might walk. Just for a little while. The gardens are different in this light. They’ve missed you.”

“I’m busy,” Dream said, his voice low, distant.

Eila nodded, undeterred. “Of course. But perhaps later? I could have the observatory prepared. The stars are restless tonight. They’ve been whispering strange things.”

Dream didn’t respond.

She tried again, her tone lighter. “Or we could visit the river. The one that sings. You used to like the way it changed its melody depending on who was listening.”

Still nothing.

Eila took a step closer, her voice more tentative now. “If you’d rather not walk, I could bring dinner to the library. I’ve had the dream-chefs working on something new. It’s quiet there. Peaceful.”

Dream’s shoulders stiffened.

“I could read to you,” she offered. “There’s a new story I’ve been working on. It’s not a prophecy. Just a tale. About a man who refuses to die.”

That made him turn.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, something flickered there—recognition, perhaps, or regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

“I said I am busy,” he snapped, the words sharp and sudden, cutting through the air like a blade.

Eila flinched, not from fear, but from the force of it. The Dreaming itself seemed to recoil—the lilies folding in on themselves, the wind stilling.

Dream closed his eyes briefly, as if ashamed of the crack in his composure. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Forgive me. I did not mean to raise my voice.”

Eila said nothing. She simply stood there, watching him.

“I am busy,” he repeated, softer now. “There are matters that require my attention.”

He turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow reluctant to let go. The lilies closed as he passed, and the stars above dimmed slightly, as if retreating into themselves.

Eila remained beneath the colonnade, the scroll still waiting on the bench behind her. She didn’t return to it. Not yet.

Instead, she walked slowly to the edge of the garden, where the dream-lilies had folded into silence. She knelt beside one, touched its closed petals, and whispered, “He’s changed.”

The flower didn’t respond. But the wind stirred again, carrying with it the faintest echo of tavern laughter and the scent of candle smoke.

Eila looked up at the sky, where the constellations had shifted, ever so slightly, into a new pattern.

She whispered, “And he won’t tell me why.”

Eila remained beneath the colonnade long after Dream had gone, the silence around her thick and unmoving. The Dreaming, usually so attuned to her presence, felt distant now—like a room that had been left and forgotten, its warmth fading with each passing moment.

She sat back down on the bench, but the scroll no longer called to her. The ink felt dry, the words brittle. Her fingers hovered above it, then withdrew. There was no story in her tonight.

A quiet ache settled in her chest—not sharp, but persistent, like the echo of a song she couldn’t quite remember. She had known Dream for longer than most stars had burned. She had seen him in fury, in grief, in silence. But this—this quiet refusal, this wall he had built between them—felt different. Not cruel. Not cold. Just… unreachable.

She had tried. Gently, patiently. She had offered walks, stories, food, silence. All the things that once drew him out of his solitude. And still, he had turned away.

It wasn’t the snapping that hurt. It was the way he had left, as if her presence was a weight he could no longer carry.

Eila leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the stars had shifted. The Dreaming responded to Dream’s moods, yes—but it responded to hers, too. And now, the twilight had deepened, the colors muted, the wind still. Even the dream-lilies remained closed, their silver petals folded tight.

She felt hollow. Not broken, but thinned out, like parchment stretched too many times across the same frame. She had always known that Dream carried burdens he would not share. But tonight, something in him had changed. Something had been set in motion, and she had not been invited to witness it.

A part of her understood. He was who he was—endless, ancient, solitary. But another part, the part that had walked beside him through centuries of silence and storm, felt the sting of being shut out.

She stood again, slowly, and walked toward the edge of the garden. The pools there reflected not the sky, but the soul. She looked into one and saw herself—not as she was, but as she felt: dimmed, quiet, waiting.

The wind stirred once more, carrying the faintest echo of laughter—mortal laughter, rough and warm. It vanished almost as soon as it arrived.

Eila closed her eyes.

She stood there for a long moment, the hush of the Dreaming pressing gently around her, like a blanket too thin to warm. Then, without ceremony, she turned and walked back to the bench beneath the colonnade. Her scroll lay there, untouched, the ink dry, the story unfinished.

She picked it up.

The parchment was soft beneath her fingers, worn from hours of thought and care. The words she had written—about a man who refused to die, about promises made beneath the weight of centuries—felt suddenly distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

She walked slowly to the river.

It wound through the garden like a silver thread, its surface shimmering with the dreams of those who slept beyond the realm. The river sang, as it always did, but tonight its melody was subdued—less a song, more a sigh.

Eila knelt at the edge.

She held the scroll for a moment longer, her thumb brushing the final line. Then, with a breath that felt heavier than it should, she let it go.

The parchment touched the water and was immediately claimed. The ink bled outward in delicate tendrils, curling like smoke before vanishing. The pages softened, dissolved, and disappeared—absorbed into the river’s song, leaving no trace.

Eila watched until the last fragment was gone.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She simply sat there, hands resting in her lap, listening to the river carry away the story that would never be told.

1389
THE DREAMING

The dining hall was carved from starlight and memory, its vaulted ceiling shifting gently with the phases of the moon. Tonight, it glowed with a soft, amber hue, casting long shadows across the polished obsidian floor. The table stretched like a river through the center of the room, adorned with flickering candles that burned with dreamfire—flames that whispered lullabies instead of crackling.

Eila sat at one end, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. Across from her, Asteria leaned forward, chin resting in her hand, idly stirring the contents of her bowl with a silver spoon.

Between them, the third placemat lay untouched.

It was simple—woven from threads of dusk, the edges embroidered with constellations that only appeared in dreams. The plate was empty, the goblet full, the chair pulled out just slightly, as if expecting someone to arrive late but still arrive.

Asteria glanced at it, then at her mother. “He’s not coming, is he?”

Eila didn’t look up. She sliced a piece of dreamfruit and placed it delicately on her plate. “No.”

Asteria nodded, as if she’d known, but had hoped otherwise. She was young, by Endless standards—barely a few centuries—but her eyes held the weight of someone who had already learned how to wait.

They ate in silence for a while.

The food was exquisite, as it always was in the Dreaming—flavors that evoked forgotten lullabies, textures that shifted with memory. But tonight, it tasted muted. Not bland, but distant, like a song played in another room.

Asteria broke the silence. “He used to tell me stories at dinner.”

Eila smiled faintly. “He used to tell me stories, too.”

“Do you think he’s angry?”

“No,” Eila said, after a pause. “Not angry. Just… elsewhere.”

Asteria nodded again, her gaze drifting to the empty chair. “I left him a drawing. In the observatory. It’s of the garden. The way it looked before the lilies closed.”

Eila reached across the table and touched her daughter’s hand. “He’ll see it.”

Eila didn’t answer.

The candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the table. The placemat remained untouched, the goblet still full, the chair still empty.

After dinner, Asteria helped clear the plates. She moved quietly, reverently, as if the act itself were part of a ritual. When she reached Dream’s place, she hesitated, then gently lifted the untouched plate and carried it away.

Eila remained seated, her fingers resting lightly on the table’s edge. She looked at the empty space where he should have been, and whispered, “You are missed.”

The Dreaming didn’t respond. But the candles burned a little brighter, as if trying to fill the silence.

The plates had been cleared, the candles burned low, and the dining hall had settled into a hush that felt less like silence and more like waiting.

Eila remained seated, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table’s surface. Asteria returned from the sideboard with two small cups of dreamtea, steam curling upward in delicate spirals that smelled faintly of lavender and stardust.

She set one in front of her mother and slid into her chair with a sigh. “Well. Another successful dinner with the ghost of paternal presence.”

Eila raised an eyebrow. “Asteria.”

“What?” Asteria took a sip of her tea. “I’m just saying, if he’s going to haunt the dining room, he could at least do it with dramatic flair. Maybe a swirl of mist. A brooding monologue. Something.”

Eila smiled faintly. “He’s not haunting us.”

“No, he’s just being emotionally evasive in a way that’s practically spectral.” Asteria leaned back in her chair, balancing her cup on her knee. “Honestly, I think I preferred it when he was brooding and cryptic. This new flavor of distant and unreadable is less poetic.”

Eila chuckled softly. “You’re very good at making sadness sound like sarcasm.”

“It’s a gift,” Asteria said, raising her cup in mock salute. “Inherited, I suspect.”

Eila took a sip of her tea, letting the warmth settle in her chest. “He’s carrying something. I don’t know what. But it’s heavy.”

Asteria nodded. “I know. I saw it in his eyes. That look he gets when he’s thinking about something he won’t say out loud. Like he’s trying to hold the whole sky in his head. You'd think he had taken your father's role.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tea cooling between them.

Then Asteria said, “Do you think he’ll come back to us properly? Not just in passing?”

Eila looked at her daughter, her expression soft. “I think he wants to. But wanting and doing are not always the same.”

Asteria sighed. “Well, if he does come back, I’m going to make him sit through one of my lectures on emotional availability. I’ll even make a chart.”

Eila laughed. “A chart?”

“Of course. With arrows and everything. Maybe a pie graph. Endless love divided into slices of presence, communication, and dramatic entrances.”

Eila reached across the table and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “He’d hate that.”

“Exactly,” Asteria said with a grin. “That’s how I’ll know it’s working.”

They decided to take the conversation to Eila's solar.

The solar was tucked high in one of the palace’s eastern towers, a quiet sanctuary wrapped in velvet twilight. Its windows opened to the dreaming sky, where constellations drifted lazily, rearranging themselves according to mood rather than astronomy. The room was filled with soft cushions, low tables, and shelves lined with scrolls, trinkets, and half-finished thoughts.

Eila settled into her favorite chair—a crescent-shaped seat carved from moonwood and upholstered in starlace. Asteria flopped onto the nearby divan with theatrical flair, her legs dangling over the edge, one arm draped across her eyes like a tragic heroine.

Eila watched her with a smile. “You’ve been cooped up in your rooms for days. What have you been doing?”

Asteria groaned. “Trying to paint.”

Eila raised an eyebrow. “Trying?”

“Yes. Trying. Failing. Flailing. Making dramatic sighs at blank canvases. You know, the usual artistic spiral.”

Eila chuckled. “What are you painting?”

Asteria peeked out from beneath her arm. “A garden. Not ours. Not exactly. It’s more like… the memory of one. The way it felt before everything started closing.”

Eila nodded slowly. “The lilies.”

“And the light,” Asteria added. “The way it used to fall across the stones. It’s hard to paint something that doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe never did.”

Eila leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “That’s the trick of memory. It’s always half-true and half-longing.”

Asteria sighed again, less theatrically this time. “I keep getting stuck. I’ll paint a branch, and it looks fine, but then I try to add the shadows and suddenly it’s all wrong. Like the light doesn’t want to be remembered.”

Eila reached for a small crystal orb on the table beside her and turned it slowly in her palm. “Maybe it doesn’t. Or maybe it’s waiting for you to see it differently.”

Asteria sat up, her expression thoughtful. “You always say things like that. Mysterious and vaguely comforting.”

“I’m a mother,” Eila said with a smile. “It’s in the job description.”

Asteria grinned. “Well, if you ever get tired of being cryptic, you could always come paint with me. I could use a second pair of hands and a first-rate poetic distraction.”

Eila laughed softly. “I haven’t painted in centuries.”

“Perfect,” Asteria said. “You’ll be terrible. We’ll be terrible together.”

The two of them sat in companionable silence, the solar bathed in soft light from the dreaming sky. Outside, the stars continued their slow, deliberate dance. Inside, the warmth between them held steady.

The solar had grown quieter, the light dimming to a soft indigo as the stars outside shifted into their nightward rhythm. Asteria sat cross-legged on the divan now, her cup of dreamtea forgotten on the low table beside her. Eila remained in her crescent chair, watching her daughter with quiet attentiveness.

Asteria was staring at the floor, her fingers absently tracing the embroidered edge of a cushion. Her voice, when it came, was low. “Sometimes I think I hate him.”

Eila didn’t move.

Asteria looked up, eyes shimmering—not with tears, but with the effort of saying something she’d held in for too long. “Not always. Not even most of the time. But sometimes… when he walks past me like I’m not there, or when he disappears for weeks without a word, or when he looks at me like I’m a riddle he hasn’t solved—I feel it. Like a knot in my chest. And I think, I hate you.”

Eila’s expression didn’t change, but her presence seemed to deepen—like the room itself leaned in to listen.

“I know it’s not fair,” Asteria continued. “I know he’s… complicated. And ancient. And burdened. But I’m not asking him to be perfect. I’m just asking him to be here. To see me. To talk to me like I matter.”

Eila rose slowly and crossed the room, sitting beside her daughter on the divan. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Asteria’s ear.

“You are allowed to feel what you feel,” she said softly. “Even the dark things. Especially the dark things.”

Asteria leaned into her mother’s shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to hate him. I want him to be someone I can love without hurting.”

Eila wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. “That’s the hardest kind of love. The kind that asks you to stay open, even when it would be easier to close.”

They sat like that for a long time, the Dreaming quiet around them, the stars outside casting gentle patterns across the floor. No magic mended the ache. No prophecy softened the truth. But there was comfort in the closeness, in the shared silence, in the knowledge that pain spoken aloud loses some of its sharpness.

Eventually, Asteria said, “Do you think he knows?”

Eila looked out the window, where the constellations had begun to shift again. “I think he knows more than he lets himself feel.”

Asteria nodded, her eyes heavy. “I hope he feels it someday.”

Eila kissed the top of her head. “So do I.”

1489
ENGLAND

Hob Gadling leaned forward, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his weathered face. His eyes, sharp despite the ale, narrowed at the stranger seated across from him—tall, impossibly still, with skin like moonlight and eyes that held centuries.

“How did you know?” Hob asked, voice low but edged with disbelief. “Who are you? A wizard? A saint? A demon?” He paused, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“Have I unwittingly made a bargain with the devil?”

The stranger did not blink. His voice, when it came, was soft and deliberate, like wind brushing across a tombstone. “No,” Dream said. “I am merely… interested.”

Hob scoffed, leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. “Interested? Then why aren’t I dead, long since? Is this some kind of game?”

Dream tilted his head slightly, as if considering the shape of Hob’s question. “You have not died, I see.”

Hob barked a laugh, dry and sharp. “Hahh. No. I’d say the same about you, only you’re so pale I could be wrong.”

A faint smile ghosted across Dream’s lips—there and gone, like a ripple on still water. “Yes. You could.”

The tavern around them buzzed with the low murmur of other lives—tankards clinking, boots scuffing against stone, laughter rising and falling like waves. But at their table, time felt suspended, stretched thin between two men who had stepped outside its flow.

“I came because I am… interested,” Dream repeated, his voice like velvet wrapped around iron. “Death will not touch you, Hob Gadling, unless you truly desire it.”

Hob’s eyes widened, the weight of the words settling into his bones. He looked down at his hands—scarred, strong, still his—and then back up at the stranger. “Yeah. Like I said. It’s just people going along with it. Dying because they think they’re supposed to.”

He paused, swirling the last of his ale in the tankard, watching it catch the firelight like liquid gold. “I’ll tell you, though. It’s all changing.”

Dream’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing like a blade catching moonlight. The shadows around him stirred, subtle and deliberate, as if leaning closer to hear Hob’s answer. Even the flickering tavern fire seemed to dim for a moment, its glow drawn inward by the gravity of the question.

“In what way?” Dream asked, his voice low and smooth, like silk stretched over stone.

From the hearth, an old man coughed wetly into his sleeve and launched into a rambling complaint, his voice rasping like dry leaves. “Hear that? Now we have chimblies, they moan of rhelimes and catarrhs, sneezing and groaning like cursed things. When we had honest braziers, our heads did never ache. The smoke—it was good hardening for the timbers of the house, and good medicine for the man and his family…”

Hob rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated for Dream’s benefit. “Old idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Chimneys are brilliant. You don’t have your eyes watering all the time, and you’re not freezing from the holes in the wall. Progress, my friend.”

He leaned back in his chair, gesturing broadly with his tankard. “And little cloth pieces for your nose. Can you believe it? In the old days we used our sleeves. Filthy business.”

He pointed toward a group of young men in the corner, laughing over a game. “See that bunch? Playing trump and ruff. Cards. We never had those in the old days. Now everyone’s got a deck. Playing-cards—imagine!”

Dream raised a single brow, the gesture subtle but laced with dry amusement. “Most impressive. What will you people think of next?”

Hob grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. "Something to get rid of fleas, with any luck."

Dream’s lips curved faintly. "So what have you been doing for the last hundred years?"

Hob shrugged, the motion casual, but his eyes gleamed with the thrill of memory. “Same trade as before. Soldiering, mostly. A little banditry here and there, if I couldn’t find what you’d exactly call a war. I was happy when the fighting came to England—saves going all the way to France.”

He took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sometimes I fought for York, sometimes for Lancaster. That’s been quiet for a few years now, since Richmond got in. King Henry, as is. But it’ll start up again soon. You’ll see.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “And in the meantime, I’ve started in a trade. Working with a friend of mine. It won’t last, I’m sure. But it’s new. It’s called printing.”

Dream’s eyes flickered with interest.

“Don’t need to be a guild member—at least not yet,” Hob continued. “Never been much demand for it, mind you. Hard work. But it beats the hell out of rotting to maggots in the ground, eh?”

Dream regarded him for a long moment, the firelight dancing across his pale features. “So you still want to live?”

Hob’s answer came without hesitation, his voice firm and clear. “Oh yes.”

Dream nodded slowly. “A hundred years, then?”

Hob raised his tankard in salute, his grin wide and unrepentant. “Oh yes.”

1489
THE DREAMING

The air was thick with the scent of vellum and ink, mingling with the faint perfume of starlight that filtered through the high, arched windows. Shelves stretched endlessly in all directions, some spiralling upward like the trunks of ancient trees, others burrowing deep into the earth as if seeking forgotten truths. The Library was quiet, but never still—books whispered to one another, pages turned themselves, and the occasional dream-creature padded silently between the stacks.

Lucienne stood at a long oak table, her fingers trailing across the spine of a freshly bound volume. Her eyes, sharp behind her spectacles, flicked up as Eila approached, her robes rustling like wind through parchment.

“You’ve seen the new arrivals?” Lucienne asked, her voice low but resonant, like a bell in fog.

Eila nodded, her gaze drifting to the trio of tomes laid out before them. “They’re... weighty,” she said, choosing her word with care. “Each in its own way.”

Lucienne tapped the cover of Le Morte d'Arthur, its gilded lettering catching the candlelight. “Malory’s vision of chivalry and ruin. A dream of kings and knights, already fading even as it’s written. The Dreaming has responded with a surge of quests and swordplay. I’ve had to reorganize the Hall of Valour twice this week.”

Eila smiled faintly. “Humans do love their doomed nobility. Arthur, Lancelot, Guinevere... they dream of honour even as they betray it.”

Lucienne’s hand moved to the next book: De vita libri tres. “Ficino’s work is more subtle. A blend of medicine, astrology, and Platonic mysticism. He believes the soul can be fortified by celestial influence. The Dreaming has grown... brighter in places. More harmonic. Some dreams now hum with planetary resonance.”

Eila leaned closer, intrigued. “He’s trying to heal the soul through the stars. That’s bold. Dangerous, too. What if the wrong dreamer draws down the wrong influence?”

Lucienne’s expression darkened slightly. “We’ve already had one incident. A dreamer tried to align himself with Saturn and nearly collapsed an entire dreamscape into melancholic stasis. I intervened.”

Eila turned to the final volume, its binding darker, heavier. Malleus Maleficarum. She didn’t touch it.

“This one troubles me,” she said quietly.

Lucienne nodded. “It should. Kramer and Sprenger have given fear a manual. The Dreaming has felt the tremors—nightmares of fire and trial, of women hunted in their own minds. It’s spreading.”

Eila’s voice was tight. “They call it scholarship. But it’s a weapon. Against wisdom. Against wonder.”

Lucienne closed the book with deliberate care. “We’ve placed it in the Restricted Vault. But its echoes are already in the dreaming minds of inquisitors and zealots. We must be vigilant.”

Eila exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the shelves that held the works of the last hundred years. “Vigilant, yes. Though truthfully, I’ve found little in the last century that stirs the soul.”

Lucienne tilted her head, curious.

Eila continued, her voice soft but edged with disappointment. “The printing of Alighieri’s Divine Comedy—now that was a moment. But it hardly counts, does it? The ink may be fresh, but the dream was born long before. And The Tale of Two Lovers, by Piccolomini... charming, in its way. A pope writing romance—there’s something delightfully contradictory in that.”

Lucienne allowed herself a quiet chuckle.

“And Lydgate’s Siege of Thebes,” Eila added, “was a respectable echo of Chaucer. I didn’t mind it. But it lacked the spark. The audacity. The dream that reshapes the dreaming.”

She turned, her robes catching the light like the flutter of parchment wings. “I hope the next century brings more. Plays, perhaps. Something alive. Something that speaks to the crowd and the soul alike.”

Lucienne nodded slowly. “The press is spreading. Ideas will move faster. Perhaps the Dreaming will be flooded with voices—some crude, some brilliant.”

Eila’s eyes gleamed. “Let them come. Let them write of fools and kings, of witches and storms. Let them dare.”

She paused, then added with a dry edge, “Though for the Prince of Stories, Oneiros does remarkably little to inspire mortals to write decent ones.”
Lucienne raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Eila pressed on, her voice gaining momentum. “I’m bored of medical treatises. Bored of humours and phlegm and endless diagrams of spleens. I’ve catalogued at least a hundred books on tea compositions alone. Tea, Lucienne. Not even the poetry of it—just ratios and infusions and whether cinnamon should be boiled or steeped.”

Lucienne allowed herself a small, knowing smile. “The mortals dream of health. Of longevity. Of control.”

“They dream of tedium,” Eila muttered. “And they publish it.”

She turned to face the shelves again, her gaze sweeping across the rows like a storm gathering over a quiet sea. “I want stories that burn. That laugh. That bleed. Not another pamphlet on the medicinal virtues of boiled nettles.”

Lucienne was quiet for a moment, then spoke with careful precision. “Speaking of stories… yours vanished from the Library. About a century ago.”
Eila stilled.

Lucienne continued, her voice low but unwavering. “I remember it clearly. I was reorganizing the shelf of living narratives. Your book was there—bound in dusk-thread, humming softly. And then it was gone. No decay. No theft. Just… absence.”

Eila didn’t answer right away. She walked slowly to the nearest shelf, running her fingers along the spines of books that pulsed faintly with dreamlight. Her touch lingered on a volume of forgotten lullabies, then fell away.

“I gave up,” she said finally.

Lucienne stepped closer. “Gave up?”

Eila nodded, her voice quiet but steady. “It didn’t feel like a story worth telling anymore. I looked at the pages and saw nothing but repetition. Long corridors of silence. A few flickers of hope, quickly snuffed out. I thought—why preserve it? Why let it take up space among the living?”

Lucienne’s expression softened. “It was a beautiful book.”

Eila gave a hollow laugh, like wind rattling through an abandoned theatre. “Beautiful, perhaps. But beauty doesn’t always mean it should be read.”

She turned, her silhouette framed by the flickering lamplight, and spoke as if reciting a passage from memory. “It was a book bound in dusk and footnotes. Marginalia written in longing. The kind of story that sits unopened on a shelf, gathering the dust of better-told tales.”

Lucienne tilted her head. “It had chapters that sang.”

Eila shook hers. “They sang in minor keys. My story was a sonnet that forgot its rhyme scheme halfway through. A prologue that stretched on for centuries, with no plot to justify the patience.”

She walked slowly past the shelves, fingers grazing the spines like a pianist testing forgotten keys. “I was a character who wandered offstage before the climax. A metaphor that never quite landed. I gave up because I couldn’t bear the weight of unfinished sentences.”

Lucienne stepped closer, voice low. “But even unfinished sentences can be poetry.”

Eila’s gaze darkened. “Not this, Lucienne. Not this.”

A silence settled between them, brittle as frost.

Then Lucienne asked, gently, “Did his lordship ever read it?”

Eila shook her head. “No. He did not.”

Lucienne’s voice was soft, almost wistful. “I think he would have liked it if he did.”

Eila looked away. “We may never know.”

She traced the edge of the shelf with one finger, as if searching for the ghost of a book long gone. “I wrote it for him,” she said finally. “Not in dedication. Not in hope. Just in proximity. Like a candle left burning near a locked door.”

Lucienne didn’t speak. She knew some griefs were best left unglossed.

Eila exhaled, the sound like a page turning in an empty room. “And when he didn’t read it, I stopped writing.”

Lucienne reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder—light, but grounding. “Then write another story.”

Eila turned slightly, uncertain.

“Not fiction,” Lucienne said. “Your story. Give him your story. Show him where he sits in it.”

Eila’s breath caught. She shook her head. “He would hate it. He would feel as though I portray him as a villain, no matter how I write it.”

Lucienne’s grip didn’t tighten, but her voice did. “If that is how he perceives it, then that is his wrong.”

Eila looked at her, eyes wide with something between fear and longing.

“You should write it,” Lucienne continued, “if only to bring yourself some peace. And perhaps…”

She paused, letting the silence carry the weight of what she hadn’t said.

“…so that Asteria might understand. Not just you—but the history she was born from. The choices. The silences. The love that didn’t look like love.”

Eila’s lips parted, but no words came. Her hand drifted to the empty shelf again, this time not searching for what was lost, but imagining what might be placed there.

“She deserves more than fragments,” Lucienne said. “She deserves the whole story—even if it’s imperfect.”

1489
THE DREAMING

The Library was quiet, as it always was in the hours between dreams. Lucienne moved through the aisles with practiced grace, reshelving a volume that had recently wept ink across its margins. The book sighed as she placed it back, grateful to be home.

She turned toward the central table, where a stack of half-catalogued titles waited, when the air shifted.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But with the subtle weight of inevitability.

Dream stood at the threshold, his cloak trailing shadows that did not belong to this realm. His eyes, ancient and unreadable, scanned the room as if searching for a memory misplaced.

Lucienne inclined her head. “My lord.”

Dream stepped forward, his voice low and deliberate. “I seek a book.”

Lucienne gestured to the nearest alcove. “You seek many things, my lord. Shall I narrow the field?”

Dream’s lips curved—barely. “Something I have not read. Something that might surprise me.”

“Rarity is not impossibility.”

She moved to a shelf that shimmered faintly, its titles written in languages that had never been spoken aloud. Her fingers paused over a slender volume bound in translucent vellum.

“Here are some possibilities,” she said, placing them before him.

She tapped the first: a worn, leather-bound edition. “An English translation of Chaucer. You’ve always had a fondness for his work—granted, you inspired half of it. This version is modern, but careful. It might amuse you to see what survives the centuries.”

Dream’s fingers brushed the cover. “He was clever. And cruel. And kind.”

Lucienne nodded. “This translator leans into the kindness.”

She gestured to the second: a slim volume bound in pale green silk. “This is a collection of letters written by a woman to a god who never answered. She never names him, but the longing is unmistakable. It’s half prayer, half accusation.”

Dream tilted his head. “Does she forgive him?”

Lucienne’s lips curved faintly. “She tries.”

Finally, she placed the third book before him: a thick tome with no title, its pages edged in silver. “And this is a novel written by a sentient forest. It took centuries to compose. The protagonist is a river.”

Dream’s eyes lingered on it. “I’ve heard whispers of this one.”

Lucienne folded her hands. “It’s slow. But it dreams well.”

Dream’s gaze lingered on the silver-edged tome, but his voice shifted, softer now. “What became of Eila’s story?”

Lucienne looked up, surprised by the question.

He continued, eyes distant. “A century ago, she wrote a tale. About an immortal man. She asked if I would read it.”

Lucienne said nothing.

“I never did,” Dream admitted.

The words hung in the air like dust caught in a shaft of light—visible, weightless, impossible to retrieve once scattered.

He turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the far shelves where the living narratives once pulsed with quiet breath. “She handed it to me. Not with ceremony, but with hope. A quiet offering. I remember the binding—dusk-thread and starlace. I remember the way she looked at me. As if the story was not on the page, but in her eyes.”

Lucienne remained still, her silence deliberate. The Library around them seemed to lean in, the books whispering in their bindings, the air thick with memory.

Dream’s voice was low, almost to himself. “I placed it on my desk. I told myself I would read it when I had time. When the stars were quiet. When the Dreaming did not need me.”

He looked down at his hands, pale and long-fingered, as if searching for the ghost of that forgotten volume. “But time is a river I do not swim in. And the stars are never quiet. And the Dreaming always needs me.”

Dream’s eyes flickered, like candlelight in a draft. “And I did not look.”

The silence that followed was not empty—it was full of unwritten pages, of stories withheld, of truths deferred.

Lucienne spoke gently. “She withdrew the book herself. It vanished from the shelf without protest. No decay. No theft. Just absence.”

Dream nodded slowly. “A story erased by its author. That is a rare kind of grief.”

He turned back to the silver-edged tome, but his thoughts were elsewhere now—wandering through corridors of memory, through conversations half-finished and glances never returned.

“She is writing again,” Lucienne said.

Dream’s voice was barely audible. “Is it about him?”

Lucienne’s reply was simple. “It is about her.”

Dream’s expression did not change, but something in the room did—like a breeze brushing past unopened windows. His gaze did not lift from the floor, yet his presence seemed to recede, as though he were folding inward, becoming less a figure and more a shadow of thought.

“She never did that before,” he murmured, not to Lucienne, not even to himself, but to the space between memory and regret. “She always wrote around herself. Through others. Through me.”

Lucienne said nothing. She knew this terrain was not hers to map.

Dream’s fingers curled slightly, as if grasping at something intangible—a thread of time, a lost moment, a name spoken too late. “To write oneself is to bleed deliberately,” he said. “To choose the wound.”

He turned away from the silver-edged tome, its gleam now dulled by the weight of the past. “She must be angry,” he added, voice low. “Or brave.”

Lucienne’s eyes followed him, steady. “Perhaps both.”

The words settled like dust on old vellum—quiet, inevitable, and not easily brushed away.

Dream stood motionless, but something in him shifted, like a tide pulling back from the shore. His gaze wandered—not to Lucienne, not to the tome, but to the far reaches of the Library where the shelves curved like ribs around a sleeping heart.

“She was always the lantern,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “Held aloft so others could find their way. Never the flame. Never the hand that trembled.”

Lucienne remained silent, sensing the unravelling of something long-knotted.

Dream’s thoughts spiralled inward, a slow descent into chambers rarely visited. To write oneself… It was not a declaration. It was exposure. A mirror turned inward, polished with salt and silence.

He remembered the way Eila used to speak—her voice like parchment warmed by candlelight. Always asking, never demanding. Always watching, never stepping into the frame. She had been the architect of other people’s truths, careful never to sketch her own.

And now she had.

The thought rang through him like a bell muffled in snow—clear, but distant, as if struck in a world he no longer walked.

Dream stood still, but the Library seemed to shift around him, its architecture breathing, its shadows lengthening. The air grew dense with the scent of old ink and forgotten grief. Somewhere, a book closed itself without a hand.

The sound was soft, but it echoed through the Library like a door shutting on a memory. Dream’s gaze flicked toward it, then away, as if afraid the moment might look back.

He stood in the hush that followed, unmoving, as if the air itself had thickened around him. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the eastern alcove—where the shelves curved inward like a listening ear.

Lucienne watched him go, saying nothing. She knew the alcove he sought.

It held a slender volume bound in twilight-blue leather, its pages stitched with thread finer than breath. A collection of letters—written by a mortal woman to a god who never answered.

Dream reached for it with a kind of reverence, though he had touched it before. He had never read it. Not truly. He had skimmed its edges once, long ago, when the ink was still warm and the longing still raw.

Now he held it as one might hold a relic. Or a wound.

"I think I shall just take this one, Lucienne. Thank you."

1589
ENGLAND

"We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies."
King Lear, Act V, Scene III

"Well, Kit, your theme as I saw it is this: That for one's art and for one's dreams one may consort and bargain with the darkest powers."

"'Tis so."

The tavern was a low-beamed den of flickering shadows and sour warmth, its air thick with pipe smoke and the tang of spilled ale. Candles guttered in iron sconces, their flames dancing like gossiping tongues. The floorboards groaned beneath every step, warped by years of boots and secrets. In the far corner, beneath a crooked sign that read The White Horse, two men met again.

“My friend! Sit down,” called the first, his voice rough with cheer and wine. He leaned back in a high-backed chair that had seen better centuries, one boot propped on the edge of the hearth. “I’ve got in a couple of bottles of wine for us. Already made a start on them.”

The fire crackled, casting orange light across his weathered face and the glint of a tarnished ring on his finger. The table before him bore the evidence—two bottles, one half-drained, their wax seals broken with impatient hands. A third cup sat waiting, rim stained red.

The newcomer stepped from the gloom, his cloak damp with the mist that clung to the streets outside. He removed his gloves slowly, as if shedding more than just leather. “Hello Hob,” he said, voice low, eyes scanning the room like a man unused to being seen.

“‘Hob’?” The seated man laughed, a sound that rang too loud in the hush of the tavern. “Faith, that takes me back some few years. It’s Sir Robert Gadlen now, old stranger.”

He raised his cup in mock salute, the wine within catching the firelight like blood in a chalice.

“You have had good fortune, I take it,” the other replied, his tone unreadable—neither envy nor admiration, but something quieter. Something older.

Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters like a beggar with no name, and the tavern held its breath.

Sir Robert Gadlen leaned forward, elbows planted on the scarred oak table, the firelight catching the gold thread in his doublet and the faint wine-stain on his cuff. His voice rose above the low murmur of the tavern, smooth and expansive, like a merchant laying out wares in a market square.

“Good fortune?” he said, with a grin that showed too many teeth. “The Gods have smiled on me, as they have smiled on all England, where no man is slave or bondsman.”

He gestured broadly, as if the cracked beams and soot-stained walls were proof of divine favor. A serving girl passed behind him, balancing a tray of trenchers and tankards, and he caught the scent of roasted meat and damp wool.

“Venison pasty?” he offered, nudging a half-eaten crust toward his companion. “No? They’re good.” He wiped his fingers on a linen napkin that had once been white, then leaned back with the air of a man recounting a tale he’d told many times, but never quite the same way.

“Let’s see… Last time we spoke I was working with Billy Caxton. I made some gold from that. Put it to work in Henry Tudor’s shipyards. I made a small pile.”

He tapped the table for emphasis, the rings on his fingers clinking against the wood like coins in a counting house.

“I’ve still got shipping interests. Went north for a year or so, came back as my son. Done that twice, now.” He said it casually, as if changing skins were no more troublesome than changing boots. The fire popped, and a gust of wind rattled the shutters. Then, with a flourish, he turned toward the bar, raising his voice above the din. “Girl! More wine!”

The barmaid glanced over, her eyes tired but sharp, and nodded without a word. Somewhere behind her, a fiddler tuned his strings, and the tavern began to hum with the slow pulse of evening.

Sir Robert swirled his wine, the crimson liquid catching the candlelight like blood in motion. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, though the pride in it rang clear. “When Fate Henry done for the monasteries, I bought my estates. Fine lands, old stone, and sheep fat as bishops. And a healthy gift of gold to The Crown saw to a knighthood. It’s so damn rich.” He laughed, low and satisfied, as if the memory itself were a feast.

“I see,” his companion said, the words clipped and cautious. He didn’t lean in, didn’t recoil—just watched, eyes steady, as if weighing the truth in the man’s tone rather than the tale.

Sir Robert’s smile widened. He reached into his doublet and drew out a small velvet case, worn at the edges. With a flick of his thumb, it opened to reveal a miniature portrait, no larger than a coin, painted with exquisite care.

“Here. Take a look at this.”

He held it out between thumb and forefinger. The image showed a woman with auburn curls and a gaze both tender and shrewd, her hand resting on the shoulder of a boy—no older than five—with a mischievous grin and eyes that mirrored Sir Robert’s own.

“My fair Eleanor,” he said softly. “And little Robyn. My first son in over two hundred years on this earth.” He paused, letting the weight of the claim settle like dust on the table. “Well, that I have known of, anyway.”

Sir Robert leaned back, the miniature tucked away, his goblet refilled. He spoke with the ease of a man who had bent history to his will.

“And the Queen herself slept at my house last summer. That was expensive. Her retinue drank my cellars dry and left the gardens trampled, but—worth it. It’s funny…”

He looked around the tavern, eyes softening. “This is what I always dreamed heaven would be like, way back. It’s safe to walk the streets. Enough food, and good wine. Life is so rich.”

In the corner of the tavern, cloaked in shadow and silence, Dream of the Endless sat unmoving. The firelight did not touch him, nor did the laughter or the clatter of tankards. He was not drinking. He was listening. “…Sweet Kit. The play I gave you. Did you read…”

The voice was young, earnest, tinged with hope and the ache of ambition. Dream turned his gaze toward the speaker—a man with ink-stained fingers and eyes that burned too brightly for the hour. “I must confess I have,” said the other, older, dressed like a man who had seen too much and believed too little. “I… thought it, well… you act well, Will, but—listen, let me read…”

He unfolded a parchment with the care of someone about to dissect a dream.
“‘Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets importing change of times and states, brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, and with them scourge the bad revolting stars.’” He paused, then scoffed. “At least it scans. But ‘bad revolting stars’?”

“It’s my first play,” Will said, voice low, almost ashamed.

“And it should be your last.”

Dream’s eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but in recognition. He had heard words like these before, in the mouths of mortals who would shape empires with ink and breath. He knew the sting of dismissal, the fragile moment before greatness either blooms or breaks.

He leaned forward, just slightly, as if to catch the next word before it fell. The tavern around him blurred, but the conversation remained sharp, crystalline, suspended in the amber of memory.

“God’s wounds!” Will burst out, his voice cracking through the tavern’s haze. A few heads turned, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on Kit, his breath quick, his hands clenched around the stem of his cup.

“If only I could write like you! In Faustus, where you wrote—” he leaned forward, quoting from memory, each word etched into him like scripture: “To God! He loves thee not! The God thou servest is thine own appetite, wherein is fixed the love of Beelzebub. To him I’ll build an altar and a church, and offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.”

He shuddered, visibly. “It chills my blood.”

Kit’s expression softened, just a little. “And so it should, Good Will.”

Will looked down, then up again, eyes shining with something more than admiration—something perilously close to longing.

“I would give anything to have your gifts. Or more than anything. To give men dreams that would live on long after I am dead. I’d bargain like your Faustus, for that boon.”

From the shadows, Dream stirred. The tavern’s light did not reach him, but the air around him seemed to hush, as if aware of something ancient and listening. He spoke softly, his voice like wind through parchment. “Who is he?”

Hob Gadling didn’t look up from his trencher. He was halfway through a greasy pasty and nursing a cup of indifferent ale. He glanced toward the young man with the burning eyes and the ink-stained fingers. “Acts a bit. Wrote a play,” Hob said, dismissively.

Dream’s gaze lingered. “Is he good?”

Hob snorted. “No. He’s crap.” He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, then gestured with his knife toward the man seated beside Will—a hunched figure with a splinted leg, laughing at something the barmaid had said. “Now, that chap there, with the broken leg, next to him. Bent as a pewter ducat. He’s a good playwright.”

Dream tilted his head, considering. The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his pale face, but no one noticed. “Hmm,” he said. But he was still watching Will. Because Dream knew the shape of longing when he saw it. And he knew that greatness often wore the mask of failure before it found its name.

The tavern murmured on—clinking cups, low laughter, the scrape of boots on stone—but something shifted. From the shadows, Dream rose. He moved like mist given form, silent and deliberate, his cloak trailing behind him like the edge of night. No one saw him stand. No one saw him cross the room. Yet somehow, space parted for him—chairs nudged aside, conversations faltered, the fire dimmed.

Will, still speaking, still burning with the fever of ambition, did not notice at first. But Kit did. His eyes flicked upward, and for a moment, he forgot his wine, his wit, and his scorn. The man approaching was not of this world, and Kit—who trafficked in devils and dreams—knew it. Dream came to stand beside Will.

The tavern seemed to still, as if the world itself leaned in. Dream’s voice was quiet, but it carried—clear as a bell rung in fog. “Are you Will Shaxberd?”

Will turned, startled by the figure who had appeared beside him without sound or warning. He blinked, uncertain whether he was being addressed by a nobleman, a scholar, or something older still. “Aye, sir. Have we met?”

Dream’s gaze did not waver. “We have. But men forget, in waking hours.”

Will frowned, half-smiling, half wary. But Dream continued. “I heard you talk, Will. Would you write great plays? Create new dreams to spur the minds of men? Is that your will?”

Will’s breath caught. The question was too precise, too intimate, as if the stranger had reached into his chest and touched the very thing that kept him awake at night.

“It is,” he said, voice low but firm. Dream nodded once. “Then let us talk.”

The moment hung in the air like incense—fragile, fragrant, and slow to dissipate.

Hob Gadling looked up from his ale, eyes narrowing as he caught the angle of Dream’s posture, the way he leaned in toward the young playwright with a gravity that Hob knew too well.

He chewed slowly, watching. “Let us talk.” The words echoed in Hob’s memory like a bell tolling across centuries. He’d heard them once, long ago, in a different tavern, under different stars. And they had changed everything. His gaze flicked to Will Shaxberd—young, hungry, burning with the kind of ambition that could crack the world open if given the right key.

Hob felt something twist in his chest. Not anger. Not quite envy. But something close. Will he make him immortal? Hob wondered. Will he walk the centuries too, like me? Will he be given the gift—or the curse—of endless time? He took a long drink, the ale suddenly bitter.

Dream had always been inscrutable, but Hob had come to think of him as his stranger. His companion through the ages. His one constant. And now, here he was, leaning toward a boy with ink-stained fingers and stars in his eyes.

Hob looked away, pretending not to care.

But he did.

Hob spoke aloud, though no one had asked. He stared into his cup, swirling the dregs, voice low and rough with memory. “White bread. I would have killed for white bread, two hundred years back.” He paused, then chuckled without humour. “Come to think of it, I did. A couple of times.”

The tavern carried on around him—laughter, music, the clatter of dice—but Hob was somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Mud-soaked fields. Gallows creaking in the wind. The taste of hunger so sharp it made men mad. He looked up, eyes following Dream and Will as they spoke in hushed tones, heads bowed close. “Everything to live for,” Hob muttered. “And nowhere to go but up.”

He said it like a blessing. Or a curse. Then he took another drink, and the moment passed. But the feeling didn’t.

1589
THE DREAMING

The Dreaming was quiet that evening, though quiet in The Dreaming was never truly still. The sky above Eila shimmered with ink-dark constellations that rearranged themselves when no one was looking. The ground beneath her chair was not earth, but a mosaic of forgotten lullabies and pressed flower petals that never wilted.

Eila sat beneath a tree that bore no fruit, only pages—thin parchment leaves that rustled with half-formed verses. Her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes soft, her posture patient. She had learned long ago that in The Dreaming, time was not a river but a breath—held, released, reshaped.

Her daughter sat cross-legged on a cushion of woven starlight, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes wide with the kind of wonder that only comes from speaking with the dead.

“I saw him,” she said, voice tumbling over itself. "Orpheus. I went to the island. You weren't joking when you said he was just a head."

Eila’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of centuries. The Dreaming responded in kind—clouds slowed their drift, the tree above them stilled its rustling, and even the stars seemed to lean in. "I would not jest about your brother's fate, Asteria."

The name hung in the air like a bell’s final note. Asteria blinked, her breath catching for a moment. She had never heard her mother speak of Orpheus as kin—not like that. Not with the old grief still folded into the syllables.

“I didn’t mean—” she began, but Eila raised a hand, gentle and firm.

“I know,” she said. “But you must understand. He was not always only a head. He was a boy once. He laughed. He sang to the birds before he knew they would one day carry him.”

Asteria looked down at the spiral stone in her palm. It pulsed faintly, like it remembered music. “He didn’t seem sad,” she said. “Not exactly. He was… still. Like he’d made peace with being unfinished.”

Eila nodded. “That is the mercy of The Dreaming. It does not demand resolution. Only presence.” Asteria frowned. “He asked me if I’d ever been in love. I said no. He said, ‘Then you’ve never been in mourning.’”

Eila’s eyes closed briefly. “He would say that.”

Asteria tilted her head, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Of course he would. Nothing says ‘eternal suffering’ like poetic one-liners from a decapitated brother.”

The Dreaming stirred around them, amused perhaps. The sky rippled like silk in a breeze, constellations rearranging themselves into a face that almost resembled Orpheus—until it didn’t. The tree above them dropped a leaf that turned into a feather before it touched the ground. Eila opened her eyes, the corners creased with something unreadable. “He was always drawn to tragedy. Even before he understood it.”

Asteria plucked the feather-leaf from the grass and twirled it between her fingers. “Well, he’s certainly committed to the aesthetic. Island of shadows, river of regrets, and a head that speaks in riddles. I half expected him to offer me a cursed symphony.”

Eila’s laugh was quiet, but it cracked the air like a warm ember. “He used to hum lullabies when he couldn’t sleep. Ones he made up. They never had endings.”

“Sounds about right,” Asteria said, tossing the feather into the air. It hovered for a moment, then dissolved into a fine mist that smelled faintly of honey and ash.

The silence that followed was textured—woven from memory and myth, the kind that made the air feel thick with meaning. Asteria shifted, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the river shimmered like a wound stitched with moonlight.

“It was nice to see him,” she said, her voice quieter now, stripped of its usual irony. “He’s the only one who really gets it. The way Father is. The way he... bends things.”

Eila turned slightly, her expression unreadable, but her attention sharpened like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Asteria didn’t look at her. She was watching the river, eyes distant. “Everyone else just accepts it. They say he’s complicated. Or necessary. Or ancient, like that excuses everything. But Orpheus—he doesn’t flinch when I say I hate the way Father speaks in riddles and silence. He doesn’t tell me I’m being ungrateful.”

The Dreaming responded in kind. The stars above them dimmed slightly, as if listening more intently. A breeze curled around Asteria’s ankles, cool and fragrant with crushed violets and old ink. “He told me,” she continued, “that Father once said love is a cage made of mirrors. And Orpheus said, ‘Then smash them.’ Just like that. Like it was obvious.”

Eila’s fingers tightened around the blank leaf in her lap. “He always did see through him. Even when it cost him everything.”

Asteria nodded slowly. “It’s strange. He’s just a head now. But he felt more present than Father ever does.” She turned to her mother then, eyes bright but tired. “Why does he make everything so hard? Why does he speak like he’s writing a play no one’s allowed to perform?”

Eila looked at her daughter for a long moment. The tree above them shed another leaf, this one etched faintly with a spiral—like the stone Orpheus had given. “Because he is not made of time,” she said. “He is made of story. And stories resist simplicity.”

Asteria sighed, lying back against the cushion of woven starlight. “Well, I’m tired of being a subplot.”

The stars above them pulsed once, then held steady. The river’s hum deepened, as if acknowledging her declaration. Eila turned toward her daughter, her expression unreadable, carved from patience and shadow. Asteria sat up slowly, brushing starlight from her sleeves. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, fingers tracing the spiral stone absently. “I might go back. Stay with Orpheus for a while.”

Eila’s brow lifted, just slightly. “To the island?”

Asteria nodded. “Yes. And then maybe Greece. I want to see the land where your blood came from. The olive groves. The ruins. The sea that remembers.” The Dreaming shifted around them. The tree above shed a leaf shaped like a dolphin. The wind carried the scent of salt and thyme. “I want to know what it means to be Achaean,” Asteria continued, her voice gaining momentum. “Not just in myth. In marrow. I want to walk where your ancestors walked. I want to feel the sun that burned your stories into stone.”

Eila’s gaze softened, and something ancient flickered behind her eyes. “You would find ghosts there.”

“I want to,” Asteria said. “I want to sit beside Orpheus and ask him about you. About the songs he sang before the world broke him. I want to hear the old names spoken aloud. I want to know who I am when Father isn’t defining me in riddles.” The river shimmered brighter, casting silver light across their faces. Asteria looked radiant—not with certainty, but with longing. Eila reached out and touched her daughter’s cheek, her thumb brushing a constellation that had settled there like a freckle.

Her touch was light, but her voice was steady, shaped by centuries of silence and song. “You are beyond Endless,” she said. “You are Achaean. You are mine—not in possession, but in truth. You are my truest love.”

“I see you,” Eila continued, her voice low and reverent. “Not as a subplot. Not as a shadow of your father. I see you as the story I never dared to write. And if Greece calls to you—if Orpheus can help you find what you’re searching for—then go.”

Asteria’s breath caught. She looked at her mother, eyes wide, shimmering with something fragile and fierce. “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” she admitted.

Eila’s gaze held her, steady and luminous, like moonlight on ancient marble.
“That is the beauty of living, sweet girl,” she said, her voice like the hush before a sacred hymn. “You do not have to.”

The Dreaming leaned in. The stars above them pulsed gently, and the river’s hum softened into something like a lullaby. “I want you to go out there,” Eila continued, “and see every sea, every mountain, every river, every city and forest that you wish to. I want you to meet people from every place and find where you fit. It may take a day, a month, a year, a century… longer. But you will find your place.”

Asteria’s eyes shimmered, and the spiral stone in her palm warmed faintly, as if echoing her heartbeat. “And when you find it,” Eila said, her voice thick with love, “come and tell me what you’ve seen.”

Asteria looked down at the golden leaf in her lap, fingers tracing the ancient script. Her voice, when it came, was hesitant—threaded with the old fear that lingered like smoke. “What do I tell Father?”

Eila’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with clarity. She reached out and gently took her daughter’s hand, her touch grounding, like stone beneath bare feet. “You don’t have to tell him anything,” she said. “He is not your master, my sweet. He is your father.” The Dreaming stirred. The stars above them shifted, no longer distant—they leaned closer, listening. The river’s hum grew bold, like a chorus rising. “Family should not shackle you,” Eila continued, her voice like fire wrapped in silk. “It should liberate you. The prisoner does not ask permission from the jailer to break out of their cell.”

Asteria’s breath hitched. The words struck something deep—something long buried beneath obedience and expectation.

"I love you, mother."

"And I love you, Asteria. Until the time, and the infinite after that."

1589
THE DREAMING

In the heart of the palace, beneath a ceiling carved from constellations that never repeated, Dream sat at his desk. The desk was vast, made from petrified wood that had once grown in a forest of forgotten thoughts. Its surface was scattered with scrolls, fragments of parchment, and inkpots filled with colours not found in the waking world—violet like regret, gold like memory, black like silence.

He worked slowly, deliberately. One hand held a quill fashioned from a raven’s feather, the other rested lightly on a page half-filled with symbols that shifted when looked at too long. He was not writing a story. He was repairing one. A dream that had frayed at the edges, its meaning unravelling in the mind of a sleeping child.

He paused.

A grain of sand fell from the folds of his robe and landed on the page. It shimmered, then vanished. Time moved differently here. Not forward. Not back. Just... around. Behind him, a window opened onto a sky that showed a thousand dawns at once. The light did not warm the room, but it illuminated the dust motes that danced like forgotten names.

Dream leaned back, eyes closed for a moment. Not in weariness—he did not tire—but in reflection. He could feel the dreams of mortals pulsing across the realm like distant drums. Some were bright. Some were broken. All were his.

A soft knock echoed through the chamber—not loud, but deliberate. Dream did not look up. The door opened with a sigh, as if the palace itself recognized the visitor. Eila stepped inside, her presence tentative but not afraid. She wore a cloak woven from twilight, and her hair shimmered faintly with the residue of dreams she’d passed through to get here.

She lingered near the threshold, watching him work. “Are you busy?” she asked, voice low, respectful.

Dream’s quill paused mid-stroke. He did not look at her, but his answer came without hesitation. “I am.”

Eila nodded, eyes flicking to the scrolls and symbols that pulsed faintly on the desk. She took a step closer, then another. “Could we talk?” she asked. This time, Dream looked up.

His gaze was ancient and unreadable, but not unkind. He studied her for a moment, as if weighing the gravity of her request against the weight of the realm itself. He set the quill down. “Yes,” he said. “We may talk.”

Eila exhaled, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She moved to the edge of the desk, her fingers brushing the surface lightly, as if anchoring herself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

“You did,” Dream replied, not cruelly. “But you were right to.”

"And why was I right to?"

Dream leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he observed her, like he was studying a painting. He could sense the nervous energy coming off of her, the way her fingers fidgeted with her cloak's frayed ends, betraying the calm mask she wore. He was silent for a moment before finally speaking. "Because whatever it is you want to talk about," he said, voice smooth as silk, "it is clearly something pressing."

He nodded at the empty chair that manifested across from him. "Sit."

Eila carefully sat on the satin seat, delicately folding her skirts as she sat so as not to crease them. Dream watched her closely, taking note of her every move. Her elegance and grace were unparalleled, but beneath it he could sense vulnerability. She was like a porcelain doll, delicate and fragile. It was strange, he mused, how someone as lovely and knowing as her could be plagued with such turmoil.

"You're nervous," he stated simply, folding his hands on the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface to amuse himself. "You have never been nervous around me in the time I have known you."

"Yes, well, there is a nervousness in the topic, and a nervousness in awaiting your reception of what I am to tell you."

Dream raised a brow, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He learned forward slightly, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. "You've piqued my interested," he replied, gesturing for her to continue, his gaze never leaving her face.

"Our daughter has made it her prerogative to depart from The Dreaming."

His expression darkened almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing. The news hit him like a blow to the stomach, a wave of shock and indignation washing over him. "Our daughter has done what?" he asked, voice cold and controlled. His fingers clenched around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening beyond his already intensely pale complexion. White as hot stars.

"She has decided to leave. Asteria felt that it was in her best interest to go elsewhere, and I find myself agreeing."

His grip on the desk tightened further, a muscle in his jaw ticking like a clock as he processed her words. The mere thought of his daughter--his own flesh and blood, leaving the Dreaming was beyond infuriating. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of anger and pain. "You agreed to this?" he said, the words sharp and biting as Cerberus' jaws.

Eila nodded, clasping her hands in her lap in preparation for his rage. "For too long has Asteria felt so displaced here. I would be a cruel mother to allow her discomforts to fester in the name of your wish for her to remain. She impressed upon me her desire to leave, and I gave her my blessing this very day, and now, very now, she has left."

Dream exhaled deeply, the anger in his eyes shifting to hurt, which Eila had not expected so soon. He ran a hand through his hair, the usually immaculate strands now tousled, as though he wanted to tear them out. Eila visibly paled at the sight. "And you did not think to consult me, her father?" he asked, the words thick with accusation.

"She is not a child, Oneiros. No consult is required. If our daughter finds it within herself that she needs to leave a place in order to find the parts of herself she has lost in remaining here, then who am I to stand in her way? Who am I to give you opportunity to do so yourself?" Eila asked.

Dream leaned back in his chair, a bitter laugh escaping him. He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and hurt etched onto his face. His pride was wounded, his control over his realm slipping momentarily in response to the wound. "You make me sound like a tyrant, Eila," he aid, the word lacked with a concoction of venom and anger. "As if I would cage her against her will."

Eila looked away from him. "And what would you have done then?"

Dream fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on Eila. He knew he couldn't deny it; he would've done anything to keep Asteria in The Dreaming, "I would've at least tried to convince her to stay," he admitted. "She's my daughter, Eila. I have a responsibility to protect her, to guide her. Is it so wrong for me to want her here, safe and sound, in my realm where I can keep an eye on her?"

"But she is not a child, Oneiros. She had not been a child for a very long time. Our daughter is shy of 17 centuries old. That makes her far from a child. It may paint her infant in comparison to the long life you have lived, Oneiros, but that does not quantify her as juvenile. She is a woman who is entitled to autonomy and choice. If it is her wish to leave, you have no right to stand in her way."

Dream clenched his jaw, the logic of Eila's words hitting him like a hammer. He knew she was right; Asteria was no child. She was a being with her own will, her own desires—and as much as it pained him to admit it, he couldn't deny her the right to make her own choices. "But the world out there..." he said, his voice low and grave. "It's treacherous. Dangerous. She'll be vulnerable, unprotected."

"And you think I don't know that?" Eila asked, her words dripping with offence. "You think I send our daughter back to the Waking World unknowing of what she may face? I did not live an untouched, sheltered life, Oneiros. I send her out there knowing what there is, and knowing Asteria knows too."

Dream sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He knew Eila's past was far from sheltered, that she bore her own scars from the harsh realities of life outside the Dreaming. He felt a mixture of frustration, worry, and helplessness coursing through him—emotions that he despised. "I know you're not naïve, Eila," he said, his voice calmer. "And I know you've prepared her as best you can. But can you blame me for fearing for her safety, for wanting to protect her?"

"There is a distinction to be made between protecting and controlling, Oneiros."

Dream winced at the cold truth of Eila's words. The accusation stung, hitting a nerve he didn't even realize he had. He was a being of control, of power and influence, and the thought that he might be too controlling, even with his own daughter, was a bitter pill to swallow. "I am not controlling," he protested, but the words sounded weak even to his own ears.

"I find myself disagreeing," Eila confessed, unsure whether it was bravely or foolishly. She would soon find out which it was.

At this, Dream's temper flared, the last vestiges of his patience snapping at Eila's boldness. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he rose from his chair, his imposing figure towering over her, a storm brewing within him. "Disagree all you want," he said, his voice cold and biting. "But I'm not the one who allowed our daughter to run headlong into danger, to throw away everything I've provided for her, everything I've worked for, just to satisfy her whims."

"Do not speak to me in that manner, Oneiros."

Dream bristled at her command, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He moved around the desk until he was standing directly in front of her, his gaze cold and unforgiving. "How else do expect me to speak to you when you just sit there, preaching about autonomy and choices, while I have to watch my daughter leave my realm, unguarded and unprotected?" He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. "I am not the enemy here, Eila."

"And I am?"

Dream's gaze hardened, the anger and frustration within him reaching its peak. He grabbed her wrists in a tight grip, his fingers digging into her skin with almost bruising force. He leaned in close, his face mere inches from hers. "You are not the enemy," he seethed, "but you are not blameless either. Don't act like you don't share a part in this. You could have stopped her, convinced her to stay, and yet you *agreed* with her. You allowed her to leave."

"I told her to go."

Dream's eyes flared wide, his grip on her wrists tightening like a vice. The words hit him like a punch to the gut, the anger coursing through him in hot, fiery waves. "You... what?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His face was contorted with a mixture of disbelief and rage. "You told her to leave?" he repeated, the words sounding like an accusation, filled with a dangerous edge.

He let go of her wrists, but he didn't step back. He remained right in her face, the air between them charged with tension. He grabbed her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look directly at him, his gaze boring into her like a drill. "Why?" he hissed. "Why would you do that?"

She did it for the one reason that mattered--the only reason that mattered. "Because I love her."

"Love," he said, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Love. You let our daughter run headfirst into a dangerous world, because of love? That's not love, Eila, that's idiocy. You're supposed to protect what you love, not send it away like some sacrificial lamb."

"When your children grow up, it is their right to go out into the world and make something of themselves. It is their fate to try, and fail, and hurt, and fall. But it is also their fate to get back up, to learn, and to try again. Asteria is no different."

Dream's mouth pulled into a tight, thin line, as if the words Eila said were too bitter to swallow. He released her chin, stepping back, his gaze falling to the ground. "You make it sound so simple," he said, bitterness seeping into his voice. "As if sending her out there is simply a part of growing up. As if I'm supposed to just accept that she needs to suffer, to struggle. I'm her father. I'm supposed to protect her from all of that, not throw her into the fire."

"She is not Orpheus." Eila spoke the name he had forbidden all to speak in his presence. "She is not your son."

Dream froze, his entire body going rigid at the mention of that name. The shadows in the room darkened, almost like they were alive, the air around them growing heavy with ancient grief. "Don't," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't you dare bring him up."

Eila sighed. "I am sorry if my doing so upsets you, but do not pretend that your motivation lies solely with a paternal desire to protect Asteria. He motivates your words."

Dream's jaw clenched, the muscle there ticking with suppressed anger. He wanted to deny it, to dismiss her words as nothing but foolish accusations. But deep down, he knew she was right. "So what if he does?" he shot back, his voice sharp and cold. "Does that make my concern less valid? Does that somehow justify you sending our daughter into a world that's more likely to tear her apart than nurture her?"

"I see that you will not see the reason in this decision. I am sorry that this has aggrieved you, but I am not sorry for my choice, and I how that in time you come to understand this decision--both mine, and Asteria's."

Dream let out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and hurt. "Understand?" he said, the word like a dagger in his heart. "Understand why you and my own daughter have made a decision that places her in danger, a decision that I have no control over? You expect me to understand that?" He ran a trembling hand through his hair, the stress of it all threatening to overwhelm him. "You've thrown all reason out the window, Eila. You have no idea what you've done."

Eila took a few paces away from him, and collected herself, her hand coming to the pearl and ruby necklace she wore.

Dream watched as she paced, his eyes narrowing. His gaze shifted to the necklace at her neck, a familiar ache rising in his chest. His fingers twitched with the memory of when he had given it to her, a memory of a better time, a time before this painful argument. The quiet moment stretched on for several seconds, the only sound in the room the rhythmic footsteps of Eila as she paced back and forth. The anger still coursed through him, but there was also a lingering sense of helplessness and fear.

"You will never be satisfied unless it is all your way. Your design. Sometimes, you suffocate us, Oneiros, whether it is your will or no."

Dream's eyes flashed at her words, a spark of defensiveness flaring within him. He took a step forward, an angry retort ready on his tongue, but then he paused. Her words struck a chord within him, a chord that rang with a hint of truth. "You make it sound like I'm some sort of dictator, forcing my will upon you," he said, his voice a mix of frustration and resignation. "All I have ever wanted is to keep my family safe, to keep you all safe. Is that so wrong?"

"And all your daughter wants is to leave this place. Why are your wants paramount?"

Dream scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "My wants are not paramount, they're logical," he retorted, his voice tight with frustration. "She's throwing away a life of comfort, of safety, of everything I could provide for her, simply because she wants to what? Adventure? Explore? I could give her that here!" His hands clenched into tight fists, his entire body coiled with tension.

Her reply came as whisper, quiet as the cat in the night, soft as the silk she wore. "She wants to be free of you, Oneiros."

Dream's eyes widened at her words, his heart clenching in his chest. It felt like a punch to the gut, a painful blow that left him reeling. He stared at Eila silently, the shock and hurt evident on his face. Her words echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of his worst fears. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to argue... but nothing came out. He could only stand, frozen, his entire body rigid.

His thoughts were a storm, a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. Was it true? Was his own daughter so desperate to escape his grasp that she would willingly leave the safety and comfort of the Dreaming behind? It was a bitter pill to swallow, a reality he had tried so desperately to avoid. His chest ached with a mixture of anger, hurt, and a deep, overwhelming sense of failure. He had always thought he was a good father, that he had provided for them, loved them. And now he was being told that his daughter wanted to be free of him?

His thoughts spiralled, a flurry of images flickering through his mind like a film, each one a memory. He saw Asteria as a child, a curious little thing, following him around like a shadow. He saw her smile, heard her laughter, felt her small hands holding his. He saw her grow, her hair change, her wings grow bigger. He saw her become the woman she was now. And it pained him to think that all this time, she was quietly yearning to get away from him.

He closed his eyes, his head pounding. He had never once considered the possibility that his love may not be enough, that his protection could be viewed as a cage. He had never thought for a moment that his daughter, his own flesh and blood, could desire something more than what he could give her. The very thought of it was an insult, a stab to his heart. His mind was torn, conflicted, a war between his need to protect and his daughter's need for independence, her desire to be "free of him".

"And do you share this desire? To be free of me?" He asked, a whisper.

"Sometimes, Oneiros. And sometimes I wish only that you would return to the Oneiros I knew long ago."

"I am still that Oneiros," he said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, "I am still the same person I always was." He turned away from her, his shoulders slumping slightly. He hated that she could so easily read him, that she knew his thoughts and feelings so well. It was both a comfort and a curse. He swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He had always tried to be strong for her, for their family. He was the one who kept them safe, who gave them everything they could possibly need. "You say these things, and yet who else will protect you? Who else would love you the way I do?" He asked, his voice filled with pain.

"You don't love me, Oneiros. I wonder if you are even capable of it. Whether this possession you have is what you disguise as love. You covet, and seek all that wishes to evade you. You want what you cannot have. That is desire. That is not love."

"You're wrong," he said through gritted teeth, "You have no idea what I feel for you."

"You tread into your sibling's domain, Oneiros. Epithumia's domain. You cannot conceive of love. I doubt you are even capable of it."

Dream's jaw clenched at the mention of Epithumia's name. It made his blood boil. It was a low blow, a cruel blow to question his ability to love, to accuse him of being like the very embodiment of desire, greed. Yes, he had a possessive, territorial nature, a hunger that consumed him, but that didn't mean he was incapable of love. He was not like his sibling, he didn't lust and covet and claim. He loved, truly and deeply. Didn't he? He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground together. "I am nothing like Epithumia. I am different. I am capable of love."

"You do not hurt those you love. Making Asteria stay would be hurting her."

"So I'm just supposed to let her go out there into a world full of danger, just because she says it will make her happy? That's ridiculous."

"That is life, Oneiros. Not everything is how you want it to be."

He let out a bitter laugh, a dry, humourless sound. He hated how rational she was being, how calm and cool while he was a mess of anger and hurt. It was unfair, damn it. He was supposed to be the one in control here, the one with the power. He took a step closer to her, his eyes narrowing as his anger got the better of him. "You think I don't know that? I've been around since the beginning darling, I know how unfair life can be."

"Then you know that this is how things are. That there is no use in disputing it."

Her calm acceptance of the situation grated on him like sandpaper, rubbing his nerves raw. He scoffed at her words, his frustration growing by the second. "No use?" he repeated, his voice rising in frustration. "You're telling me I should just roll over and accept this, accept that my daughter is leaving, without protest?"

"Children come back in their own time, Oneiros. You need to let her spread her wings for once."

"It's not that simple," he said, his voice quieter now. "I am supposed to protect her. That is my role."

"No," Eila said. "It is your role to nurture her and equip her with the necessary tools to navigate life. It is not your role to confuse protection with sheltering."

"I'm not sheltering her," he said, a feeble attempt at defending himself. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were hollow, even to his own ears.

"You are, and one day you will see that."

1689
ENGLAND

"...Hmmph. Do not be so free in assigning plagues, fires or floods to the judgement of the Lord, for our sins..."

"...Make more from their poor dole than they would for honest work. I tell you, sir, men without jobs seldom drink other than the strongest ale-house beer, or eat any bread save that made with the finest wheat flour..."

The tavern crouched at the edge of the cobbled square like a beast too old to hunt, its timbers sagging with the weight of a hundred winters and a thousand secrets. The sign above the door—The White Horse—swung lazily in the wind, its paint faded, the crown depicted there chipped and tarnished, as if time itself had grown weary of monarchy.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pipe smoke, roasted mutton, and spilled ale—a perfume of the people, pungent and honest. Candles guttered in iron sconces, their flames dancing like gossiping tongues, casting shadows that stretched and curled across warped floorboards. The hearth blazed with a fire that seemed to argue with the cold rather than conquer it, its embers whispering old ballads in a language only the drunk could understand.

The patrons were a patchwork of the Restoration’s residue—lace cuffs and muddy boots, powdered wigs askew, and eyes that had seen too much of both war and peace. A merchant argued with a sailor over the price of tobacco from Virginia, while a young poet scribbled verses on the back of a tax ledger, his ink-stained fingers trembling with either inspiration or gin. In the far corner, a Jacobite sympathizer nursed his drink like a secret, his coat stitched with defiance.

The tavern’s walls were lined with tankards that remembered better hands, and the beams overhead bore the scars of old sword fights and newer debts. Every creak of the floor was a confession. Every laugh was a mask. The room itself seemed to breathe—slowly, heavily—like a man who knows he’s being watched.

Dream sat at a table carved from old oak, its surface scarred by the knives of men long dead and the spilled ink of poets who mistook sorrow for truth. He did not drink, though a pewter tankard rested before him, untouched, its frothy contents slowly surrendering to stillness. Around him, the tavern pulsed with the heartbeat of 1689—boots thudding, dice clattering, voices rising like steam from the mouths of the half-drunk and half-mad.

He was a figure out of place and out of time, as if the candlelight bent differently around him. His cloak, black as a raven’s wing in moonlight, draped over the chair like a shadow that refused to settle. His eyes—stars trapped in glass—watched the room not with curiosity, but with the weary patience of someone who had seen this scene play out a thousand times, in a thousand taverns, across a thousand years.

The tavern-goers gave him a wide berth, not out of fear, but instinct. Something in him whispered of dreams best left undisturbed. A barmaid approached once, drawn by the coin he’d placed on the table—an old Roman denarius, silver and strange—and though she smiled, her voice faltered as she asked if he wanted anything more. He declined with a nod that felt like the closing of a book.

Outside, the wind howled like a dog denied entry. Inside, Dream sat unmoved, a still point in the turning world. He listened—not to the words, but to the spaces between them. The pause before a lie. The silence after a confession. The breath held before a kiss that never came.

The barmaid lingered, her apron dusted with flour and ash, hands folded like a prayer she’d long since stopped believing in. Her voice had the tremble of someone who’d heard too many stories and lived too few. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease, as if she’d spoken to a mirror and found it staring back.

Dream turned to her, slowly, as if time itself had to catch up with the motion. His gaze was not unkind, but it carried the weight of centuries—a gaze that had watched empires rise like bread and fall like ash. “No, thank you,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word shaped like a stone placed gently on a grave. “I am waiting for someone.”

The barmaid nodded, though she did not understand. Few ever did. She retreated with the grace of someone leaving a church, her footsteps soft, her breath held. Behind her, the tavern resumed its rhythm—laughter like broken bells, arguments stitched with slurred Latin, and the occasional thud of a fist meeting wood.

The door slammed open with the fury of a storm denied entry too long. A gust of cold air followed, dragging with it the scent of wet earth, horse sweat, and something metallic—like blood remembered. The tavern flinched. Dice froze mid-roll. Tankards paused mid-air. Even the fire seemed to recoil, its flames shrinking back into the hearth like startled children.

“YER FACKIN’ DUNGWITS! GERRAHTAMEWAY!” bellowed the newcomer, a man stitched together from leather, scars, and bad decisions. His voice was a blunt instrument, forged in the gutters of London and tempered in the alehouses of York. He staggered forward, boots caked in mud, eyes wild with drink or madness—likely both. His coat flapped behind him like a wounded bird, and his breath steamed in the candlelight, thick with curses and gin.

The crowd parted instinctively, not out of respect, but survival. He was the kind of man who carried chaos like a second skin, and no one wanted to be the thread that unraveled it. Chairs scraped. A lute player tucked his instrument beneath the table. A merchant whispered a prayer to a god he hadn’t spoken to since the last tax audit.

Dream did not move.

The man’s gaze swept the room, searching for a fight, a friend, or a reason. It landed on Dream—still, silent, untouched by the storm. For a moment, the tavern held its breath. The man blinked, as if trying to focus on something too distant to grasp. Then he laughed—a sound like gravel in a tin cup—and stumbled toward the bar, muttering about “bloody ghosts in wigs.”

A wiry man in a velvet waistcoat—his powdered wig perched like a smug bird—rose from his seat near the hearth, his voice slicing through the tavern like a whetted blade. “Get away, you fuddled jug-biter!” he sneered, nostrils flaring with the righteous indignation of someone who’d inherited more coin than courage. “This tavern’s for gentry and decent folk. You get back to the stews with the rest of the filth!”

The drunkard halted mid-stagger, blinking as if the insult had to swim through gin before reaching his brain. “UHN!” he grunted, a sound half-challenge, half-confusion. His fists clenched, knuckles pale as bone, and for a moment, the tavern braced for blood.

But before the tension could snap, Dream raised a hand—pale, deliberate, and impossibly still. The gesture was not grand, but it carried the gravity of a cathedral bell tolling at midnight.

“Let him be,” Dream said, his voice soft yet absolute, like snow falling on a battlefield. “He is my guest.”

Silence fell like a curtain. The velvet man faltered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish caught in a net of consequence. Around him, murmurs stirred—half in awe, half in fear. No one questioned Dream. Not because they knew him, but because something in the marrow of their bones told them they should not.

The drunkard blinked again, swaying slightly, then gave a crooked nod—whether in gratitude or confusion, none could say. He slumped into the chair opposite Dream, the wood groaning beneath him, and stared at the untouched tankard as if it held answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked. Dream regarded him with the patience of tides.

"Kkk. Khkak. I knew you'd be here." "Do you know how hungry a man can get? If he doesn't die? But doesn't eat?"

“Kkk. Khkak.” The man coughed, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to claw its way out of his throat like something long buried. He wiped his mouth with the back of a grime-streaked hand, then looked up, eyes gleaming with a fever that wasn’t entirely physical.

“I knew you’d be here,” he rasped, voice cracked like old parchment. “You always are. When the world turns sideways. When the clocks forget how to tick.”

Dream did not blink. He watched the man as one might watch a candle guttering in a draft—curious, but unsurprised. The man leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers twitching like spiders. “Do you know how hungry a man can get?” he whispered, the words trembling with something deeper than desperation. “If he doesn’t die? But doesn’t eat?”

The tavern around them seemed to fade, the laughter and clatter muffled as if swallowed by fog. Only the fire remained, flickering like a heartbeat, casting long shadows that danced across the man’s hollow cheeks.

Hob groaned, the sound dragging itself from his chest like a wounded animal. His shoulders sagged, as if the weight of years had finally found him again. The tavern’s din faded to a hush, not by magic, but by the gravity of grief—an old man’s voice pulling silence from the air like thread from a loom. “She died,” he said, eyes fixed on the tankard but seeing something far older. “In childbirth. Eleanor.”

The name hung in the air like a ghost, delicate and trembling. “I don’t remember what she looked like any more,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges. “I pawned her portrait fifty years since. Needed coin for bread. Or drink. Or something. Doesn’t matter now.”

Dream said nothing. He listened, the way the moon listens to the tide—without judgment, without interruption. “Robyn died in a tavern brawl when he was twenty,” Hob whispered, his fingers curling around the tankard like it might anchor him. “I didn’t go out much after that. What was the point? The world kept spinning, but it didn’t feel like mine anymore.”

He paused, breath hitching. “They tried to drown me as a witch. I’d lived there forty years. Taught their children to read. Helped birth their calves. Overconfident, I suppose. Thought kindness earned safety.” A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “I got out with my skin. Little more.” The fire crackled, casting flickers of orange across his face, illuminating the hollows carved by time and sorrow. “And then it got worse,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And worse. And… worse.”

Hob’s laugh was hollow, a dry rattle that echoed off the tavern walls like a ghost mocking its own chains.

“I fought for the King in Parliament’s war,” he said, voice thick with old iron and older regret. “Big mistake, that was. Thought I was on the side of honour. Thought loyalty meant something. I got careless. I got soft. Like the country.”

He spat into the fire, and it hissed in reply.

“I’ve hated every second of the last eighty years,” he said, leaning forward, eyes glinting with fury and fatigue. “Every bloody second. You know that.”

Dream’s gaze did not waver. He regarded Hob as one might regard a cliff edge—dangerous, beautiful, inevitable.

“And you still wish to live?” he asked, voice low and crystalline. “Do you not seek the respite of death?”

The question hung in the air like incense—sweet, suffocating, sacred.

"Are you crazy? Death is a mug's game. I got so much to live for."

Hob slammed his tankard down, the pewter ringing out like a challenge. Ale sloshed over the rim, pooling around his fingers, but he didn’t care. His eyes blazed—not with youth, but with something older, fiercer. The kind of fire that survives winters, wars, and the slow erosion of hope. “Are you crazy?” he barked, voice cutting through the tavern like a blade through fog. “Death is a mug’s game. I got so much to live for.”

Dream tilted his head, the candlelight catching the curve of his cheek like a sliver of moon. He said nothing, but the silence invited Hob to go on.

“I’ve got books I haven’t read,” Hob growled. “Places I haven’t seen. I want to taste oranges in Lisbon again. I want to hear a lute played properly, not by some drunk with three fingers. I want to fall in love again. Maybe twice.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I want to see what the world does next. I want to see if it gets worse, or better, or just stranger. I want to be there when it turns upside down again.”

Dream’s lips curved—barely. “You are the only man I know who would call suffering a spectator sport.”

Hob laughed, a real laugh this time, rough and warm. “Damn right. I’ve earned my seat. And I’m not giving it up.”

The tavern stirred around them, the fire crackling louder, the shadows leaning in. Even the raven above gave a soft, approving croak.

Dream nodded once, slowly. “Then live, Hob Gadling. Live as only you can.”
And Hob raised his tankard, not in toast, but in defiance. “To tomorrow,” he said.

1689
THE DREAMING

200 years.

That was how long it had taken Eila to write her story—to gather the scattered fragments of memory, the dust of centuries, and the echoes of dreams, and press them into form. Two hundred years of sifting through time like sand, of choosing which truths to keep and which wounds to leave untouched. Two hundred years of silence, of solitude, of stitching together a life that had stretched across empires, oceans, and realms.

Almost thirty centuries.

And somehow, impossibly, it all fit into three leather-bound volumes. Three books, modest in size but vast in weight, resting now on a shelf carved from olivewood grown in the groves of her childhood. The bindings were worn, the pages thick with ink and longing. They did not shimmer with magic. They did not hum with power. They simply were—like her.

The first, she titled Daughter of Atlas.

It was what she was.

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. But truly. Born of the Titan who held the heavens on his shoulders, Eila had inherited not his strength, but his burden. She had not been tasked with holding up the sky—but she had carried the weight of memory, of myth, of expectation. She had walked through the fall of Troy, the rise of Rome, the silence of Byzantium. She had watched gods fade and men forget.

It was the tale of her beginning. Her bildungsroman, yes—but not one of quaint lessons or gentle awakenings. It was a story carved in obsidian and starlight, in the long shadow of a father who could never kneel, never rest. It was her youth and girlhood, before she became thunderstruck. Pleiade before oracle. Girl before God-given.

The second volume she named The Quiet Century.

It was a misleading title, really. There was nothing quiet about the century it chronicled. It was the century of upheaval, of ambition, of blood and marble. But Eila had named it so not for the world outside, but for the world within. It was the century she had learned to be still, even as empires roared.

It was the Caesarean tale.

Rome was not new to her. She had walked its hills when they were still wild, when shepherds whispered to wolves and the gods still answered. But this Rome—this Rome of ambition and iron—was different. It was a Rome that did not ask permission. It took. It built. It conquered.

And in its shadow, Eila raised Asteria.

Not as a goddess. Not as a Titan’s heir. But as a girl.

Asteria, born of starlight and silence, had eyes like obsidian and a mind like fire. She asked questions that bent time. She challenged Eila, challenged the world, challenged the very notion of fate. And Eila, for the first time in centuries, found herself unsure of the answers.

They lived in a villa on the Palatine Hill, hidden among senators and scribes. Eila wore the name Livia then, and Asteria was known as Maia. They watched the Republic fracture. They watched Caesar rise—not as a tyrant, but as a vision. The Achaean of Rome, Eila called him. Not because he was Greek, but because he carried the same tragic grandeur as Achilles: brilliant, doomed, beloved.

Caesar met Eila once.

He was younger than she expected. Sharper. Hungrier. He spoke of stars and destiny, and Eila listened with the quiet ache of someone who had seen too many destinies burn. He asked her if she believed in fate. She told him she believed in choice.

He laughed.

Asteria did not laugh. She watched him with the eyes of someone who saw too much. She said nothing, but later, she wrote in her journal:

"He is not Atlas. He is Prometheus. And Rome is the fire."

Eila kept that page.

Eila's third volume was a collection of letters. An untitled volume. The longest volume though.

It was not named because it could not be. Names imply boundaries. Titles suggest themes. But this volume defied both. It was not a story. It was not a history. It was a collection of letters—unbound by chronology, unburdened by explanation.

Eila’s third volume was a whisper across time. She did not write it for posterity. She wrote it for intimacy. For the moments that history forgets. For the people who never made it into the myths. For the questions that never found answers.
Each letter was a fragment of her soul. Some were folded neatly, sealed with wax bearing the mark of Atlas. Others were torn at the edges, written in haste, in grief, in longing. Some were never sent. Some were never meant to be.

The room was quiet, but not empty.

It was the kind of quiet that held breath, that honored endings and beginnings alike. The kind of quiet that lived in libraries older than language, in shelves carved from petrified dreams, in the dust that settled only when stories were complete.

Eila stood before the shelf, her fingers grazing the spines of the three volumes. Daughter of Atlas. The Quiet Century. And the untitled third—her letters, her release, her reckoning.

She placed them gently, one by one, into their resting place. Not hidden. Not displayed. Simply there. Where they belonged.

Behind her, a soft voice spoke.

“You finished them.”

Eila turned.

Lucienne stood in the doorway, hands folded, eyes warm with knowing. She did not smile—not yet—but her presence was a kind of smile in itself. She had watched Eila for centuries. Not as a warden, but as a witness. She had seen the drafts, the discarded pages, the ink-stained nights. She had waited.

Eila nodded. “I did.”

Lucienne stepped forward, her gaze lingering on the untitled volume. “The letters,” she said softly. “They’re exquisite.”

“They’re honest,” Eila replied. “That’s all I could manage.”

Lucienne reached out, touching the edge of the third book with reverence. “Honesty is rarer than immortality.”

There was a pause. Then Lucienne looked at Eila—not as a librarian, not as a guardian, but as a friend. “May I catalogue them?”

Eila hesitated. “They’re not for the shelves.”

Lucienne paused, her hand hovering just above the untitled volume. The air around them was thick with memory—like the room itself was holding its breath. Light filtered in through high, arched windows, golden and dust-laced, illuminating motes that drifted like forgotten thoughts. The scent of old parchment and lavender lingered, soft and grounding.

The shelf was carved from olivewood, veined with silver, humming faintly with the quiet resonance of stories long settled. It stood alone in the centre of the chamber—not part of the grand archives, not catalogued, not numbered. A shelf for things that did not belong anywhere else.

Lucienne lowered her hand.

“I understand,” she said, and her voice was not just respectful—it was reverent. She stepped back, allowing the volumes to rest undisturbed. Around them, the library seemed to lean in, as if listening. The walls, lined with tomes from every age and realm, did not intrude. They simply bore witness.

Eila exhaled slowly, her fingers still resting on the spine of the third book.

“They’re not meant to be read,” she said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Lucienne didn’t respond immediately. The silence that followed was not empty—it was full. Full of understanding, full of the weight of words unsaid. A silence that respected the sanctity of unfinished truths. The library around them seemed to shift in response. The golden light dimmed slightly, as if the room itself bowed to Eila’s uncertainty. Shelves that had stood for millennia leaned inward, not intrusively, but curiously—like old friends listening from afar.

Eila’s hand lingered on the spine of the third volume, her fingers tracing the grain of the leather. It was soft, worn, and warm—like something alive. The book pulsed faintly, not with magic, but with memory. It held her confessions, her regrets, her love. It held everything she had never said aloud.

The book pulsed faintly, not with magic, but with memory. It held her confessions, her regrets, her love. It held everything she had never said aloud.

Eila’s voice broke the hush, barely more than breath. “I would have liked him to read it,” she said.

Lucienne turned, gently.

Eila didn’t meet her gaze. Her fingers remained on the spine of the untitled volume, tracing the edge as if it might speak for her. “Oneiros,” she said, finally.

“I wrote it with him in mind. Not for him. But… with him in the corners of every page.” The admission hung in the air like incense—fragile, fragrant, fading.
“I don’t think he wants to,” she added, quieter still. “I don’t think he wants to know me that way.”

Lucienne stepped closer, her expression unreadable but kind. “He reads more than he lets on.”

"Not this. He made it abundantly clear that he has no intention of reading my words."

"I think you should at least give his lordship chance to, Lady Eila."

"Perhaps."

1689
THE DREAMING

Eila sat alone in the dining room, the only sound the soft clink of her spoon against the edge of her bowl. The room was warm, lit by the flickering light of the candles in the chandelier above, the golden light casting dancing shadows across the floor.

Dream stood silently in the doorway, watching Eila. Despite his anger towards her, he couldn't help but take note of her appearance. She was as stunning as ever, her beauty still striking a chord deep inside him. He clenched his jaw, pushing down the unwanted feelings that rose within him.

After a moment of hesitation, he pushed himself off the doorframe and walked into the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He took the seat across from hers, his gaze cool and distant.

"Oneiros," Eila said, startled, immediately dropping her fork and rising from her seat.

Dream nodded in greeting, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to get up," he said, his voice even and steady. "Please, continue with your meal." His gaze flicked to the meal in front of her, then back up at her. A muscle in his jaw ticked, the tension between them almost palpable.

Reluctantly, Eila returned to her seat, settling back into the satin cushions of the mahogany chair. "Will you join me?"

Dream considered her question, his gaze remaining on her face for several seconds. Part of him wanted to decline, to maintain the distance between them, but another part - a part he refused to acknowledge - longed for her company. Finally, he let out a short sigh and said, "Very well."

He took his seat across from her, his movements stiff and controlled. There was a brief moment of silence, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dream cleared his throat and spoke, his voice sharp and business-like. "I need to speak with you," he said, cutting straight to the point. His gaze met hers, his expression cool and detached. He tried to ignore the way his heart hammered in his chest at the proximity of her, the familiar scent of her skin and hair that enveloped him like a blanket.

"Then speak," Eila replied.

Dream took a moment to collect his thoughts, his gaze never leaving her face. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the sound filling the silence. "I've been thinking," he said, speaking slowly and carefully. "About the way things are between us." He let the words hang in the air, his gaze searching her face for any sign of a reaction. His hands clenched into tight fists underneath the table, the muscles in his jaw working as he waited for her response.

Eila tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "And what, pray tell, have you been thinking?" She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, her gaze never leaving his. She could sense the tension in him, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes darkened. Despite everything, the tension made her heart beat faster - but she would be damned if she let him know that.

Dream clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing at her nonchalant tone. He could practically feel her gaze, the way it seemed to strip away his defences. He wanted to be angry, to let the frustration and anger from the last century flare up again, but the way she looked, so calm and collected, made him feel almost... disarmed. "I've been thinking that this... tension between us has gone on for far too long," he said, choosing his words carefully. "We cannot continue like this, at each other's throats every time we're alone in a room together."

"I agree."

Dream raised an eyebrow at her quick agreement, taken off guard by her immediate response. He had expected more of an argument, more of a fight. But he pushed the surprise aside and continued, his voice still carefully controlled. "Then perhaps it is time we work towards mending this... rift between us," he said, his gaze flickering over her face, trying to decipher her expression.

Eila nodded, a soft hum of agreement escaping her. She could see the surprise in his eyes at her lack of resistance, but she kept her own expression schooled. She was tired of fighting, tired of the tension. Perhaps he was right, perhaps it was time to try and bridge the gap between them. But she would not make it easy for him, not after everything that had been said and done. "And how do you suggest we do that?" she asked, her voice calm and measured.

Dream paused, his mind racing as he considered her question. Part of him wanted to blurt out the first thing that came to his mind, to say something that would wipe the calm and collected look off her face, but he stopped himself. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, "Perhaps we could... try to have a normal conversation. Without the arguing, the tension, the animosity." He looked at her, waiting for her response. He hated the way his heart thumped in his chest, the way the sight of her still affected him so deeply.

Eila tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. She couldn't deny that a part of her was intrigued by his suggestion, but she remained cautious. She had been down this road before, believing in his promises only to be disappointed. But still... she wanted to believe him, even if it was foolish. "A normal conversation, you say?" She raised an eyebrow, a hint of a playful challenge in her voice. "And what would that entail, exactly? Small talk about the weather?"

Dream almost rolled his eyes at her sarcastic response, but he couldn't help a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was so used to their fights, their heated arguments, that this little bit of banter, as sarcastic as it was, was somewhat... refreshing. He let out a soft huff. "No, not small talk," he said. "I was thinking we could try something a bit more substantial than the weather, unless you're particularly interested in a discussion on current cloud formations."

Eila chuckled softly, her lips curving into a smirk. Despite her best efforts to keep her guard up, she couldn't help but be amused by his comment. She had missed this, the way they could trade quips and sharp remarks, the way they pushed each other's buttons. "Oh, but who can resist a stimulating conversation on the weather?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How about we discuss the latest fashions instead? Or perhaps the price of wheat in Egypt? I hear it's fascinating."

"Fine, no discussions on the weather or commodity prices," he said, his tone lighter than he intended. "But honestly, fashion? I cannot think of a more dreadfully dull topic of conversation."

"Dreadfully dull? Fashion is an art form, Oneiros. A form of communication, a declaration of personality and taste. But I can see why you would find it dull. I doubt you know the first thing about fashion."

Dream rolled his eyes again, more out of amusement than annoyance this time. He glanced down at his clothes, then back up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, please. Just because I do not dress like a walking piece of artwork, with the latest trends and the finest fabrics, does not mean I do not know fashion. My attire is perfectly functional and practical."

"Functional and practical?" Eila repeated, her smirk growing wider. "You must mean dull and monotonous, then." She couldn't help but tease him, enjoying the way he rolled his eyes at her goading. She found herself leaning forward in her chair, tilting her head as she examined his outfit. "Black. As always. How... original."

Dreams lips twitched, holding back an exasperated sigh. He knew she was trying to rile him up, and damn it, it was working. He looked down at his attire, his usual black tunic and cloak. "I happen to like black, thank you very much," he said, his voice slightly defensive. "It's timeless, elegant, and practical. Not everybody needs to look like a peacock, you know."

"Rude."

Dream let out a soft huff, his eyes narrowing. He crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. "I'm just stating the facts," he said, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You, on the other hand, seem to enjoy dressing like a walking rainbow."

"I simply enjoy colour."

Dream's eyebrow raised at her response, his gaze flicking over her outfit. She was wearing a deep scarlet gown with golden embellishments, the fabric shimmering under the flickering candlelight. "Enjoy is a bit of an understatement," he said, his voice dry. "I think you have an obsession with colour at this point."

Eila sighed. "I'd like to tell you something."

Dream paused, his expression becoming serious. Despite their banter, he could sense the seriousness in her tone. He nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. "Go on," he said, his voice low and steady.

"I don't know if you are aware, but...I've been writing again. I took it back up around two centuries ago...actually, it was two centuries ago today when Lucienne convinced me to pick it back up, and I finished my work."

Dream's expression softened as he watched her speak. He was acutely aware of her writing, having secretly watched her from afar as she poured her heart and soul into her work. He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, I'm aware," he said, his voice quiet. "Lucienne mentioned it to me some time ago."

He wanted to say more, to tell her how proud he was of her, how he had silently cheered her on from the shadows as she wrote. But he held back, his emotions carefully hidden behind a mask of indifference. "So... you finished it, then?" he said instead, shifting in his seat. "Must have been quite the accomplishment."

"I was hoping you might consider reading it."

"I'm afraid I'm incredibly busy as of late," he said, unable to stop the regretful tone from seeping into his words. "But... if it means that much to you, I will read it as soon as my workload eases."

"Really?"

Dream nodded, unable to ignore the flash of excitement in her eyes. Something about her eagerness, her hope, struck something deep within him. "Yes, really," he said, his voice firm and sincere. "I'll read it as soon as my responsibilities allow. I promise."

"Thank you, Oneiros. Truly."

1789
ENGLAND

The White Horse Tavern wore its age like a powdered wig—cracked, yellowed, and faintly perfumed with spilled claret and secrets. Its timber frame leaned slightly, as if eavesdropping on the conversations within. The sign above the door—a white stallion mid-prance—had been repainted by a drunk journeyman last Michaelmas, and now looked more like a ghost than a horse.

Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the perfume of cheap rosewater. The tavern was dim, lit by tallow candles that sputtered in iron sconces, casting long shadows that danced like gossip. The floor was strewn with rushes, though they did little to mask the scent of damp wool, spilled ale, and the faint metallic tang of blood—old, dried, and unspoken of. At the long central table sat a clutch of gentlemen—landowners, barristers, and minor aristocrats—draped in velvet coats, their cravats starched and their wigs powdered to perfection. They spoke in low tones, voices clipped and conspiratorial.

“Have you seen the latest from Westminster?” one murmured, tapping ash from his pipe into a pewter dish. “They mean to tighten the Poor Laws again. As if hunger were a moral failing.” Another, younger and more flushed with claret than conviction, scoffed. “Let them tighten. The rabble needs discipline. The French have lost their heads—literally.”

A third, older and quieter, fingered the edge of his wine glass. “And yet, I wonder if we aren’t next. The mills grow louder than the church bells these days.”

In the corner, a pair of barmaids—skirts hitched slightly above regulation—whispered behind the counter. One wore a bodice that had seen better days, the other a ribbon in her hair that had once been blue. They watched the room with practiced eyes, reading the men like ledgers. Near the hearth, a prostitute lounged with calculated ease, her gown a faded crimson, her décolletage a battlefield of rouge and fading bruises. She toyed with a gentleman’s watch chain, her laughter like broken glass wrapped in silk.

She laughed again, low and deliberate, the sound curling through the tavern like pipe smoke. Her fingers, adorned with chipped enamel rings, traced lazy circles on the gentleman’s sleeve. He was a magistrate, or claimed to be—his powdered wig slightly askew, his waistcoat embroidered with the faded crest of a family that had long since traded honor for holdings. He smiled, but his eyes flicked nervously toward the corner where two men in drab coats were speaking in hushed tones, their voices thick with dissent.

The tavern pulsed with tension, like a boiler just shy of bursting. Conversations overlapped—some mundane, some dangerous. A pair of clerks from the local assizes debated the legality of enclosing common land, their voices sharp with Latin and self-interest. A coal merchant, his face blackened and his hands raw, muttered about the new excise duties, comparing the Chancellor to a leech with a ledger.

Near the back wall, beneath a crooked portrait of King George III, a group of younger men huddled around a pamphlet printed in London. Its title—The Rights of Man—was half-concealed beneath a tankard, but the words had already ignited something. One of them, a printer’s apprentice with ink-stained cuffs, spoke with the fervour of someone who’d glimpsed a future not yet written. “The French have torn down their Bastille,” he whispered, “and we still bow to men who think birth is virtue.”

A barmaid passed by, balancing a tray of pewter mugs. Her bodice strained against the weight of the evening, and her eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the room like a surveyor marking fault lines. She paused near the fire, where an old soldier sat nursing a gin and a memory. His red coat was faded to rust, and his left leg ended in a polished wooden peg. He stared into the flames as if they might offer absolution. The tavern itself groaned with age. The beams overhead were blackened with centuries of smoke, and the walls bore the scars of fists, knives, and time. A brass clock ticked above the bar, its hands moving with the slow inevitability of empire. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, carrying with it the scent of coal fires and distant unrest.

And still, the fiddler played—his tune now a reel, faster, sharper. It cut through the room like a loom’s shuttle, weaving together silk and soot, lace and leather, privilege and poverty. The White Horse was no longer just a tavern. It was a crucible. A stage. A pressure valve for a nation on the cusp.

The fiddler’s reel twisted upward, faster now, as if trying to outrun the century. His bow danced like a loom shuttle, stitching together the room’s disparate threads—lace and soot, law and lust, revolution and routine. The magistrate had begun to slur his Latin, and the prostitute leaned closer, her breath warm with gin and something older, more practiced. She whispered something into his ear that made him flinch, then laugh, then reach for his coin purse with trembling fingers.

At the far end of the bar, a man in a navy coat with brass buttons sat alone, his boots polished to a mirror shine. A naval officer, perhaps—though his eyes had the hollow look of someone who’d seen too much of empire’s underbelly. He sipped his brandy slowly, watching the room like a man reading a battlefield. His hand rested on a folded letter, wax seal broken, edges frayed. The ink had bled slightly, but one word remained clear: Portsmouth.

The barmaids moved like clockwork—efficient, unsmiling, their hands quick and their eyes quicker. One paused to adjust the lace at her sleeve, revealing a bruise in the shape of a thumb. She caught the eye of the printer’s apprentice and gave the faintest nod. He slipped the pamphlet deeper into his coat, his fingers brushing against a hidden sheaf of blank paper—ready for the next tirade.

Near the fireplace, the old soldier stirred. The flames had shifted, casting flickering shapes that danced like memories. He blinked slowly, then reached into his coat and pulled out a tarnished medal. It caught the firelight for a moment—then disappeared back into the folds of wool. He turned to the barmaid beside him and said, “I saw a man hanged for stealing bread. In Kent. He was fourteen.” She didn’t reply. She just poured him another gin.

The tavern door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant smoke. A new figure entered—tall, cloaked, face obscured by shadow and rain. The room paused, just for a breath. Then the fiddler resumed, slower now, the tune shifting into a minor key. The stranger moved to the corner, where the man with the leather-bound book still wrote, his quill scratching like a rat in the walls. Outside, the church bell tolled nine. Inside, the White Horse breathed in the hour and exhaled something darker. The conversations grew quieter, more pointed. A barrister whispered about the new Treason Trials. A merchant cursed the East India Company under his breath. A girl no older than sixteen offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And above it all, the tavern groaned—its beams heavy with history, its walls steeped in secrets. The fire crackled. The fiddler played. And somewhere, beneath the floorboards, the century turned.

They arrive not together, but in tandem, as if fate had choreographed their entrances to avoid suspicion. Hob first—boots muddied from the road, his coat a deep bottle green, worn but tailored. He carries himself like a man who’s seen centuries and learned to laugh at most of them. His hair is tied back with a leather cord, and his eyes scan the room with the ease of someone who’s drunk in every kind of tavern from plague-ridden alehouses to Restoration salons. He orders a pint of porter and leans against the bar, nodding to the barmaid with a smile that’s half flirtation, half familiarity. She doesn’t know him, but she feels as though she should. Hob has that effect—like a memory you can’t quite place.
Dream enters moments later, and the tavern dims. Not literally, but perceptibly.

His coat is black, cut in a style that defies the era—neither Georgian nor foreign, but something older, more elemental. His hair falls like ink over his shoulders, untouched by powder or fashion. No one sees him come in, not really. They just become aware of him, like a shadow cast by a thought. He takes no drink. He sits in the farthest corner, where the candlelight barely reaches, and watches. Hob joins him with the ease of ritual, sliding into the seat across from him, the tankard in his hand already half-empty.

“You picked a lively year,” Hob says, gesturing toward the room. “France is bleeding. England’s bracing. Even the whores are quoting Rousseau.”

Dream’s gaze flicks toward the fiddler, whose tune has shifted again—now something mournful, almost funereal. “The world turns,” he says, voice low and resonant. “It always does.”

They speak in tones that don’t quite match the century. Hob’s words are earthy, tinged with the slang of sailors and smugglers. Dream’s are precise, like poetry etched into marble. Around them, the tavern continues—barmaids laugh, laws are cursed, secrets are traded—but none dare interrupt the quiet gravity of their table.

A pamphlet flutters to the floor nearby. Hob picks it up, glances at the title—The Rights of Man—and smirks. “Tom Paine’s got fire, I’ll give him that. But he’s young. He still thinks history listens.”

Dream’s eyes narrow. “History listens. It simply does not care.”

“You ever think,” he says, “that immortality’s just a long walk through the same tavern, over and over?” Dream doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The tavern’s fire had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like ghosts across the warped floorboards. The fiddler had packed away his bow, and the barmaids now leaned against the counter, their laughter quieter, more brittle. Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters like a beggar with secrets. At the corner table, Hob Gadling leaned back in his chair, one boot propped on the rung, tankard cradled in his hand like a relic. His cheeks were flushed with drink and amusement, and his voice carried just enough to draw curious glances from nearby tables.

“You’ll love this,” he said, grinning at Dream across the candlelit gloom. “Went to see King Lear yesterday. Local troupe, decent costumes, terrible diction. But the real crime? They gave it a happy ending. Cordelia lives. Lear forgives everyone. They all walk off arm in arm like it’s a bloody harvest festival.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Shakespeare’s overrated anyway. Half his plots are nicked from older tales, and the rest are just men in tights shouting about fate.”

Dream’s gaze was steady, his face carved from shadow and stillness. He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile. But the candlelight caught the edge of his cheekbone like moonlight on obsidian.

“The great stories,” he said softly, “always revert to their true forms. You may dress tragedy in lace and laughter, but it will rot through the costume in time. Lear must lose. Cordelia must die. That is the shape of the tale.”

Hob snorted, swirling the last of his porter. “You sound like a bloody funeral bell. Can’t a man hope for a little joy now and then?”

Dream tilted his head, the faintest echo of something ancient in his eyes. “Hope is the ember. But story is the flame.”

A silence settled between them—not awkward, but reverent. Around them, the tavern continued its slow descent into midnight. The magistrate had passed out, his wig askew and his hand still clutching the prostitute’s wrist. The barmaids whispered about a girl who’d vanished from the poorhouse. The fiddler, now seated near the hearth, hummed a tune that sounded like mourning dressed in velvet.

Hob leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower now. “You know, I remember seeing Lear in 1606. Globe Theatre. Rain had soaked the boards, and the crowd was half drunk and half divine. The actor playing Lear—old bastard, voice like gravel—he wept so hard in the final scene, the pit went silent. Not a cough. Not a whisper. Just the sound of a kingdom breaking.”

Dream’s eyes flicked toward the fire. “That was Burbage.”

Hob blinked. “You remember?”

“I remember all of them.”

The candle between them had burned low, its wax pooling like melted time. The tavern was quieter now—just the occasional clink of pewter, the soft murmur of a barmaid’s lullaby to a drunkard too far gone to find his way home. Smoke hung in the air like memory, and the fire in the hearth had settled into a slow, thoughtful crackle. Hob leaned forward, elbows on the scarred oak table, his grin crooked and conspiratorial. He swirled the last of his porter and gave Dream a look that was half jest, half genuine curiosity.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask. That meeting with Shakespeare—Stratford lad, bit of a hack before you two crossed paths. Then suddenly he’s writing like he’s got the tongues of angels and the nightmares of kings. Did you make a deal with him?”

Dream didn’t blink. His gaze was steady, ancient, and utterly unreadable. The shadows around him seemed to lean in, as if they too were waiting for the answer.

Hob chuckled. “Come on. Before you, he was all pastoral fluff and borrowed plots. After? He’s endless. Quoted in every century, taught in every school, performed in every tavern and palace. Even the whores know To be or not to be.”

Dream’s voice, when it came, was quiet but resonant—like wind through cathedral stone.

“Will was... hungry,” he said. “Not for coin, not for fame. For meaning. He wanted his words to outlive him. He wanted to speak to kings and beggars, to lovers and tyrants, to the unborn and the long-dead.”

Hob raised an eyebrow. “So you gave him that?”

“I gave him nothing he did not already possess,” Dream replied. “But I showed him the shape of story. The bones beneath the flesh. The truth that all tales—no matter how gilded—bleed.”

Hob leaned back, thoughtful now. “And he bled plenty. Lear. Hamlet. Macbeth. All ghosts and grief and gods playing dice.”

Dream’s eyes flicked toward the hearth. “The great stories always find their true form. You may dress them in comedy, in romance, in hope. But they will return to the shape they were meant to wear. Tragedy is the spine of myth.”

Hob snorted. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

Dream allowed the faintest curve of his lips—something that might have been a smile, or the memory of one.

The candle hissed as it reached its final inch, casting a wavering halo over the table’s worn grain. The tavern had quieted to a hush, the kind that settles when even the ghosts lean in to listen. Hob Gadling, eyes reflecting the firelight, leaned forward, voice low and steady, touched with something ancient and aching. “Four hundred years now I’ve been meeting you here, and there's still so much I don't know... Who are you truly? What manner of man are you? What is your name?”

The tavern door creaked open once more, not with the gust of wind that had marked the cloaked stranger’s arrival, but with a hush—like velvet drawn across stone. Heads turned, subtly at first, then more boldly, as if the room itself recognized something out of place, or perhaps too perfectly placed.

She stepped in from the night, framed by the flickering lantern light. Her figure was slight, almost spectral, but her presence was undeniable. A cascade of dark curls fell over her shoulders, glinting like ink in candlelight. Her gown was deep burgundy, cut in the fashion of the court but tailored for movement, not ceremony. A silver clasp at her throat shimmered with a design too old to be merely decorative.

She moved through the tavern with the grace of someone who had never been told to hurry. The barmaids instinctively stepped aside. The fiddler paused mid-tune. Even the fire seemed to lean toward her, curious. At the corner table, Hob straightened, his grin faltering into something more reverent. Dream did not move, but the shadows around him shifted, as if making room.

She stopped beside them, one gloved hand resting lightly on the back of Hob’s chair. Her voice, when it came, was clear and measured, each syllable wrapped in silk and steel. “I might ask you both the same question, gentlemen.”

"Please, do not trouble yourselves to rise."

The woman’s gaze swept the room like a blade in velvet—slow, deliberate, and unflinching. Her eyes, dark as stormwater, settled on Hob first, then Dream, and finally drifted toward the flickering hearth as if weighing the shadows themselves. She tilted her chin, the candlelight catching the silver clasp at her throat, and then—with the faintest curl of her lips—she gestured to the two men who had entered behind her.

They were broad-shouldered and silent, standing just inside the doorway like statues carved from salt and smoke. One wore a coat that had once been navy, now faded to the colour of bruises. The other had a scar that split his lip and never quite healed. Both carried the kind of stillness that suggested violence wasn’t a possibility—it was a profession. “There are Michael and Tobias,” she said, her voice smooth and aristocratic, but with an edge honed on darker things. “Smugglers by trade, although, with an eye to their fortunes, they’re only too glad to augment their earnings by slitting throats for hire.”

She let the words settle, like ash on snow. “If you move, they’ll slit yours.”

Hob straightened in his chair, the worn wood creaking beneath him as he set his tankard down with deliberate care. His eyes, sharp and steady, met hers—not with hostility, but with the kind of wary respect reserved for someone who’d clearly walked through fire and come out with embers still smouldering.

“I do not believe I have had the honour of your acquaintance, madame,” he said, his voice low and measured, like a man choosing each word as if it might be his last. There was no mockery in his tone, but something old and guarded lingered beneath it—an instinct honed over centuries, whispering that this was no ordinary encounter. He offered a faint, almost courtly nod, though his fingers remained curled around the edge of the table, ready. “Though I suspect I’m about to be reminded.”

Tobias stepped forward, his boots thudding against the floor like punctuation marks in a threat. His voice was gravel and gall, spat from a mouth that had likely never known mercy. “You don’t speak till milady says as such, whoreson,” he growled, one hand resting on the hilt of a blade that looked like it had tasted more than soup.

Hob didn’t flinch. He turned his head slightly, the candlelight catching the edge of his jaw, and gave Tobias a look that was neither defiant nor afraid—just tired, perhaps, of being mistaken for someone who hadn’t earned his scars. But before the tension could snap, the woman raised a hand, fingers adorned with rings that whispered of old debts and older curses.

“Nay,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like silk drawn over steel. “Let them talk, good Toby.” She stepped closer to the fire, its glow painting her face in flickers of gold and shadow. Her eyes never left Hob’s. “They tell of a tale in these London parts,” she continued, her tone now almost conversational, as if recounting gossip over tea, “that the Devil and the Wandering Jew meet once in every century in a tavern.”

Dream’s gaze sharpened, though he remained silent.

“Two years past,” she said, drawing a folded scrap of parchment from her coat, “sewn in the shirt of a dead man, I found me a nice description of their last meeting. This inn was named. Likewise, this day.” She let the paper fall to the table, its edges singed, its ink faded but legible.

"For two years, sirs, I have planned our present rendezvous. Well? Have you nothing to say?"

The fire snapped in the grate, casting long shadows across the warped floorboards. Hob leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression was unreadable—neither contrite nor combative, but something quieter. Reflective. He glanced at Dream, who remained still as marble, his eyes fixed on the woman with the kind of attention that could peel back centuries. Hob exhaled slowly, the breath curling like smoke in the tavern’s thick air. “Well,” he said at last, his voice low and roughened by time, “I’ll grant you this much, madame—you’ve a flair for entrances.”

He straightened, the chair groaning beneath him, and reached for his tankard—not to drink, but to turn it slowly in his hands, as if the motion might stir memory from the depths. “I’ve met many who’ve claimed to know me,” he continued, gaze steady, “and more still who’ve sought me out with old grudges and older stories. But few have come with such precision. Two years, you say? That’s a long time to nurse a wound.” He set the tankard down with a soft thud. "But I am no jew."

"And I am no devil," Dream spoke, his voice quiet, deliberate, and final.

"Fie! What manner of creatures are you, then?" Lady Johanna demanded, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of something between awe and suspicion.

"Who wants to know?" Hob asked, leaning back slightly, his tone casual but edged with curiosity.

"I am Lady Johanna Constantine."

"I knew a Jack Constantine once," Hob said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Cunning man. Got himself killed before you were born. Long time ago, now."

She stepped forward, her coat sweeping behind her like a shadow with purpose. "You will follow me, sirs. My coach waits without. I see there is much you both can tell me. So much I can learn..."

"No," Dream said, his gaze steady. "No, I think not."

Dream moved without haste, as if time itself bent to accommodate his will. From the folds of his cloak, he drew a pinch of sand—pale as moonlight, fine as ground bone. It shimmered faintly in the firelight, whispering of sleep and sorrow. He raised his hand, and with a breath that seemed to silence the wind, he blew the sand toward Lady Johanna. It struck her eyes like a veil of frost.

She gasped, staggered, and dropped to her knees as if the weight of centuries had suddenly found her spine. Her pupils glazed over with a milky sheen, a white cloud blooming across her vision like agony made visible. Her hands clawed at the air, reaching for something unseen, something unbearable. And then the ghosts came. Not in form, but in memory—faces she had buried, voices she had silenced, regrets she had dressed in pride. They danced behind her eyes, relentless and intimate. A child’s cry. A lover’s curse. A promise broken beneath a blood-red moon.

She did not scream. She simply knelt, trembling, as the past made its claim. Dream watched, impassive, as the sand did its work. Not cruel. Not kind. Merely inevitable.

"No...not thou...thou'rt gone...ah...I durst not look at thee..." she whispered, clutching at the air as if it might shield her from the visions clawing through her mind. Her eyes, glazed with Dream’s sand, stared into a realm no one else could see—haunted, hollow, and full of grief.

Hob stepped forward, his voice taut with alarm. "What did you do to her?"

Dream did not turn. His gaze remained fixed on Johanna, who now knelt as if the weight of memory had broken her spine. "She has old ghosts, that I have shown to her." he said, his tone neither cruel nor kind, but distant—like wind speaking through stone. "Her kind walk amidst the fotsam of lives they have sacrificed, for their own purposes, till friendless and alone they needs must make the final sacrifice."

The fire dimmed, as if mourning. Johanna trembled, lips moving in silent dialogue with the dead. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—though no church stood nearby.

"Yeah. Jack was like that, too," Hob said, his voice low, touched with memory. "Died in a churchyard in Essex. Nasty business. I was with him, but the nightwalkers let me be—though they left precious little of him." He paused, eyes distant. "I had nightmares about that night for ten years after..."

He reached for his tankard, turning it absently in his hands. "He came to me for knowledge, same as you. Back in Queen Bess’s day. But he was a great deal more civil about asking for it. Bought me a drink first, for a start."

There was a beat of silence.

"Robert Gadling?" came the voice—quiet, precise.

"Yes?"

"It is a poor thing to enslave another," Dream said, his gaze unwavering. "I would suggest you find yourself a different line of business.

1789
THE DREAMING

The gallery in The Dreaming was not built by hands, but by longing. It rose from the hush between heartbeats, a sanctum of starlight and memory, suspended in a realm where time curled inward like smoke. Its walls breathed with myth, its air perfumed with the scent of forgotten lullabies and the hush of ancient winds. Every step echoed like a whisper across obsidian floors that shimmered with constellations—each tile a fragment of night, each gleam a story waiting to be remembered.

And then, the wall.

A single, endless canvas unfurled across the western face of the gallery, like the veil of heaven drawn taut. It pulsed with celestial rhythm, painted not with pigment but with the essence of dream and divine sorrow. The Pleiades stood there—not as stars, but as mothers, mourners, muses—each sister a stanza in a cosmic hymn.

Maia, the eldest, was painted in the hues of dusk—deep violet and the soft gold of fading light. She stood with the quiet dignity of someone who had long since stopped needing to explain herself. Her interests were solitary: she loved the stillness of caves, the whisper of moss beneath bare feet, the way silence could cradle thought. She had little patience for ceremony, preferring the company of her own mind and the occasional clever child. Hermes, her son, was her exception—his laughter stirred something in her that even the stars could not reach.

Electra was a storm held in human shape. Her canvas shimmered with the sharp blue of lightning and the copper of scorched earth. She was passionate, volatile, and fiercely loyal. She adored dance—wild, unstructured movement that mirrored her inner chaos. She had a fondness for old songs sung in languages no longer spoken, and she believed that grief should be worn openly, like a crown. Her sons, Dardanus and Iasion, were her pride and her sorrow, and she never forgave the world for what it took from them.

Taygete stood half-turned, as if caught mid-flight. Her palette was mountain mist and the pale green of alpine meadows. She was a lover of heights, of solitude, of the kind of silence that only exists above the tree line. She collected feathers and fragments of forgotten prayers, and she believed that gods should be feared, not loved. Her son, Lacedaemon, was a monument to her resistance—a kingdom carved from her refusal.

Alcyone was the sea given voice. Her canvas rolled with indigo tides and the shimmer of moonlight on water. She was sensual, intuitive, and endlessly curious. She adored storytelling, especially tales told by sailors and madmen. Her laughter was tidal, rising and falling with the moon. She had many children, each born of different moods and tempests, and she loved them all with the same fierce, salt-soaked devotion. Her favorite pastime was listening to conch shells, claiming they whispered secrets from the deep.

Celaeno was the storm before the rain. Her colors were charcoal and the bruised blue of thunderclouds. She was quiet, intense, and often misunderstood. She loved riddles, especially those with no answers, and she kept journals filled with half-finished thoughts and cryptic sketches. Her children—Lycus, Nycteus, Eurypylus, and Euphemus—were drawn to her gravity, though she rarely spoke of them. She believed that truth was a shadow, and that only in darkness could one see clearly.

Sterope burned like a forge. Her canvas glowed with bronze and the deep red of embers. She was a warrior in spirit, though she rarely raised her voice. She loved the discipline of craft—metalwork, archery, anything that required precision and control. She had a deep respect for Ares, not for his violence, but for his clarity. Her son, Oenomaus, was her legacy, and she taught him that strength without wisdom was merely noise.

Merope was the dimmest star, but her canvas held the richest earth tones—ochre, ash, and the soft brown of worn leather. She was humble, introspective, and deeply empathetic. She loved stories of redemption, of flawed heroes who found grace. She tended gardens in the quiet corners of The Dreaming, and she believed that even the cursed deserved love. Her marriage to Sisyphus was a wound she carried gently, and her son Glaucus was her hope that cycles could be broken.

And then, at the far end of the canvas, stood Eila.

Eila stood at the far edge of the canvas, where the veil between myth and memory thinned to a breath. She was not painted in soft celestial tones like her sisters, but in fire and shadow—her presence a rupture in the quiet procession of stars. Her hair was a tempest of auburn, wild and unyielding, cascading like molten copper down her back and across her shoulders, as if the sun itself had chosen her as its emissary. It moved even when she stood still, stirred by winds that did not touch the mortal world. Her eyes were darker than the void between stars—deep, obsidian wells that saw not only the surface of souls, but the sediment beneath, the ancient griefs buried in Tartarian depths. To meet her gaze was to feel the weight of forgotten sins and the echo of truths too old to name.

She was not merely a sister of the Pleiades. She was the oracle of Dodona, the voice beneath the rustling leaves of Zeus’s sacred oak. Her words came not from thought, but from the marrow of the world. She spoke in riddles that unravelled kingdoms, in whispers that bent the course of empires. Pilgrims came to her not for comfort, but for clarity, and left changed—some enlightened, some broken, all marked.

Unlike her sisters, Eila did not bear her child from the thunderous embrace of Olympian gods. Her lover was Oneiros, the eldest of The Endless, the sovereign of dreams. Their union was not forged in lust or conquest, but in quiet convergence—when sleep folded into prophecy, and the future became a dream remembered backward.

From that union came Asteria.

Asteria was born beneath a sky that had never been seen, in a moment that existed outside of time. She was starlight wrapped in dreamstuff, a child of vision and velvet night. Eila raised her not with rules, but with riddles, teaching her to read the folds of sleep and the tremble of stars. Asteria wandered between realms, a whisper in the minds of poets and madmen, a flicker in the eyes of those who dared to dream too deeply.

Eila remained in The Dreaming, her canvas untouched by age, her fire undimmed. She watched, always, with those fathomless eyes—seeing not what was, but what trembled beneath. And though she spoke rarely, when she did, the gallery itself seemed to lean in, listening. For Eila was not merely a star. She was the ember of prophecy, the mother of dream, the eye that saw the soul’s shadow—and remembered its name.

The gallery was quiet, steeped in the kind of hush that only exists in places built from memory. Light filtered in through unseen sources, soft and golden, casting long shadows across the obsidian floor. The canvas stretched across the western wall like a living tapestry—its colors deep, its figures luminous, its presence undeniable.

Lucienne stepped forward, her boots making no sound against the polished stone. Her eyes, sharp and thoughtful, scanned the painting with reverence and curiosity.

“I do not recall seeing this canvas before,” she said, her voice low, as if afraid to disturb the air.

Eila stood beside her, arms folded loosely, her auburn hair a cascade of flame against the cool tones of the gallery. Her gaze lingered on the canvas with a quiet pride, the kind that blooms only from deep affection.

“It is new,” she replied. “A gift from Asteria for my nameday.”

Lucienne tilted her head, studying the brushwork, the movement, the emotion captured in every stroke. “It is exquisite.”

Eila’s lips curled into a wry smile. “An improvement from the paintings she had been producing a few centuries ago, that is certain.”

Lucienne chuckled softly, the sound like the rustle of parchment. “Well, a blank canvas may have also been an improvement, but do not let Lady Asteria know I said that.”

“Your opinion remains in my confidence, Lucienne,” Eila said, her tone dry but warm. “But yes, the canvas is exquisite.”

Lucienne stepped closer, her eyes tracing the figures—seven women, each distinct, each radiant, each stitched into the fabric of myth. “Is it your sisters?”

Eila nodded slowly. “My sisters, and myself. A reminder of where I come from, I suppose.”

She paused, her gaze distant now, as if looking beyond the canvas into something older, deeper.

“I think over time,” she continued, “we all require a reminder of our roots. When they are forgotten and neglected, we become unsteady and unplanted.”

Lucienne said nothing, but the silence between them was rich with understanding. The canvas shimmered faintly, as if stirred by breath, and the gallery held its stillness like a sacred vow.

Eila’s gaze lingered on the canvas, her dark eyes reflecting the painted starlight like twin wells of night. The fire of her auburn hair caught the ambient glow, casting flickers of copper across her shoulders as if the sun itself had woven its fingers through her locks. She stood still, yet there was a quiet storm in her presence—something ancient and unspoken, like the hush before a prophecy.

“They are stars now,” she said, her voice low and resonant, as if speaking not to Lucienne but to the memory of the sky itself. “Each of them bright in the heavens. This”—she gestured gently toward the canvas, where her sisters stood immortalized in dream and pigment—“was Asteria’s way of bringing them to me once more.”

Lucienne’s expression softened, her eyes tracing the figures with reverence. The painting shimmered faintly, as if stirred by breath or memory, and the gallery seemed to lean in, listening.

“It is a beautiful tribute,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eila nodded, but her gaze did not waver. She was somewhere else now—half in the gallery, half in the stars. The canvas pulsed with quiet life, each sister a note in a melody only Eila could hear. And though the room remained silent, the air was thick with presence, with lineage, with longing.

Eila’s gaze lingered on the canvas, her eyes tracing the familiar faces with a quiet intensity. The firelight in her auburn hair flickered as she turned slightly toward Lucienne, who stood beside her in reverent silence.

“I shouldn’t have a favourite,” Eila murmured, almost to herself. “It’s unbecoming of a sister. We were born together, raised in the same breath of starlight. But…” Her voice softened, curling around the edges of memory. “I do.”

Lucienne glanced at her, one brow raised, but said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt when Eila’s voice took on that tone—half confession, half invocation.

“It was Celaeno,” Eila said, her lips curving into a wistful smile. “The storm-sister. She was quiet, but never absent. She had a way of watching the world as if it were a puzzle she’d already solved but was still amused by. She loved riddles, yes, but more than that—she loved the spaces between answers. The tension. The not-knowing.”

Eila stepped closer to the canvas, her fingers brushing the air just shy of Celaeno’s painted form. The figure shimmered in charcoal and bruised blue, veiled in thunderclouds, her eyes half-lidded with thought.

“There was a night,” Eila continued, “long before the stars claimed us. We were wandering the slopes of Mount Pelion, chasing the wind like children. A storm had rolled in—wild, electric, furious. The others ran for shelter, but Celaeno stood still. She tilted her head back, let the rain soak her through, and laughed. Not a giggle, not a chuckle. A full, unrestrained laugh. She said the storm was speaking to her. That it was telling her secrets no oracle could hear.”

Lucienne’s eyes softened. “And did it?”

Eila’s smile deepened, but her gaze grew distant. “She never told me. But she changed after that. She grew quieter, more inward. She began writing in a language none of us recognized—symbols that shimmered and vanished when you tried to read them. I asked her once what they meant. She said, ‘They’re not for now.’”

The gallery seemed to lean in, the air thick with the weight of remembrance. The canvas pulsed faintly, as if Celaeno herself stirred within it.

“She was the first to drift,” Eila said. “Not in body, but in spirit. She began to walk between realms, slipping into dreams, into storms, into places even I couldn’t follow. And when she finally became a star, it was like watching a storm rise into the sky and never come down.”

Lucienne placed a hand gently on Eila’s arm. “She sounds extraordinary.”

“She was,” Eila whispered. “And she is. I see her sometimes, in the eyes of those who dream in thunder. She’s still speaking. Just not in words.”

A silence followed, not empty but full—like the pause between verses in a song too sacred to rush.

Then Eila’s expression shifted, her gaze warming as it swept across the canvas. “I loved my sisters very much,” she said, and the words came like a confession, tender and unguarded. “Each of them was a world unto herself. I suppose that’s what I miss most—not just their presence, but the peculiarities, the little things.”

She stepped closer to the painting, her fingers hovering near Maia’s image. “Maia used to hum to herself when she thought no one was listening. Not songs, really—just fragments of melody, like she was stitching the air together. It made the silence feel alive.”

Her hand drifted toward Electra. “Electra had a way of braiding her hair so tightly it looked like woven lightning. She’d redo it three times before she was satisfied, and gods help anyone who interrupted her mid-braid.”

A soft laugh escaped her lips as she looked to Taygete. “Taygete always carried a pouch of river stones. She said they helped her think. She’d press them between her fingers when she was anxious, and I swear she could tell you the name of each one.”

Alcyone’s figure shimmered in ocean tones. “Alcyone used to sing to the sea. Not for magic or ritual—just because she believed the waves deserved lullabies. She’d stand barefoot on the shore and whisper stories to the tide.”

Eila’s gaze moved to Celaeno again, lingering. “Celaeno, of course, was my storm-sister. She never said goodbye. She’d vanish like mist, and you’d find a riddle scrawled on your mirror the next morning.”

Sterope’s image glowed with bronze. “Sterope had a habit of sharpening things. Not just blades—her wit, her words, even her silences. She once told me that dullness was the enemy of truth.”

And finally, Merope. “Merope used to leave flowers in places no one would find them. Beneath stones, inside hollow trees, tucked into the pages of forgotten books. She said beauty should be a secret sometimes.”

Eila stepped back, her eyes sweeping across the wall once more. “They were brilliant. Difficult. Divine. And they were mine.”

The gallery held its breath, the canvas pulsing faintly as if stirred by memory. Lucienne said nothing, but her presence was steady, grounding. She knew that some stories were not meant to be answered—only witnessed.

Eila stood before the canvas, her silhouette framed by the soft, eternal glow of the gallery’s ambient light. The painted forms of her sisters shimmered faintly, each one suspended in a moment of myth and memory. Her eyes, dark as the void between stars, traced their faces with aching precision—Maia’s quiet strength, Electra’s fire, Taygete’s retreat, Alcyone’s tide, Celaeno’s storm, Sterope’s edge, Merope’s hush.

She could name every gesture, every glance, every habit they once carried like constellations in motion. And yet, they were gone. Not dead, not lost—just unreachable. Scattered across the sky, distant and untouchable, their voices reduced to light.

She hadn’t spoken the truth aloud in centuries. Not to Asteria. Not to Oneiros. Not even to herself.

But now, with Lucienne beside her, steady and listening, the words began to stir.

“I miss them,” Eila said, her voice low, almost reverent. “I miss them more than I ever thought I could miss anything.”

The admission hung in the air like incense—fragile, fragrant, impossible to ignore.

She didn’t look at Lucienne. Her gaze remained fixed on the canvas, on the painted memory of a life that had unraveled into starlight.

“Oneiros sees his siblings,” she continued, her voice gaining weight. “He walks among them. He speaks with them. Even when strained, even when distant, they are there. And I—” Her breath caught, not from weakness, but from the sheer force of restraint. “I would give anything to have that. An eternity with my sisters. Even if it meant arguments, silence, tension. Even if it meant pain.”

Her thoughts spilled inward, unspoken but vivid.

How could he bear it? To have them near and not reach for them. To let pride or principle wedge itself between blood and bond. She would have held her sisters close until the stars burned out. She would have memorized every word, every sigh, every silence. She would have forgiven everything, if only it meant they stayed.

“I don’t understand him,” she said aloud. “I try to. I know he carries burdens I cannot see. But I would trade every prophecy, every vision, every gift I’ve ever been given just to sit beside my sisters again. To hear Maia hum. To watch Celaeno vanish mid-sentence. To braid Electra’s hair while she cursed the gods.”

Lucienne remained quiet, her hands folded before her, her gaze steady. But inside, her thoughts stirred.

She had never heard Eila speak this way. Not with longing. Not with envy. Not with the raw ache of someone who had lived too long without what mattered most. And yet, it made sense. Eila, the oracle, the mother of dream, the keeper of memory—of course she would feel the absence more deeply than most. Her gift was to see what others forgot. And what she saw now was the shape of love, outlined by loss.

Lucienne stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “You would have made a beautiful eternity together.”

Eila’s lips curved, not into a smile, but into something quieter. Something like grief, softened by love.

“We did,” she said. “Once.”

The gallery held its breath, and the canvas shimmered—seven sisters and one who remembered.

Eila’s gaze lingered on the canvas, but her thoughts had drifted far beyond it—beyond the gallery, beyond the painted memory of her sisters, into the quiet corridors of time where her daughter’s laughter still echoed.

“She chose to offer it,” Eila said softly, her voice threaded with awe. “Teleute. Oneiros’ eldest sister. She gave Asteria the same immortality she once gave Orpheus.”

Lucienne turned slightly, her expression attentive but unreadable.

“She didn’t have to,” Eila continued. “There was no bargain, no plea. Just a moment. A gesture. A choice. And in that choice, she gave me something I never thought I’d have.”

Her eyes darkened—not with sorrow, but with depth, with the weight of gratitude too vast for words.

“I may not have eternity with my sisters,” she said. “The stars claimed them, and I remain here, watching their light from afar. But I have it with Asteria. I get to walk beside her, to watch her grow, to see her dreams unfold like petals in the dark. I get to love her without the ticking of time pressing against my ribs.”

She paused, letting the silence settle around her like a shawl.

It was a strange kind of envy, she thought. To see Oneiros, surrounded by his siblings, and yet so distant from them. To watch him retreat into solitude when she would have given anything—anything—to hold her sisters again, even for a moment. She could not understand it. She did not want to.

“She’s my miracle,” Eila said aloud. “Asteria. Born of dream and starlight. And now, untouched by death. I don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I will never take her for granted.”

Lucienne’s thoughts stirred quietly. She had seen many forms of love in The Dreaming—fierce, fleeting, fractured. But this was something else. Something rooted. Something eternal.

“She is lucky to have you,” Lucienne said gently. “And you, her.”

Eila nodded, her gaze softening. “Yes. We are each other’s forever.”

1789
THE DREAMING

The solar was quiet, high above the shifting architecture of The Dreaming, nestled in a tower that seemed to lean slightly toward the stars. Its walls were curved and warm, panelled in a wood that shimmered faintly with embedded constellations—each knot and grain a memory of some forgotten sky. The air was still, but not stagnant; it held the hush of reverence, like the pause before a sacred name is spoken.

The windows were not glass, but vast panes of woven light—nebulae flaring and folding in slow, majestic motion. They bloomed across the sky in colours that defied language: violet like bruised velvet, gold like the breath of dawn, and a blue so pure it made Eila ache. The light spilled into the room in soft pulses, casting long shadows that moved like tides. Every few moments, a flare would ripple across the window, illuminating the chamber in a brief, celestial blaze before fading into quiet again.

There were no chairs, only low cushions arranged around a table carved from dreamstone, its surface etched with symbols that shifted when not looked at directly. On the table lay three volumes—her autobiography—bound in deep indigo leather, the titles written in her own hand. They sat like offerings, or perhaps like confessions.

Eila stood near the window, her silhouette framed by the living cosmos beyond. “This room is new.”

Oneiros didn’t answer immediately. He was seated on one of the cushions, his posture as still and deliberate as the stars outside. His gaze lingered on the volumes before him, fingertips resting lightly on the cover of the third. The silence between them was not empty—it was charged, like the breath before a storm or the moment before a string is plucked.

“It is,” he said at last, voice low, shaped by thought.

Eila turned slightly, her profile catching the flare of a nebula that bloomed in gold and then folded into itself like a sigh. “You are not one for creating new rooms. This one, though, is particularly exquisite.”

He had watched her every gesture. Each shift, each glance, each flicker of her gaze across the sky; he'd observed. He did not look away, but instead, his eyes followed the starlight that illuminated her face, tracing the planes of her features. Dream's eyes flickered to her face briefly before returning to the books, his expression thoughtful. "I rarely have need of new spaces." He replied, his fingers tracing the edges of the third book, as if committing it to memory. "This... this was a whim."

Eila took a step forward, her gaze following his over the books. "Whims aren't typical of you either. What's the occasion?"

His lips curled faintly in what might have been amusement but was gone so quickly it could have been a trick of the shifting light. "Must there be an occasion for everything?" He retorted, a faint hint of challenge in his tone. Eila tilted her head, studying him. She knew him well enough to notice the subtle things: the slight tilt to his chin, the way he was avoiding her gaze, the way his shoulders were ever slightly tensed. This was more than a whim. Something was on his mind.

"With you, there most often is."

Oneiros huffed softly at her observation, then finally looked up, meeting Eila's gaze with a cool stare. He was not often caught off-guard, and it clearly annoyed him. "Perhaps," he conceded after a moment, "there is something weighing on me."

Eila leaned against the edge of the table, folding her arms over her chest. She didn't speak, simply waiting, giving him space to continue. She knew better than to push him when he was like this. He needed to come to the words in his own time.

Oneiros was silent for a long while, his eyes flicking back to the books. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the leather. Finally, he let out a sigh that was almost too soft to hear. "I have been thinking," he began, staring at the titles of the volumes but clearly seeing something else.

"Thinking." Eila repeated, her tone light but curious. She could count on one hand the number of times he had mentioned such a thing to her. "About?" She prompted, watching him closely.

Oneiros paused at her question, his gaze distant, staring through the window at the vast and ever-shifting cosmos beyond. It was like his mind was miles away, contemplating something that only he could see. "About endings," he said finally, his voice quieter, almost a whisper. "Yours, and mine."

Eila's brows furrowed, a frown crossing her features. She wasn't sure she liked where this was going. "Endings," she repeated, the word feeling strangely heavy on her tongue. "What kind of endings?"

"The inevitable kind." Oneiros replied, his gaze flickering back to her briefly. "Everything ends, Eila. Everything."

Eila was silent for a moment, absorbing his words. They sent a chill down her spine, though she couldn't say exactly why. This went beyond his usual melancholic brooding. There was something more here, something he was dancing around. “Says the Endless to the three-thousand-year-old oracle.”

Oneiros chuckled softly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Touché." He leaned back slightly, one elbow propped on the arm of the cushion, and studied her for a moment. It was one of those rare moments when he dropped his guard, letting her see past the stoic mask he normally wore.

Eila's lips curved in an answering smirk. She was no stranger to his moods and knew this was his way of conceding a point. But the shift in his expression didn't lessen the weight of their conversation. "So, you're going all existential on me now?" She teased lightly, trying to conceal the unease creeping through her. "How very unbecoming of you."

Oneiros shrugged nonchalantly, the motion elegant and graceful. "I am allowed to contemplate the mysteries of existence on occasion." He replied, his tone dry. "Or have you forgotten that I am an eternal being?" Eila laughed at the hint of sarcasm. It was comforting, in a way, to hear even a hint of the familiar arrogance in his voice.

"Are you alright, Oneiros?"

The question took him off guard, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second before he masked it. Eila had to suppress a smile. She'd caught him off guard. "Of course I am." He replied, a touch too quickly.

Eila saw right through him, though. She'd been around him long enough to know when something was bothering him. She pushed off from the table, crossing the distance between them to sit down on the cushion next to him. "You seem uneased."

Oneiros let out a soft huff, the closest thing he'd admit to a sigh. "You see too much." He said, but there was a hint of resignation in his tone, as if he knew he couldn't hide from her for long.

She took his hands into her own and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Tell me."

Oneiros' fingers tensed involuntarily beneath her touch, as if even the simplest act of comfort was difficult for him to handle. But he didn't pull away. He never did, not from her. He could refuse almost anyone else, but not her. He remained silent for several moments, staring at their conjoined fingers like they were a mystery to be solved. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I am weary, Eila."

“Why?”

"Of my duties, of my responsibilities." He confessed, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle on the back of her hand. "They feel... heavier, as of late." Eila hummed softly, not interrupting but encouraging him to continue.

Oneiros fell silent, his gaze dropping to their joined hands once more. "I read your story," he admitted quietly, his words a confession. "All three volumes."

Eila tensed, her fingers tightening around his. She hadn't expected him to mention those, and certainly not with such gravity. "And...?" She prompted, her heart beginning to pound in her chest.

Oneiros looked up at her then, his expression more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it. "It has weighed heavily on my mind." His eyes searched hers, as if trying to find the right words. "Reading about your life, all its highs and lows, the challenges you've faced... it has made me... contemplative."

Eila held her breath, not daring to speak. She had poured so much of herself into those tomes. To know that he'd read them all... it was both terrifying and strangely intimate.

Oneiros' jaw clenched as the memory of Davros' actions resurfaced in his mind. That... man had hurt her in ways he could scarcely imagine. The way she had described the emotional abuse, the gaslighting, the manipulation... it had made him angrier than he thought possible. And yet, he could understand all too well how such a man could exist. He looked up at her, his expression dark. "Davros..." he said, her former partner's name uttered like a curse.

Eila's heart clenched at the anger in his voice. She had known he would react strongly to that particular chapter, but hearing the venom in his tone was still a shock. She gave his hands a gentle squeeze, trying to soothe him. "Oneiros, that's in the past." She reminded him softly. "He can't hurt me anymore."

"Doesn't make it any easier to bear." He retorted, his eyes flickering over her face, as if he could still see the ghosts of her past suffering there. He hated that a man like that had laid his hands on her. Hated even more that he hadn't been there to stop it.

Eila could see the guilt in his gaze, the self-admonishment. She knew him well enough to know he was berating himself for not being there to protect her. She shifted, moving closer until she was sitting almost in his lap. She reached up, gently cupping his cheek in her palm, hoping to draw his focus back to her. "Oneiros," she murmured. "Look at me." It took him a moment, but slowly, his gaze lifted to meet hers. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions- anger, guilt, worry. Eila offered him a soft smile, stroking his cheek gently. "I am alright." She assured him. "I am safe. I am whole." His eyes searched hers, as if trying to find even a hint of a lie in her words.

He seemed to deflate ever so slightly at her reassurance, the intensity of his emotions tempered but not extinguished. Slowly, he reached up, covering her hand with his own, keeping it pressed against his cheek. Her touch seemed to have a soothing effect on him, the furrow in his brow softening. He closed his eyes for a few moments, just basking in her presence, before finally opening them again. "You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for." He murmured, his voice a little ragged.

"I am a woman. I have to be strong."

Oneiros let out a low huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "You shouldn't have to be." He replied, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the back of her hand. "You should be free to be soft, to be vulnerable." His eyes darkened as he thought of Davros, of the pain and abuse he had inflicted upon her. "You should be free from harm, from heartache." He continued, the words becoming more heated as he went. "Free from betrayal, from cruelty." His grip on her hand tightened, as if he could shield her simply by keeping her close.

"My heart always aches, Oneiros."

A deep pang of sympathy resounded in Oneiros' chest at her soft confession. Her heart had suffered more pain than any one person should ever have to endure. He lifted his free hand to rest it against her chest, just above her heart. He could feel its steady, rhythmic beat, the life force that thrummed beneath her skin. "I know it does." He whispered, his fingers gently tracing the contour of her collarbone.

"You make my heart ache, Oneiros."

Those words struck him like a physical blow, his heart clenching in his chest. It wasn't the first time she'd told him that, but it never failed to leave him reeling. He drew in a slow, shuddering breath, searching her eyes, trying to find the words to express what her confession brought to the surface in him. "Your heart should not ache because of me." He finally managed, his voice rough with emotion.

"And yet it does."

Her answer cut through him like a knife. Not because it was unexpected, but because it only solidified the guilt that already weighed heavily on his conscience. He let out a soft, humourless laugh, his fingers on her skin clenching reflexively. He wanted to deny her words, to insist that he should never cause her pain, but the truth was undeniable. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closing as he fought the tangle of emotions inside him. "Why?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Because you do not love me, Oneiros."

The words hit him like a freight train, knocking the breath out of him. He'd known it but hearing her say it out loud was still like a punch to the gut. His eyes snapped open, locking on hers. He stared at her, his thoughts a swirling mess of confusion, guilt, longing, and an aching sense of helplessness. He wanted to deny it, to lie, but he couldn't. Not to her. Instead, he simply uttered a single, strained word. "No."

"It is alright. I have long since reconciled this truth. You have never loved me."

Her acceptance, her resignation, only seemed to twist the knife in his heart further. The fact that she had expected this, that she had steeled herself against this truth for so long, only deepened his pain. He wanted to snap, to lash out, to insist that it wasn't as simple as that. That feelings were complex, that his duty and responsibilities as an Endless complicated things. But all those arguments died on his tongue. Because in the end, her statement was true.

His gaze lingered on her face, taking in her stoic expression, her eyes glistening with a well-practiced control over her emotions. Every fibre of his being wanted to reach out, to take her in his arms and whisper reassurances into her ear. But he couldn't. He had to respect her words, her acceptance. Even if it was tearing him apart inside. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice rough when he spoke again. "I... I am sorry."

“Do not be sorry.”

That simple sentence only served to deepen his remorse. Here he was, apologizing for not loving her, while she stood there accepting it like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him feel small, inadequate. He knew he should move away, should pull back, distance himself from her soothing presence that only served to exacerbate his guilt. But instead, he found himself leaning further into her, unable to tear himself away.

"Why are you so kind to me?" He asked hoarsely, the words slipping out almost without his permission. Her kindness, her understanding, her acceptance – it didn't make sense. After everything he'd put her through, how could she not hate him? He lifted his hand, his fingers hovering just above her ribcage, as if he were afraid to touch her now, as if he didn't deserve such intimacy.

"Because it is all I can give."

1889
ENGLAND

The tavern was alive with the kind of noise that made the walls hum—laughter, clinking glasses, boots scuffing against warped floorboards, and the occasional burst of off-key singing from a corner table where a trio of coal-streaked miners were deep into their third round of ale.

Gas lamps flickered along the walls, casting a golden haze that softened the rough edges of the room. Smoke curled lazily from pipes and cigars, mingling with the scent of roasted meat, spilled beer, and damp wool. The air was thick, but not unpleasant—more like a stew of stories and sweat.

Behind the bar, a stout woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows poured drinks with the efficiency of someone who’d been doing it since the Crimean War. Her voice cut through the din like a cleaver: “No tabs, no trouble, and no touching the piano unless you can play it better than my dead uncle!”

At the back, a card game was underway—low stakes, high tension. One man had a pistol tucked visibly into his belt, not as a threat but as a reminder. The dealer, a wiry woman with a scar across her cheek, dealt with a flick that suggested she knew more than just cards.

Near the window, a pair of lovers whispered over candlelight, their hands brushing between sips of cider. Outside, the rain tapped against the glass, but inside, the tavern was its own world—warm, wild, and unapologetically alive.

The tavern’s piano, slightly out of tune, was manned by a lad with a newsboy cap and a grin too wide for his years. He played a jaunty reel that had the boots of half the room tapping in time. Above the bar, a faded advertisement for “Dr. Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne” curled at the edges, promising relief from everything from cholera to melancholy. The piano in question sat crookedly near the hearth, where a young man in a frayed waistcoat was coaxing out a lively jig. His fingers danced over the keys, and a few patrons had taken to stomping along, tankards raised, cheeks flushed.

Candles flickered in glass sconces, their flames dancing with every gust from the door. The barkeep—a former navvy with a limp and a silver pocket watch—moved with surprising grace, sliding tankards across the bar and offering a wink to regulars. Behind him, shelves held bottles of London dry gin, Bass ale, and a dusty decanter labeled simply “Old Peculiar.”

The air was thick with stories. A man in a tweed coat recounted the latest scandal from the Illustrated Police News, while a chimney sweep boasted of a ghost he'd seen near the viaduct. Laughter rose and fell like the tide, and somewhere in the back, a game of shove ha'penny grew increasingly heated.

The two men sat opposite each other at a small round table, its surface scarred with knife marks and ringed with the ghosts of spilled ale. One wore a threadbare frock coat, the cuffs frayed and the collar stained with pipe ash. His face was lean, eyes sharp beneath a brow that hadn’t known sleep in days. The other was younger, cleaner, with a clerk’s ink-stained fingers and a nervous energy that made his knee bounce beneath the table.

“You’re sure it’s tonight?” the older man asked, voice low and gravelled, like coal dragged across stone.

The clerk nodded, glancing around as if the brass sconces might be listening. “He said the shipment leaves the yard at half past eleven. No guards. Just the driver and a boy to hold the lantern.”

The older man leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. He tapped a rhythm on the table with a silver coin, worn smooth from years of use. “And the ledger?”

“Burned,” the clerk whispered. “No trace. Just like you said.”

A pause. The piano struck a sour note in the distance, followed by laughter. The older man didn’t smile. “You’ve done well, lad. But don’t mistake this for favour. You’re in now. No stepping back.”

The clerk swallowed hard, his hand tightening around his glass. “I know.”

Hob Gadling leaned against the tavern’s worn oak bar, swirling the last inch of his ale as he watched the two men in the alcove with idle interest. Their voices were low, but Hob had a knack for catching the tone of a conversation even when the words were muffled by pipe smoke and piano music.

He turned slightly toward the figure beside him—tall, pale, and unmistakably out of place in the warmth and grime of the Brass Lantern. Dream of the Endless stood like a shadow stitched into the room, his presence quiet but undeniable.

Hob gave a soft chuckle, nodding toward the conspirators. “You know, you’d think with all the gaslight and progress, London might’ve cleaned up its soul a bit. But no—still full of secrets and schemes. That pair’s up to something. You can smell it.”

Dream’s gaze didn’t shift, but his voice was like velvet drawn over stone. “The city is ancient. Its shadows are deep.”

Hob snorted. “Too deep, sometimes. You remember last autumn? All those murders in Whitechapel?” He lowered his voice, leaning in. “Jack the Ripper. Bastard carved up half the East End and vanished like smoke. Papers couldn’t get enough of it. People started locking their doors before sunset, like that’d stop a ghost with a knife.”

Dream’s expression remained unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes—an echo of blood and fear, of stories whispered in alleyways and ink spilled across broadsheets.

Hob took another sip, then set his tankard down with a thunk. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Whether he was just a man. Or something older. Hungrier.”

Dream finally turned to look at him, and for a moment, the tavern’s noise seemed to hush around them.

“Some hungers,” he said, “are not born of flesh. And some stories refuse to die.”

Hob raised an eyebrow, then grinned. “Well, cheers to that. London’s always been a bit mad. But I’ll take it over eternity without a decent pint.”

Hob leaned against the tavern’s bar, the warm glow of gaslight catching the edge of his grin. The piano clattered on behind them, and the scent of spilled ale and pipe smoke hung thick in the air. Dream stood beside him, still and silent as ever, his presence untouched by the bustle of 1889 London.

Hob took a slow sip of his drink, then glanced sideways. “You know, it’s been a hell of a century.”

Dream’s gaze remained fixed on the flickering sconces, but Hob knew he was listening.

“I tried the colonies for a bit,” Hob said, swirling the dregs in his tankard. “Gold rush in California—absolute madness. Thought I’d strike it rich. Ended up with a broken rib and a mule that hated me. Came back with less than I left with, but the stories were worth it.”

He chuckled, then continued. “Spent a few years in Manchester, right in the thick of the mills. Loud, filthy, and full of people who’d sell their soul for a half-day off. I taught a few lads to read, ran a pub for a while. Got into a bit of trouble with a union boss—long story.”

Dream’s eyes flicked toward him, faintly curious.

“Then there was Paris,” Hob said, his voice softening. “Saw the Commune rise and fall. Lost a friend there. She believed in something bigger than herself. I didn’t. Still don’t, really. But I admired her for it.”

He paused, watching the foam settle in his glass.

“Lately I’ve been in London again. It’s changed. Dirtier in some ways, cleaner in others. The fog’s thicker. The lies are slicker. Everyone’s chasing something—money, fame, salvation. And then there’s the Ripper, carving up the city like it owes him something.”

Dream’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him seemed to still.

“I’ve seen a lot,” Hob said, more quietly now. “But I keep coming back. People are still people. Still laughing, still fighting, still falling in love in the middle of all the mess. That’s what keeps me going.”

He turned to Dream, eyes bright beneath the tavern’s flickering light. “And you? Still watching from the shadows?”

Dream’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Always.”

Hob took a long sip of his ale, then set the tankard down with a sigh that carried the weight of centuries—and a healthy dose of theatrical exasperation.

“You know,” he began, gesturing vaguely toward the tavern’s fogged-up windows, “I’ve lived through plagues, purges, and the invention of trousers with too many buttons. But I swear, this country’s in a perpetual state of ‘just about to sort itself out.’ Like a drunk promising he’ll be up for work at six.”

Dream said nothing, but the faint tilt of his head suggested he was listening.

Hob continued, warming to his theme. “We’ve got trains that run late, politicians who run earlier than their scandals, and a housing market that’s basically a game of ‘how much misery can you afford.’ And don’t get me started on the weather. It’s August and I still brought a coat. Just in case the sun gets shy again.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice with mock gravity. “And the newspapers—bloody hell. Every headline’s either ‘Nation in Crisis’ or ‘Nation Slightly Less in Crisis Than Yesterday.’ It’s like watching a soap opera where the characters keep swapping wigs and pretending they’re new.”

Dream’s gaze remained steady, unreadable.

“But you know what really gets me?” Hob said, tapping the bar. “It’s the optimism. Brits are stubbornly hopeful. We’ll queue for an hour in the rain for a lukewarm pasty and call it character-building. We’ll vote for change, get chaos, and still say, ‘Well, at least it’s not France.’”

He chuckled, then glanced at Dream. “You’ve seen empires rise and fall. But I swear, this little island—she’s got a knack for surviving her own nonsense.”

Dream’s voice was quiet, almost amused. “And you remain fond of her.”

Hob grinned. “Fond? I’m bloody married to her at this point. She drives me mad, but I wouldn’t leave her for all the immortality in the world.”

Hob leaned his elbow on the bar, the tavern’s warmth curling around him like a well-worn coat. He glanced at Dream, who stood as still as ever, untouched by the bustle and beer-soaked laughter around them.

“You know,” Hob said, voice casual but edged with something more thoughtful, “I’ve been thinking. You show up every century like clockwork. Never late, never early. Just… there.”

Dream’s gaze remained fixed on the flickering sconces, but Hob pressed on.

“And I’ve wondered—maybe it’s not just about keeping your word. Maybe you come because you want to. Because you’re… lonely.”

The silence that followed was sharp. Dream turned his head slowly, his eyes like twin voids, ancient and unreadable.

“You dare assume,” he said, voice low and cold, “that one such as I requires companionship?”

Hob didn’t flinch, but he did raise his eyebrows. “I mean, I didn’t say you needed a cuddle and a cup of tea, mate. Just that maybe you enjoy the company. A bit of conversation. Someone who doesn’t worship or fear you.”

For a moment, Dream was still. Then, with the grace of a shadow slipping from candlelight, he rose from his seat. No flourish, no fury—just a quiet, deliberate departure. He turned from the bar and walked toward the tavern’s door, his coat trailing like mist behind him.

Hob blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, come on,” he muttered, grabbing his coat and weaving through the crowd. “Don’t be dramatic, you bloody celestial.”

He pushed open the tavern door and stepped into the fog-drenched street. Dream was already halfway down the lane, his silhouette barely visible beneath the gaslamps.

“Oi!” Hob called, boots splashing through puddles. “I’ll be here in a century’s time, you know!”

Dream didn’t stop walking.

Hob jogged to catch up, breath misting in the cold night air. “And if you show up again—and you will—it won’t be because of some cosmic obligation. It’ll be because we’re friends. Whether you like it or not.”

Dream paused. Just for a heartbeat. The fog curled around him like a cloak, and though he didn’t turn, Hob could feel the weight of his attention.

Then Dream vanished into the mist, leaving only silence and the distant echo of boots on cobblestone.

Hob stood there for a moment, grinning to himself. “See you in 1989, you stubborn bastard.”

July 19, 1916
Paris, France

The café sat tucked beneath a soot-darkened awning on Rue de l'Odéon, its windows fogged with the breath of winter and war. Outside, the city moved in muted tones—soldiers in faded blue trudging past with boots heavy from the Marne, women in long coats clutching ration parcels like secrets, and posters peeling from stone walls, their slogans half-swallowed by rain.

Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of chicory coffee. The floor was tiled in cracked terracotta, worn smooth by years of footsteps and spilled absinthe. A gramophone played faintly in the corner, its needle dragging through a waltz that sounded like memory—something from before the trenches, before the telegrams, before the silence that followed names read aloud.

The tables were small and round, their marble tops stained with ink and wine. A poet hunched over a notebook, his fingers smudged with graphite, writing verses that tried to make sense of Verdun. A nurse sat nearby, her uniform creased, her eyes distant—watching the steam rise from her cup as if it might carry her somewhere softer. The waiter moved like a ghost in suspenders and scuffed shoes, his tray balanced with the grace of someone who’d learned to navigate grief without spilling it.

The walls were lined with mirrors, each one slightly warped, reflecting patrons as if through the lens of a dream half-remembered. A single chandelier hung above, its crystals dulled by dust, swaying gently with the draft that slipped in every time the door opened.

Outside, the bells of Saint-Sulpice tolled noon, and the sound rang through the café like a reminder: time still moved, even when the world felt paused between breaths.

Paris in 1916 was a city stitched together with longing and resilience, and this café was its heartbeat—quiet, persistent, and full of stories that refused to be forgotten.

The café was dim, the kind of place where the light never quite reached the corners. Smoke curled from half-smoked cigarettes left to burn out in chipped saucers. The air smelled of wet wool, old tobacco, and the bitter tang of chicory coffee. Outside, the street was slick with rain, and the sound of boots on cobblestones came and went like passing thoughts.

At a table near the window, three people sat close, not friends, but drawn together by habit and necessity. Their voices were low, not out of secrecy, but fatigue.

One of them, older, with a coat that had seen better years, leaned forward and spoke with the flat tone of someone who’d stopped expecting answers. Verdun came up first. It always did. He said the ground there wasn’t ground anymore—just mud and corpses and shell craters that filled with rain and blood. He’d read that some units hadn’t rotated out in months. Said they were calling it “the meat grinder” now, like it was a factory.

The woman across from him, her hair pinned back and her sleeves rolled up, said she’d seen the aftermath. Worked in a hospital near Gare de l’Est. Boys came in with faces missing, lungs full of gas, hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. She didn’t look up when she spoke. Just kept stirring her coffee, even though it had gone cold.

The younger man, barely shaving age, said he’d been at the Somme. July. Said the barrage went on for days, and when they finally went over the top, half the lads were dead before they’d taken ten steps. He didn’t say it with anger. Just fact. Like he was describing the weather.

They talked about the government, too. Briand’s speeches, the rationing, the way the price of bread kept climbing while the newspapers printed victory headlines no one believed. Someone mentioned Jaurès, and the older man just shook his head. Said the only thing that died faster than pacifism was optimism.

The woman said she’d stopped reading the papers. Said she didn’t need print to tell her what was happening—she could see it in the eyes of the wounded. Said she’d patched up a boy who kept asking if he was still in the trench. He was in a cot, clean sheets, warm room. Didn’t matter. His mind was still out there.

The younger man didn’t say much after that. Just stared out the window at the rain. His coat was too thin, and his boots looked borrowed.

The conversation drifted, then stopped. Not because they’d run out of things to say, but because there was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said a hundred times. The war was everywhere—in the silence, in the coffee, in the way no one laughed anymore unless they were drunk.

He sat alone at the far end of the café, hunched over a copy of Le Petit Journal, the pages spread wide like wings about to take flight. The paper was creased, damp at the edges from the mist that clung to his coat. His fingers, stained faintly with ink and nicotine, gripped the page with the kind of tension reserved for bad news.

The headline screamed across the top in bold, black type: “La France Tient Bon à Verdun — L’Enfer Continue” France Holds Firm at Verdun — The Hell Continues

He read it twice, lips moving silently, as if trying to make sense of the contradiction. “Holds firm” sounded like victory, but “hell continues” was the truth everyone knew. Verdun had become a word that meant something more than a place—it was a condition, a fever, a wound that wouldn’t close.

Below the headline, smaller print listed casualty figures, though no one believed them anymore. Numbers were too clean. They didn’t smell of rot or scream in the night. He scanned the names of officers mentioned, then paused at a photograph—grainy, distant, a line of men disappearing into fog. The caption read: “Les héros du front.” Heroes of the front. He snorted softly. The real heroes didn’t make it into photographs. Around him, the café murmured with quiet conversation, but he didn’t join in. He folded the paper slowly, deliberately, as if trying not to tear it. Then he placed it on the table, beside a half-drunk cup of coffee, and stared out the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky still hung low, heavy with the weight of another day.

Eila sat at the table by the window, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since cooled. The porcelain was thin, patterned with faded violets, and the steam had stopped rising minutes ago, but she hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the street beyond the glass, watching the slow shuffle of boots and bicycles, the occasional cart rattling over cobblestones slick with morning rain.

The café was quiet around her, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the scratch of chairs against tile. A man coughed near the counter. Someone dropped a spoon. But Eila didn’t flinch. She was waiting.

She wore a coat too heavy for the season, buttoned to the neck, and her gloves lay folded beside the cup, fingers curled like they’d been caught mid-thought. Her hair was pinned back neatly, though a few strands had slipped loose and clung to her cheek. She didn’t brush them away.

Outside, the city moved with the slow rhythm of wartime. A boy in uniform passed, his rifle slung awkwardly, his face pale and unreadable. A woman hurried by with a basket tucked under her arm, the contents hidden beneath a cloth. Posters flapped on the wall opposite the café—one torn, one new. The latest read: “Pour la Patrie — Donnez Votre Or”. For the homeland—give your gold.

Eila’s gaze flicked to it, then back to the street. She checked the watch at her wrist, a small silver thing with a crack across the face. Ten minutes past the hour. She didn’t sigh, didn’t shift. Just waited.

The tea was cold. The war was close. And Eila, seated in the quiet hum of the café, watched the door like it might open with something more than just another gust of wind.

“Where are you, Oneiros?” She whispered. The words barely left her lips, more breath than sound, absorbed instantly by the fogged glass and the hush of the café. Her voice carried no drama—just the quiet ache of repetition, as if she’d asked the question before, in other places, to no one in particular.

Outside, the street moved on. A tram rattled past, its wheels shrieking against the rails. A man in a long coat hurried by, collar turned up, face hidden. None of them were him.

She traced a finger along the rim of her teacup, the porcelain cool against her skin. The name lingered in the air like smoke—Oneiros. Not a name spoken often, and never loudly. It belonged to dreams, to letters that arrived without return addresses, to memories that didn’t behave.

The waiter passed, glanced at her cup, said nothing. He’d seen her here before. Same table. Same tea. Same silence.

She turned her gaze back to the window, watching the mist thicken over the rooftops. Somewhere out there, she believed, he was walking beneath the same sky. Maybe reading the same headlines. Maybe thinking of her.

But the city was vast, and the war had made ghosts of too many men.

She whispered again, softer this time, as if the name itself might find its way through the fog.

“Where are you, Oneiros.”

The door swung open with a gust of cold air and the scent of wet stone. A woman stepped inside, brushing rain from her shoulders, her coat a deep green that stood out against the café’s muted palette. She paused just long enough to scan the room, then her face lit with recognition.

“Eila,” she said, voice warm and surprised, as if the name had just surfaced from memory. “I thought that was you.”

Eila looked up, startled at first, then softened. Her lips curved into something close to a smile.

“Ximena,” she said, standing halfway, unsure whether to embrace or simply acknowledge. They settled for a brief touch on the arm, the kind shared by people who hadn’t seen each other in years but still carried the shape of familiarity.

Ximena pulled off her gloves and slid into the seat opposite, her movements quick and practiced. She glanced at the untouched tea, then at Eila’s face.

“You always did drink it too slowly,” she said, teasing gently. “Still waiting?”

Eila nodded, eyes flicking to the window. “Yes. He’s late.”

Ximena didn’t press. Instead, she waved down the waiter and ordered coffee, then turned back with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ve just come from Montparnasse. The trains are a mess. They say there’s a shortage of coal again. Everything’s slower now.”

Eila gave a small shrug. “Everything’s slower, or gone.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just full. Then Ximena leaned in slightly. “I saw your name in the paper last month. Something about the hospital? You’re still working there?”

Eila nodded. “Still patching up what’s left of them. Some days I think I’m just stitching ghosts.”

Ximena looked down at her hands, then back up. “You always had the stomach for it. I couldn’t. I tried, once. Lasted a week.”

The coffee arrived, and they both reached for their cups. Outside, the rain had started again, soft and steady. Inside, the café held its quiet rhythm. Ximena smiled, more genuinely this time. “It’s good to see you, Eila. Even if the world’s falling apart, it’s good to see you.”

Eila didn’t answer right away. She just looked at her friend, then out the window again, watching for a figure that hadn’t yet appeared.

Ximena stirred her coffee absently, watching Eila over the rim of the cup. The silence between them had stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.

“So,” she said finally, setting the spoon down, “what’s going on with Oneiros?”

Eila didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the window, where the rain had started to bead again, soft and persistent. She shifted slightly, fingers tightening around the teacup.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” she said, voice low. “Three, maybe four. Not since before the war got loud.”

Ximena raised an eyebrow. “And you’re meeting him now?”

“We were supposed to,” Eila said. “Today. Here. He wrote to me last month—said he’d be in Paris, said he wanted to talk.”

Ximena leaned back, arms crossed loosely. “And he hasn’t shown.”

Eila nodded. “Not yet.”

There was no bitterness in her tone, just a kind of quiet resignation. She glanced at the watch again, then back at the door.

Eila didn’t smile. “He said he’d be here.”

The rain tapped against the window. The waiter passed again, glanced at the empty cup, didn’t interrupt. Outside, the city moved on. Inside, Eila waited.

The light through the window had turned pale and uncertain, filtered through a veil of drizzle that softened the edges of the street outside. The glass was fogged at the corners, traced faintly with the ghost of Eila’s fingertip from earlier, a half-drawn shape now fading. Her tea sat untouched, the surface still and dark, like a pool waiting for something to disturb it.

Ximena’s coat was damp at the shoulders, the green fabric darkened to near black. She’d removed her gloves and laid them neatly beside her saucer, fingers aligned, as if order might offer comfort. Her coffee steamed faintly, the only warmth between them.

The café itself was a patchwork of quiet lives. A man near the door read his newspaper with a furrowed brow, lips pressed tight. Two women whispered over a shared plate of bread, their voices low and urgent. The waiter moved with practiced indifference, weaving between tables with the grace of someone who’d learned to disappear in plain sight.

Eila’s eyes kept drifting to the door. Each time it opened, she looked up—not with hope, but with the kind of reflex born from repetition. A soldier entered briefly, shook off the rain, then left again. A child peered in, then was pulled away by a mother in a hurry. None of them were him.

Ximena took a slow sip of her coffee, watching Eila with a raised brow and a half-smile that curled with mischief.

“Well,” she said, setting the cup down with a soft clink, “if Oneiros is still operating on dream logic, maybe it’s time you woke up and found someone who actually shows up.”

Eila didn’t respond, but her lips pressed into a line that suggested she’d heard that one before.

Ximena leaned in, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “Have you at least considered that charming Frenchman from last month? What was his name—Luc? The one with the good shoes and the bad poetry?”

Eila gave a quiet laugh, the first real sound of amusement since Ximena had arrived. “He recited Baudelaire at the market. Loudly. To a cabbage.”

“Exactly,” Ximena said, grinning. “A man who can make vegetables blush is clearly devoted.”

Eila shook her head, but the smile lingered. “He asked if he could court me. Said he’d bring flowers and conversation. I told him I wasn’t sure I had room for either.”

Ximena shrugged. “You’ve got room. You just keep it reserved for ghosts.”

Outside, the rain had softened to a mist, and the street glistened like a memory. Inside, the café was warm, the air thick with the scent of coffee and old stories. Eila looked toward the door again, then back at her friend.

“I didn’t come here for Luc,” she said quietly. “I came for someone who said he’d be here.”

Ximena reached across the table and touched her hand, just briefly. “And if he doesn’t come?”

Eila didn’t answer. She just looked out the window, watching the world move past.

Ximena shrugged. “You’ve got room. You just keep it reserved for ghosts.”

“I didn’t come here for Luc,” she said quietly. “I came for someone who said he’d be here.”

Ximena reached across the table and touched her hand, just briefly. “And if he doesn’t come?”

Eila didn’t answer. She just looked out the window, watching the world move past. Eila gave a small shake of her head; her gaze still fixed somewhere beyond the rain-slicked glass.

“I’m not interested in Luc,” she said plainly. “He’s kind, yes. And he means well. But he’s all surface—charm and gestures and borrowed lines. I don’t think he’s ever sat still long enough to feel anything real.”

Ximena raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smile. “You always did have a sharp eye for sincerity. Poor Luc. He probably thought quoting Baudelaire to a cabbage was romantic.”

Eila didn’t smile this time. “He wants to be seen. Oneiros never did. He just... was. Quiet, strange, but honest in a way that didn’t ask for applause.”

Ximena leaned back slightly, watching her friend with a kind of quiet concern. “You know, not every man who shows up with flowers is shallow. Some just don’t know how else to say they care.”

Eila’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup again, slow and absent. “I don’t need flowers. I need someone who remembers the silence between letters. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I talk about the hospital.”

The rain outside thickened, blurring the outlines of passersby into smudges of motion. Inside, the café held its warmth, its quiet, its waiting. The café had settled into its late-morning rhythm, a quiet lull between the early rush and the midday crowd. The clatter of cups had softened, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted beans and damp wool. Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist, turning the street into a blurred watercolour of grey stone and muted movement.

Eila sat with her shoulders slightly hunched; her coat still buttoned despite the warmth inside. The tea in front of her had gone cold, untouched for the better part of an hour. Her fingers rested lightly on the rim of the cup, not for comfort, but as if anchoring herself to the moment.

Across from her, Ximena had relaxed into the chair, one leg crossed over the other, her coffee cooling slowly as she watched her friend with a mixture of fondness and concern. She tapped her spoon against the saucer, a soft rhythm that filled the silence between their words.

Ximena didn’t press further. She just nodded, slowly, and reached for her coffee again. “Fair enough,” she said. “But if Oneiros doesn’t walk through that door soon, I’m dragging you to the market and letting Luc serenade the onions next.”

Eila gave a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. Her eyes drifted again to the door, then to the watch on her wrist. The crack across the glass caught the light like a scar.

“He’s not coming,” she said, not bitterly, but with the kind of certainty that settles in after too much waiting.

Ximena didn’t argue. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her voice softer now.

“You deserve someone who shows up, Eila. Not someone who sends letters from nowhere and promises from the past.”

Eila nodded, but her gaze stayed on the window. Outside, a man passed with a bundle of newspapers under his arm, the headlines smudged and unreadable. A dog trotted behind him, tail low, ears alert. The city moved on, indifferent.

Inside, the café was warm, the light golden and slow. The mirrors on the walls reflected the two women in fragments—Eila’s profile caught in a haze of steam, Ximena’s eyes sharp and steady.

“I know,” Eila said finally. “But I didn’t come here for someone new. I came to see if something old still mattered.”

The café had begun to fill with the slow tide of midday patrons—workers on break, students with notebooks, a pair of elderly men arguing softly over a chessboard near the back. The air had grown warmer, thick with the scent of coffee and damp wool, and the windows fogged anew with the breath of conversation and steam.

Eila and Ximena sat quietly now, their cups nearly empty, the table between them scattered with the small debris of waiting—a folded napkin, a teaspoon resting askew, the newspaper left behind by the man who’d departed without a word. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones slick and shining, the city washed but not cleansed.

Eila’s eyes lingered on the door one last time. It opened briefly to admit a gust of wind and a woman with a child, but no one else. She didn’t sigh, didn’t shift. She simply let her gaze fall back to the tea, now cold and still, and then to Ximena, who watched her with the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for explanation.

The waiter passed again, offering a nod, and cleared a nearby table. The gramophone in the corner crackled to life with a scratchy waltz, the kind that sounded like it belonged to another decade. The mirrors on the wall caught the light, fractured it, and returned it in soft, uneven glints.

Eila reached for her gloves, folded them slowly, deliberately. She didn’t speak, but her movements said enough. Eila stood slowly, her chair scraping softly against the worn tile floor. She reached into the inner pocket of her coat and drew out a small envelope—cream-colored, slightly creased, the edges softened from being handled too often. Her thumb brushed over the name written in careful script across the front. Oneiros. No surname. No address. Just the name, like a whisper folded into paper. Ximena stood too, smoothing her coat.

“I need to drop off a letter,” she said, almost to herself, but Ximena heard it.

She didn’t elaborate, and Ximena didn’t ask. The envelope spoke for itself—its weight not in ink or paper, but in everything it hadn’t said yet. Eila held it with both hands, as if afraid it might vanish if she let go too easily.

The rain had stopped, but the sky outside still hung low, heavy with the kind of grey that made the city feel suspended. Eila moved toward the door with quiet purpose, her boots clicking softly, her coat trailing behind her like a shadow. She paused at the threshold, glanced once more at the empty street, then stepped out into the damp morning.

The café door swung shut behind her, muffling the sound of the gramophone and the clink of cups. Inside, Ximena watched her go, her expression unreadable, her coffee cooling untouched.

Outside, Eila walked with the envelope tucked close to her chest, the city unfolding around her in soft, wet silence. Somewhere ahead was the postbox she’d passed earlier, the one near the old bookshop with the shuttered windows. She didn’t know if the letter would reach him. She didn’t know if he was still in Paris. But she knew she had to send it.

Because sometimes, even when someone doesn’t show up, you still have something to say.

Eila walked with the envelope tucked inside her coat, close to her chest, as if it might dissolve if exposed to the damp. Her steps were measured, deliberate—not slow, but careful, like someone retracing a path they’d once known well. Ximena walked beside her, hands in her pockets, her boots clicking softly against the cobblestones.

They passed shuttered bookshops and cafés with fogged windows, the occasional figure hurrying past under an umbrella or wrapped in scarves. A bicycle leaned against a lamppost, its frame slick with rain. Posters peeled from the walls—calls for rationing, for enlistment, for endurance. One read “Pour la Victoire, Tenez Bon” in bold letters. For victory, hold fast.

Eila didn’t speak. She kept her eyes ahead, scanning the street for the red postbox she remembered—just beyond the corner, near the old tobacconist with its faded awning and broken sign. When it came into view, she slowed.

The box stood crooked, rust blooming at its base, the slot dark and narrow. She reached into her coat and drew out the envelope, holding it for a moment in both hands. The name stared back at her—Oneiros—still sharp despite the creases.

Ximena watched quietly, saying nothing.

Eila slid the letter into the slot. It disappeared with a soft scrape, swallowed by the dark.

She stood there for a moment longer, hand resting on the cold metal, then turned away. Her face was unreadable, but something in her shoulders had shifted—less tension, more weight.

They walked on, the city opening around them in soft, wet silence. Behind them, the letter waited in the dark, sealed and sent, its destination uncertain.

They walked in silence, the city stretching around them in soft, rain-washed tones. The postbox stood behind them now, crooked and rusted, its slot sealed over the letter like a mouth that had swallowed something final. The envelope was gone, but its weight lingered in Eila’s posture, in the way her steps had slowed.

Ximena glanced sideways, her breath visible in the cool air. She waited a moment, then spoke gently.

“What did it say?”

Eila didn’t look at her. Her eyes were fixed ahead, on the curve of the street where the buildings leaned close like old friends sharing secrets. Her voice came quiet, steady.

“It says goodbye.”

Ximena didn’t reply. She just nodded once, the kind of nod that carried understanding without needing explanation. They kept walking, boots tapping against the wet stone, the city moving around them with its usual indifference.

The letter was gone. The waiting was over. And Eila, for the first time in a long while, walked without looking back.

THE LETTER TO ONEIROS
DELIVERED TO THE DREAMING

My dear Oneiros,

Writing this letter is among the hardest things I could ever do, and yet I find myself writing it in the eventuality that you do not come to our meeting, because I know what your absence means—what you wish to tell me with it. You mean to tell me that this is the end, that after three millennia—3295 years of this fondness of ours—it has inevitably ended, as all things do. I hope this finds you well, and that you comforted by your decision, as I will now seek to draw closure from it also.

I do not blame you. I hold no ill. Absence is a language you have always spoken most fluently, and I have spent millennia learning to read it, but I will never quite understand it as a native would. My mothertongue is the language of words. This is where we differ. This is a kind of grace in silence, I suppose—a final kindness in not forcing words where none remain. Still, I had hoped for one last conversation, one final glance to confirm that what we shared was real, even if what I felt was greater than your own feelings. I have tried, truly, to make peace with the silence. To convince myself that your absence is not cruelty, but inevitability. That you are not punishing me but simply drifting—as you always have—into the mist of your own making. But it is hard, Oneiros. It is hard to love someone who lives in the margins of time, who speaks in riddles and vanishes between sentences. I have spent lifetimes learning how to wait, and now I must learn how to stop.

You once told me that time was a river, and that people were stones worn smooth by its passing. I think of that often. I think of how I change, how I softened, how I tried to hold you against the current for as long as I could, and now, I suppose, I must let you go. But I must remind myself that you are not people. You are Endless. You are not within the river. You sit upon bank, watching me struggle to stay above the water and swim as the current pulls me. Perhaps this was why we could never work. You never moved with me—you observed. I mistook your stillness for presence, your silence for depth. I thought if I swam hard enough, if I reached far enough, I could pull you in beside me. But you were never meant to be caught in the flow. You are the unmoved watcher, the dream that does not drown. And I—I am flesh and breath and ache, swept forward by time that does not ask permission.

I will not chase you. I will not write again. This letter is not a plea, nor a protest—it is closing of the book, a gentle folding of the page. I will remember you not as you are now, wherever you are, but as you were when we first met: curious, impossible, and ignorant to the night—to the cold one can feel. You were untouched then, unweathered by sorrow, unmarked by the weight of consequence. You moved through the world like a question without an answer, and I followed, believing that proximity might grant me understanding. But I see now that you were never meant to be understood—only witnessed. And I did. I witnessed you in your brilliance and your distance, in your silence and your storms. That is what I will carry.

I will not try to rewrite what was. I will not search for signs or symbols in the days to come. I will let the memory settle where it belongs—beneath the skin, quiet and unspoken. You were a chapter I read slowly, reverently, knowing it would end before I was ready. And now, I turn the page.

If you ever return, it will not be to the girl who waited with trembling hands and borrowed hope. It will be to the woman who learned to breathe without you, who stitched silence into strength and let the ache become part of her rhythm. I will not ask why you stayed away. I will not ask what changed. I will only ask if you came because you finally saw me—not as a memory, not as a mistake, but as someone who loved you without needing to be loved back. And if you speak, I hope it is not with apology, but with truth. Because if you are here, it is not by accident. It is because you chose to be. And that choice, if it comes, will mean everything.

So this is where I leave you. Not with bitterness, not with longing—just with truth. If you ever come back, it will be because you meant to. And if you don’t, I will still be whole. I loved you. That was real. What you do with that is yours now.

Goodbye Oneiros.

Eila.

1989
ENGLAND

The White Horse sat on a narrow street just off the Strand, its soot-stained brickwork wedged between a shuttered tailor’s shop and a tobacconist that hadn’t changed its window display since 1974. The pub’s sign—a proud stallion mid-gallop—hung above the door, its paint chipped by years of London fog and double-decker vibrations. Inside, the hum of the city softened. The clink of pint glasses, the low murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter from the back room gave it a rhythm all its own.

The walls were lined with dark wood panels, yellowed by cigarette smoke and the passage of time. A framed photo of the Queen hung slightly askew above the bar, next to a curling poster for the 1986 World Cup. The bartender—an ex-roadie with a ponytail and a voice like gravel—knew everyone’s order before they spoke. The regulars were a mix of cabbies, theatre techs, and aging punks who still wore their leather jackets like armour.

The jukebox leaned heavily into synth-pop and post-punk, though someone had slipped in a Billie Holiday record that played on quiet Sunday mornings. A dartboard hung near the back, its bullseye worn to the wood. The air smelled of bitter ale, fried onions, and the faint metallic tang of the Underground drifting in every time the door opened.

The White Horse was thick with smoke and opinion. At the corner table near the dartboard, three men in their fifties nursed pints of bitter and grumbled about Thatcher’s bloody poll tax. One of them—Ron, a retired bus driver with nicotine-stained fingers—slammed his glass down mid-sentence. “It’s daylight robbery, that’s what it is. Charging the same to a banker in Chelsea as to a pensioner in Hackney. She’s lost the bloody plot.”

Across the room, a younger crowd leaned against the bar, dressed in a patchwork of rebellion and trend. Acid-washed jeans, oversized blazers with shoulder pads, and Doc Martens stomped through the pub like declarations. One girl wore a Smiths t-shirt under a leather jacket, her hair teased high and sprayed stiff. Her mate had eyeliner thicker than his morals and a Walkman clipped to his belt, blasting New Order through foam-covered headphones.

The jukebox was stuck between eras—The Stone Roses had just come out, but someone kept punching in Spandau Ballet like it was still 1984. A few punks in the snug debated whether Madchester was the future or just another fad. “It’s all baggy trousers and LSD,” one scoffed, “but at least it’s not Stock Aitken Waterman.”

Politics bled into everything. A woman in a red trench coat muttered about Labour’s collapse, shaking her head as she lit a cigarette. “Kinnock’s got no teeth. We’re watching the bloody Tories dance on the ashes.” Her companion, a theatre tech from the West End, nodded solemnly. “It’s all spin now. No soul.”

The pub’s landlord, Mick, turned up the volume on the telly just as Newsnight cut to footage of protests in Scotland. “They’re not having it up there,” he said to no one in particular. “Can’t blame ’em. We’ll be next.”

Near the window, under the flickering neon beer sign, a trio of women leaned into their drinks and each other, their laughter cutting through the haze like a spotlight. One wore a denim jacket covered in pins—Madonna, Prince, a tiny red heart that read Girl Power before it was a slogan. Her hair was crimped to perfection, and she spoke with the confidence of someone who’d just seen Dead Ringers and wasn’t sure if she was disturbed or impressed. “I swear, if I see one more bloke in a double-breasted suit with gelled hair trying to look like Patrick Bateman, I’m walking straight into the Thames,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Her friend, sipping a white wine spritzer, nodded. “It’s all yuppie this, yuppie that. They think owning a Filofax makes them interesting. Meanwhile, Kylie’s out here reinventing herself and nobody’s giving her credit.” The third woman, quieter but sharp, flipped through a copy of Smash Hits she’d pulled from her bag. “Jason Donovan’s on page six. Again. I mean, he’s sweet, but he’s got the emotional range of a teabag.”

They laughed, then turned to the telly as Top of the Pops flickered on in the background—muted, but unmistakable. A flash of sequins, a synth-heavy beat, and someone mouthed, “That’s Sonia, isn’t it?” before returning to their drinks.

“Did you hear Paula Yates is doing interviews now? Proper ones. She’s brilliant. Makes Wogan look like he’s asleep.”

“Wogan is asleep,” one of them muttered, and they all burst out laughing again.

Hob sat in the corner booth, the one beneath the crooked wall sconce that flickered like it couldn’t decide whether to stay lit. His pint had gone warm, untouched for the last twenty minutes. The condensation had long since dried, leaving a ring on the table like a mark of patience. He kept glancing at the door—not obviously, just enough to betray the hope he hadn’t quite managed to kill.

His friend was late. Not fashionably, not forgivably—just absent. And Hob, who wasn’t one for dramatics, felt the weight of it more than he expected. The pub was full of noise: Thatcher complaints, pop gossip, laughter that didn’t belong to him. But in his booth, it was all muffled. Like being underwater.

He’d dressed for the evening—nothing fancy, just a clean shirt, his best boots, the jacket that still smelled faintly of rain and tobacco. He’d even brought the envelope, folded twice, tucked into his coat pocket. Just in case. Just in case tonight was the night they talked properly. Said the things they hadn’t said. But now, with each tick of the clock and each burst of laughter from the bar, the envelope felt heavier. Useless.

He didn’t want to look like he was waiting. So he picked up the pint, took a sip, and winced. Bitter, flat, and too warm. He set it down again.

He caught the gaze of a woman at the bar who was quick to pity his sullen expression. She walked in like she belonged there, even if she didn’t. Long auburn curls bounced with each step, falling in glossy waves to her waist. Her short burgundy skirt caught the light as she moved, matching the shine of her leather boots—knee-high, unapologetic. A black jacket hugged her shoulders, and beneath it, a lace top hinted at mischief and midnight. She looked like she’d stepped out of a music video and into the wrong decade, but she made it work. Effortlessly.

She spotted Hob in the corner booth, his solitude like a beacon. With a smile that could melt cynicism, she crossed the room and stopped beside his table.

“Hello, stranger,” she said, voice bright and lilting, like she’d known him in another life. “You look like someone just told you Wham! was getting back together and you’re not sure how to feel about it.”

Hob blinked, caught off guard. She tilted her head, curls cascading like a curtain.

“Mind if I sit?” she asked, already sliding into the booth across from him. “You’ve got the best seat in the house for brooding. But I’m warning you—I’m allergic to sulking. So what’s got you in a sour mood?”

She smiled again, not out of politeness, but curiosity. Real, unfiltered. The kind that made people talk when they didn’t mean to.

Hob looked up slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere deep. The woman’s presence was like a splash of colour in a black-and-white film—unexpected, vivid, and impossible to ignore. Her curls shimmered under the flickering light, and her smile was so open it made him feel like he’d been caught sulking in public.

He gave a small, dry laugh. “Sour mood? That obvious?”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hand. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been stood up or just read the ending of Watership Down. Either way, tragic.”

Hob smirked despite himself. “Friend was meant to meet me. Hour ago. No call, no message. Just... nothing.”

She made a sympathetic noise and reached for the untouched pint across from him, sniffing it theatrically. “Well, either they’ve got terrible manners, or you’ve got terrible taste in friends. Or maybe they’re just late and you’re catastrophizing.”

He shrugged. “Could be all three.”

She laughed—a bright, unfiltered sound that made the nearby table glance over. “Well, lucky for you, I’m here now. And I’m far more entertaining than whoever ditched you. Unless they were bringing cake. Were they bringing cake?”

“No,” Hob said, lips twitching. “Just conversation. And maybe closure.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oof. Heavy. Sounds like you need a distraction. I’m good at those. I can tell you which member of Duran Duran is secretly the most emotionally available, or why Labyrinth is actually a metaphor for puberty.”

Hob chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You always walk up to strangers and rescue them from their own brooding?”

She leaned back, grinning. “Only the ones who look like they’ve got stories worth hearing.”

Hob studied her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between amusement and disbelief. She was a whirlwind—colour, confidence, and charm—and she’d landed in his booth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You always this forward?” he asked, voice low but not unfriendly.

She grinned. “Only with men who look like they’ve been abandoned by the entire decade.”

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. “Fair enough.”

She extended a hand across the table; her nails painted a deep plum that matched her skirt. “I’m Eila.”

He took her hand, warm and firm. “Hob.”

She tilted her head. “Hob? That short for something?”

“Nope. Just Hob.”

“Well, Hob Just Hob,” she said, releasing his hand, “you’ve got a name that sounds like it belongs in a novel. Or a pub tale. Or maybe both.”

He shrugged. “Depends on who’s telling it.”

Eila laughed again, then leaned back in the booth, her curls spilling over her shoulders like a velvet curtain. “Well, I’m glad I walked over. You looked like you needed rescuing.”

Hob glanced at the door one last time, then back at her. “Maybe I did.”

Eila tilted her head, curls cascading like a curtain of auburn silk. “It’s got to be short for something though. Robert? Bobby? Roberto?”

Hob gave a reluctant smile, the kind that tugged at one side of his mouth but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Robert,” he admitted. “But no one’s called me that in years.”

She grinned, triumphant. “Knew it. You’ve got Robert energy. Brooding, poetic, probably owns a trench coat.”

“I do not own a trench coat,” he said, deadpan.

“Not yet,” she teased. “But give it time.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Hob was a nickname. Started as a joke, stuck like glue. Now it’s mine.”

Eila leaned back, satisfied. “Well, Hob it is. It suits you. Feels like someone who’s seen things. Someone with stories.”

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe. Depends on who’s asking.”

She raised her glass in mock salute. “I’m asking. And I’ve got all night.”

They talked for a while—long enough for Hob to forget the time, and for Eila to kick off one boot under the table without noticing. Their conversation meandered like a lazy river: music, films, the absurdity of shoulder pads, the tragedy of good bands ruined by bad producers. Hob admitted he still listened to Bowie when he couldn’t sleep, and Eila confessed she’d cried during The NeverEnding Story more times than she cared to count.

At one point, she leaned in and asked, “So what do you do, Hob?” and he hesitated—not because he didn’t know, but because no one had asked in a way that made him want to answer. He told her he worked in archives, cataloguing things people had forgotten. She said that sounded romantic, and he said it wasn’t. But she didn’t believe him.

She told him about her job at a record shop in Camden, how she could tell what someone would buy just by the way they walked in. “If they’ve got a trench coat and a frown, it’s Joy Division. If they’re chewing gum and pretending not to care, it’s Bananarama.”

He laughed, genuinely this time, and she smiled like she’d won something.

The pub buzzed around them—Thatcher debates, synth-pop, the clink of pint glasses—but in their booth, it felt like a pocket of calm. Hob had stopped checking the door. Eila had stopped pretending she was just passing through.

As the laughter between them settled into a comfortable hush, Hob glanced at the clock above the bar. His friend clearly wasn’t coming. But somehow, the sting had dulled. Eila had filled the space with colour, with stories, with the kind of presence that made the night feel salvaged.

He cleared his throat gently. “You know… you’ve been really good company. Made being stood up feel almost like a favour.”

Eila smiled, her eyes soft but alert. “Well, I do have a talent for rescuing tragic evenings.”

Hob gave a small nod, then leaned forward just slightly. “Would you let me take you to dinner sometime? Just as a thank-you. No pressure. Just… food and more of this.”

She paused, not out of discomfort, but consideration. Then she smiled again—bright, kind, and just a little sad. “Dinner sounds lovely. But just so you know… it’d be purely platonic.”

Hob raised an eyebrow, not offended, just curious. “Fair enough. May I ask why?”

Eila looked down at her glass, then back up at him with a shrug that carried more weight than it let on. “I’m emotionally unavailable. Like, capital letters. I’m the human equivalent of a locked diary with no key. So if you’re hoping for romance, I’d rather be honest now than awkward later.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing it without flinching. “Platonic dinner it is, then. I like locked diaries. They tend to have the best stories.”

She laughed, and for a moment, it felt like something rare had been exchanged—not promises, not expectations, but understanding.

1989
ENGLAND

The bar was dimly lit, all amber glow and shadows, with a low ceiling that made everything feel closer—more intimate. The pool table sat beneath a hanging lamp that cast a perfect circle of light over the green felt, like a stage for small dramas. The clack of billiard balls echoed softly against the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the bar. A jukebox in the corner played Tears for Fears, just loud enough to be nostalgic.

Eila leaned over the table, one boot kicked back for balance, her curls tumbling forward as she lined up a shot. The burgundy of her skirt caught the light, and her black lace top shimmered faintly with movement. She took the shot—clean, confident—and sank the striped eleven with a satisfying thud.

“Honestly,” she said, straightening up and turning to Hob, “your friend’s an absolute douche.”

Hob raised an eyebrow, chalking his cue with slow, deliberate strokes. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’ with theatrical flair. “You don’t leave someone hanging like that. Especially not someone who wears heartbreak like it’s tailored.”

He gave a quiet laugh, leaning against the edge of the table. “You’ve known me for five hours.”

“And I’m an excellent judge of character,” she replied, grinning. “You’re thoughtful. You listen. You don’t interrupt. You even offered me dinner without trying to make it weird. That’s rare. And your friend—whoever he is—ditched all that. So yes. Douche.”

She took a sip from her drink—a gin and tonic with a twist of lime—and gestured for him to take his shot. Hob stepped up, eyes scanning the table, then glanced at her.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’m very sure of him,” she said, settling onto a nearby stool. “People like that think they’re the centre of the universe. But they forget the best stories happen in the margins.”

Hob lined up his shot, paused, then looked at her again. “And what story are we in?”

Eila smiled, slow and enigmatic. “One that wasn’t supposed to happen. But I’m glad it did.”

He sank the eight ball with a quiet thud. Game over.

Eila narrowed her eyes at the eight ball as it rolled into the pocket with a smug little thunk, then turned her gaze to Hob with theatrical indignation.

“You did not just win,” she said, pointing her cue at him like it was a sword. “I was this close to clearing the table. You stole my moment.”

Hob leaned on his cue, trying—and failing—not to smirk. “I believe the phrase is ‘game over.’”

She groaned, flopping dramatically onto the stool beside the table. “You’re insufferable. I offer you emotional support, witty banter, and a flawless gin recommendation, and this is how you repay me? By crushing my dreams of pool-table glory?”

He chuckled, setting his cue aside. “You did say dinner was platonic. I assumed that meant no mercy.”

Eila shot him a look, but her grin betrayed her. “You’re lucky you’re charming, Robert.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Back to Robert now, are we?”

“Only when you’re being smug,” she said, grabbing her drink and swirling the ice like it owed her something. “Next round, I’m playing left-handed. Just to give you a fighting chance.”

Hob laughed, and for a moment, the bar felt like the centre of something—something light, unexpected, and quietly electric.

The pool table glowed under the low amber lights of the bar; its green felt a battleground of chalk-dusted strategy and playful sabotage. Eila leaned over, cue in hand, her brow furrowed in mock concentration. She lined up her shot with theatrical precision, tongue poking out slightly as if that might help the physics bend in her favour.

The cue ball cracked against the cluster, scattering solids and stripes like startled birds. One ball teetered on the edge of the corner pocket, then cruelly rolled away. Eila groaned, straightening up with a flourish. “Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.”

Hob stepped in, casual and maddeningly confident. He chalked his cue with the air of someone who’d done this a thousand times, then sank two balls in quick succession with maddening ease. “You know,” he said, circling the table like a predator, “I think the table likes me better.”

“Oh, please,” Eila muttered, watching him line up another shot. “You probably bribed it.”

He winked. “I’m very persuasive.”

The game continued with a rhythm of clinks, groans, and triumphant little fist pumps. Eila’s shots were bold and chaotic, occasionally brilliant, often disastrous. Hob’s were precise, annoyingly elegant. By the time the eight-ball rolled into the pocket, Eila was already halfway through her dramatic sulk.

Chapter 18: INTERLUDE 1 | DREAM GETS THERAPY FOR THE FIRST TIME

Chapter Text

THERAPY – LUDGATE HILL, LONDON
2025

“It’s not too difficult to get the skeletons out of the closet with people, but to get the gold out is a different matter. That is therapy.”
- Robert Johnson

"Our wounds are often the openings into the best and most beautiful part of us."
- David Richo
“My scars remind me that I did indeed survive my deepest wounds. That in itself is an accomplishment. And they bring to mind something else, too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient. What hurt me in the past has actually made me better equipped to face the present.”
- Steve Goodier

The room was quiet in the way only certain rooms can be—where silence isn’t absence, but presence. It hung in the air like dust motes in a shaft of light, thick and deliberate. The walls were a soft, noncommittal shade of grey, the kind chosen to soothe without inspiring. A couch sat opposite a high-backed armchair; both arranged with the precision of someone who believed in symmetry as a form of healing. A clock ticked steadily above the door, its rhythm too perfect to be comforting.

Dream sat on the edge of the couch, not slouched, not relaxes, but poised—like a figure carved from marble who has been asked to pretend at humanity. His fingers moved with idle grace, turning a business card over and over, the edges already beginning to fray beneath his touch. He did not look at it. He did not need to.

The card was thick, ivory stock, the kind that whispered with intention. Embossed in deep indigo ink, the name read:

Dr. Miriam Halberd, D.Psych
Psychotherapist

A raven in flight was watermarked faintly across the bottom corner, visible only when the card tilted toward the light. The address was printed in small, serif font: 3^rd Floor, the Wren Building, Ludgate Hill, London. Beneath it, a phone number and a web address, both too ordinary to belong to someone who had once treated a woman claiming to be the reincarnation of Ra.

Dream’s thumb paused on the raven’s wing. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing in—not from the room, not from the card but the act itself. To be here. To seek counsel. To speak aloud what he had never dared name.

The door to the office opened with a soft chime—an old-fashioned bell, not electronic, as if the room itself resisted modernity. Dream stepped inside, his presence quiet but unmistakable, like the moment before sleep overtakes the mind. He did not knock. He did not hesitate. He simply arrived.

The room was warm in tone but cool in spirit. Books lined the shelves in uneven stacks, some titles worn to anonymity. A single window let in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the floor. The couch was deep green velvet, slightly faded, and the armchair opposite it was upholstered in a fabric that looked like it had once been part of a cathedral.

Dr. Miriam Halberd stood as he entered. She was tall, with silver-threaded hair pulled back loosely, and eyes that held the kind of stillness found in deep water. She wore no jewellery, no perfume, no affectation. Just a linen blouse, dark trousers, and a quiet confidence.

“You must be Dream,” she said, her voice low and clear. “I’m Dr. Halberd. Please, sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

Dream inclined his head slightly, a gesture that could have been regal or simply polite. He chose the couch, sitting with a posture too precise to be relaxed. His hands were empty, but he reached into his coat and withdrew a business card—her card—and began to turn it slowly between his fingers.

Dr. Halberd resumed her seat, crossing one leg over the other. She did not open a notebook. She did not reach for a pen. She simply watched him, not with scrutiny, but with presence.

She simply watched him, not with scrutiny, but with presence. The kind of presence that didn’t demand explanation, only offered space.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, her voice calm, almost meditative. “Eila mentioned you might come, but she wasn’t certain you would.”

Dream’s gaze lifted from the card in his hand. The name—Dr. Miriam Halberd, D. Psych—gleamed faintly in the soft light. He placed it on the table between them, smoothing its edges with a fingertip.

“She is rarely certain,” he said. “But often correct.”

Dr. Halberd gave a small nod, as if that confirmed something she already knew. “She said you were… between selves.”

Dream tilted his head slightly, considering the phrase. “A poetic way of describing disintegration.”

“She’s a poet,” Halberd replied. “And a friend.”

Dream’s posture remained composed, but something in his expression shifted—an echo of weariness, perhaps, or the weight of too many centuries spent as an idea rather than a being.

He looked around the room, as if trying to locate himself within it. The couch beneath him, the ticking clock, the filtered light through the window—it was all so human. So finite. And yet, here he was, occupying it.

“I am not accustomed to being observed,” he said, his voice quiet but resonant, like wind through cathedral arches.

Dr. Halberd didn’t flinch. “You’re not being observed,” she replied. “You’re being met.”

That gave him pause. He turned the phrase over in his mind, like a stone in a river. Met. Not studied. Not summoned. Not feared.

He glanced down at the card again, now resting on the table between them. The raven watermark seemed to shimmer faintly, as if acknowledging the moment.

“I was referred,” he said. “By someone who believes I’ve forgotten how to be whole.”

“Eila,” Halberd said, with a nod.

“She sees things others do not,” Dream murmured.

“She sees pain,” Halberd corrected gently. “And she sees when it’s been worn too long.”

Dream’s fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to vanish into mist. But he remained.

“I do not know what I am here to say,” he admitted.

“Then let’s begin with what you’re here to feel,” she said.

The silence between them stretched—not awkward, not empty, but elastic, like the hush before a storm or the breath held between verses of a song. It wrapped around Dream like a shawl woven from time itself, inviting him to settle into its folds.

Dr. Halberd didn’t move. She remained still, her presence as steady as a lighthouse in fog. Her gaze didn’t prod or pierce—it simply held, like cupped hands waiting to catch whatever might fall.

Dream’s eyes drifted toward the window. Outside, the sky was the colour of old parchment, streaked with the ink of approaching dusk. A single bird wheeled overhead, its silhouette sharp against the fading light. He watched it for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned back to the room.

“I feel,” he said slowly, “as though I am walking through a corridor lined with mirrors. Each one reflects a version of me I do not recognize.”

Dr. Halberd inclined her head, just slightly, as though acknowledging the weight of his words without disturbing their shape. She didn’t speak. She let the image breathe.

Dream’s voice lingered in the air like smoke—fragile, curling, reluctant to dissipate. He sat with the stillness of someone who had mastered the art of waiting, but not the comfort of it. His fingers rested lightly on his knee, unmoving, as if even gesture might fracture the moment.

“The reflections are not false,” he continued, his tone like frost on glass. “They are me. Or were. Or might be. But none of them… fit.”

Halberd’s eyes remained steady, her posture unchanged. She was not a mirror, nor a wall—she was a threshold. A place where things passed through and returned altered.

“Do they speak to you?” she asked, her voice soft, shaped like a question but not demanding an answer.

Dream’s gaze dropped to the floor, where the shadows had begun to stretch long and thin, like memories trying to escape the confines of the present.

“No,” he said. “They watch. They wait. They mourn.”

A silence bloomed again, rich and layered. Outside, the bird had vanished, swallowed by the dusk. Inside, the room held its breath.

Halberd reached for nothing. She simply leaned into the quiet, letting it settle like sediment in deep water.

“And what do they mourn?” she asked.

Dream’s eyes lifted, and for a moment they shimmered—not with tears, but with the vastness of something unspoken. Something ancient. Something breaking.

“Me,” he said.

And the word fell like a stone into the stillness, rippling outward, touching everything.

Dr. Halberd let the silence settle again, but this time it was purposeful—like a pause in a symphony, placed exactly where the listener needed to breathe.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but anchored. “It sounds like you’re experiencing a kind of identity diffusion. When the self becomes fragmented, especially after significant change or loss, it’s common to feel alienated from your own reflection—both literal and metaphorical.”

Dream’s gaze remained steady, but something behind his eyes flickered, like candlelight in a draft.

“These mirrored versions you describe,” she continued, “they may not be false, but they’re incomplete. They’re aspects of you—roles, memories, archetypes—that once served a purpose. When we evolve, those parts don’t always integrate smoothly. Sometimes they linger, watching, waiting, mourning the coherence they once had.”

She reached for a small notebook—not to write, but to hold, like a grounding object. “What you’re describing isn’t disintegration. It’s transition. And transitions are rarely elegant. They’re messy, disorienting, and often painful. But they’re also necessary.”

Her voice was calm, but not soft. It had the texture of something worn smooth by repetition, like river stones shaped by years of listening. She let the words settle, then continued, her tone shifting into the cadence of practiced care.

“When we go through profound change—especially identity-level change—it’s common to feel like the self is splintering. But what you’re experiencing isn’t a collapse. It’s a reorganization. The psyche doesn’t erase—it rearranges. And that process can feel like loss, because something familiar is being asked to step aside.”

Dream’s gaze remained fixed, but his fingers moved again, slow, and deliberate, as if tracing patterns in invisible sand.

“You mentioned mirrors,” she said. “That’s a powerful metaphor. In therapy, we often talk about the ‘reflected self’—how we see ourselves through others, through roles, through memory. When those reflections shift, it can feel like betrayal. But it’s not betrayal. It’s evolution.”

She leaned back slightly, giving the moment space to breathe.

“You’re not failing to be who you were,” she said. “You’re grieving who you no longer need to be.”

The words hung in the air like incense—delicate, fragrant, and impossible to ignore.

Dr. Halberd let the silence stretch, but it was no longer empty—it was expectant, like the hush before a memory returns.

Then she asked, gently but without hesitation, “When was the last time you felt like yourself?”

Dream’s gaze didn’t shift immediately. But something in his posture loosened, like a thread pulled free from a tapestry. He looked past her, past the room, past the century.

“Seventy-four BCE,” he said, as if naming a secret. “Asteria’s twenty-sixth birthday.”

Halberd didn’t interrupt. She simply listened.

“She was obsessed with Roman gladiators,” he continued, a faint trace of amusement ghosting his voice. “I had taken her to see a chariot race. The blue faction won that day—she wore their colours, painted her eyelids with lapis dust. She cheered so loudly the horses turned their heads.”

He paused, and the air seemed to shift around him.

“Afterward, she begged me to take her to the arena. I relented. Begrudgingly. I never liked the bloodsport. But she was radiant with anticipation.”

His voice softened.

“One of the gladiators refused to finish off his opponent. The crowd roared for death. But he stood firm. Mercy, in defiance of spectacle.”

Dream’s eyes darkened—not with sorrow, but with reverence.

“She was in awe. Not of the fight. Not of the victor. But of the refusal. Of the choice.”

He looked down at his hands, as if they still held the dust of that day.

“I remember thinking… I felt real. Not as a concept. Not as a function. But as someone who had given her that moment.”

Halberd reached for a stone from the bowl beside her. This one read mercy. She placed it gently on the table.

Dream’s voice lingered in the air, like the last note of a hymn. Then, after a breath, he continued.

“That day,” he said, “was also the last time I felt truly connected to my family. Not as endless beings orbiting their own domains, but as something closer. Something human.”

Halberd didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

“We had gathered afterward,” Dream went on, “not in ceremony, not in conflict. Just... together. Desire had brought wine. Despair, a poem. Death was there, of course—she always is, when it matters. Even Delirium was lucid for a time, painting Asteria’s face with crushed violets and gold dust.”

He paused, and the silence felt sacred.

“There was laughter. Not the kind that echoes through eternity, but the kind that lives and dies in a moment. We were not perfect. We were not even kind. But we were present. And I remember thinking—this is what it should be. Not duty. Not distance. But this.”

His gaze drifted, not to the window this time, but inward.

“I have not felt that since. Not truly. We are scattered now. Fractured. Bound by roles, not by love. And I… I want that back. Not the moment. Not the memory. But the feeling. The belonging.”

Halberd reached for another stone. This one read home. She placed it beside mercy.

“Then let’s find the thread,” she said softly. “The one that still connects you. Even if it’s frayed.”

Dream looked at the stones. And for the first time, something like warmth flickered behind his eyes.

“I would like that,” he said.

Halberd studied him for a moment, her gaze steady but kind. The stones between them—mercy and home—seemed to hum with quiet relevance.

“You mentioned Asteria,” she said, her voice gentle but deliberate. “That memory… it wasn’t just about feeling like yourself. It was about her. About connection.”

Dream’s expression didn’t shift, but something in him recoiled slightly—like a tide pulling back before it returns stronger.

Halberd leaned forward, just enough to signal care, not pressure.

“Maybe we should talk through your relationship with her,” she continued. “If that moment was the last time you felt whole, maybe she’s part of the thread we’re trying to find.”

Dream was silent. Not resistant—just cautious. As if the name itself carried weight he wasn’t sure he could lift.

“She was born of you,” Halberd said. “But more than that, she mattered to you. Not as a creation. As a daughter. That’s not something you speak of lightly.”

Dream’s eyes flicked toward her, then away again. Not evasive—just bracing.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled, but not composed. There was a tremor in the stillness, like a structure under strain.

“She was never meant to be part of the narrative,” he said. “Not in the way mortals are. Not in the way my siblings are. She was… an anomaly. A choice. Mine.”

Halberd nodded, not interrupting.

“And I loved her,” he said, the words landing like stones dropped into deep water. “Not as a concept. Not as a reflection of my power. I loved her as a father. And I didn’t know how to be one.”

His voice cracked, just slightly. Enough to make the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“I tried to shape her world. To protect her from the chaos of mine. But I was distant. Cold. I thought detachment was safety. I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, she’d be spared the weight of me.”

He looked down at his hands, as if they’d failed him.

“She never asked for perfection. She asked for presence. And I gave her silence. I gave her rules. I gave her absence dressed as structure.”

Halberd’s expression softened. “And yet, that memory—her birthday, the chariot race, the gladiator—was the last time you felt like yourself.”

Dream nodded slowly. “Because for once, I didn’t try to be anything but hers. I let her lead. I let her laugh. I let myself be small beside her joy.”

He exhaled, and it sounded like surrender.

“I want that again. Not the day. Not the spectacle. I want to be someone she could reach for. Someone who would reach back.”

Dream’s gaze softened, the weight of memory pressing gently against the edges of his voice.

“When she was small,” he said, “I was present. Truly present. Not as the Lord of Dreams. Not as a figure of myth. Just… as her father.”

Halberd didn’t speak, but her posture shifted—leaning in, not to interrogate, but to receive.

“I would read to her,” he continued. “Stories of stars and sea serpents, of queens who ruled with kindness and wolves who sang lullabies. She liked the ones with endings that didn’t resolve. She said they felt more like life.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips.

“I sang to her, too. My voice is not made for melody, but she didn’t care. She said it sounded like the wind in a cathedral. I never knew if that was praise or poetry.”

Halberd smiled, just slightly. “Probably both.”

Dream nodded. “We played. Hide and seek in the dreaming. She’d vanish into forests I hadn’t imagined yet, and I’d pretend not to find her until she grew bored and summoned a thunderstorm to flush me out.”

He paused, and the silence that followed was warm, not heavy.

“She developed a taste for the equestrian,” he said. “For a time, everything was horses. She read about them, drew them, spoke to them in languages she invented. So I fashioned her a mare in the Dreaming—silver-maned, eyes like polished obsidian. She named her Thistle.”

Halberd tilted her head. “Did you race?”

“Occasionally,” Dream said. “She always won. Not because she was faster. Because I let her. And because she believed she was.”

He looked down, then back up, and something in his expression cracked—not broken, but open.

“I was there,” he said. “Fully. And I don’t know when I stopped being.”

“She’s still in you,” she said. “Not just as memory. As possibility.”

Dream’s gaze lingered on the stone marked return, his fingers brushing its edge as if it might open a door.

“She was everything to me then,” he said quietly. “Eila.”

Halberd didn’t speak. She simply let the name settle between them.

“I don’t speak of her often,” Dream continued. “Not because I’ve forgotten. Because remembering her fully… it’s like breathing underwater. Beautiful. But not meant to be sustained.”

His voice grew steadier, not colder—like someone walking barefoot across old ground.

“We lived as perfect a life as could be, for close to thirty years. Not perfect in the way mortals imagine—no white fences, no quiet retirements. But perfect in the way that mattered. We were present. We were honest. We were together.”

He paused, and the silence that followed felt reverent.

“She understood me. Not as a function. Not as a myth. As a man who was trying. She never asked me to be more than I was, but somehow, I always wanted to be.”

Halberd leaned forward slightly. “Did she know how much she meant to you?”

Dream nodded. “She did. I told her often. Not in words, always. But in the way I read to Asteria. In the way I sang, even when I feared it made me foolish. In the way I shaped the Dreaming to cradle their joy.”

He smiled, faintly. “Asteria had a phase—horses. She was obsessed. Eila would laugh and say she’d birthed a centaur. I fashioned her a mare, Thistle. Sleek and wild and loyal. We’d race through the Dreaming, and I’d let her win. Eila would watch, arms crossed, pretending to judge the form, but her eyes… her eyes were always soft.”

His voice faltered, just slightly.

“Those were the moments I felt closest to her. Not in the grand gestures. In the quiet ones. In the way she’d rest her head on my shoulder after Asteria fell asleep. In the way she’d hum a tune I hadn’t heard in centuries, just to remind me I wasn’t alone.”

Halberd reached for another stone. This one read belonging. She placed it beside the others.

“You did belong,” she said. “To them. And maybe… you still do.”

Dream’s fingers tightened slightly around the stone marked belonging, as if it might anchor him through what came next.

“My relationship with Eila,” he said slowly, “is… complicated.”

Halberd didn’t flinch. She simply waited, the kind of waiting that makes space rather than demands it.

“She was everything to me,” Dream continued. “And I was everything to her—for a time. We built something rare. Not just love. Not just companionship. We built a rhythm. A life. One that felt almost mortal in its simplicity. And I cherished it.”

He paused, and the silence that followed was heavier than before—not oppressive, but full.

“But I am not mortal,” he said. “And that truth… it has gravity.”

Halberd nodded, just once. “What changed?”

Dream’s voice lowered, not in volume, but in temperature. “I did. Or perhaps I didn’t. That’s the problem. She grew. She evolved. She wanted more than the Dreaming. More than the quiet joy we had. She wanted to shape things. To create beyond me.”

He looked up, eyes distant. “And I… I didn’t know how to let her.”

Halberd’s brow furrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in empathy.

“I tried to hold on,” Dream said. “Not out of control. Out of fear. Fear that if she stepped too far beyond me, I would lose the only version of myself that felt real.”

He exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“She left. Not in anger. In clarity. She said she loved me, but she could not remain in a life that asked her to shrink.”

“And now?” she asked.

Dream’s voice was quiet. “Now, I see her sometimes. In dreams. In echoes. She is radiant. Fierce. Whole. And I am proud. But I am also… haunted.”

Halberd leaned in. “By what?”

“That I loved her best when she was mine,” Dream said. “And I am learning to love her now that she is not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was sacred.

Halberd didn’t reach for another stone. She simply said, “That’s not just complicated. That’s human.”

And for once, Dream didn’t correct her.

Halberd watched him closely, the way one might watch a candle flicker in a draft—aware it could go out, but hoping it won’t.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you ever imagine it? A different life. A human one. Just you, Eila, and Asteria.”

Dream didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed—not in resistance, but in calculation, as if the question had opened a door he wasn’t sure he was ready to walk through.

“I have,” he said finally. “Not often. But enough.”

Halberd waited, letting the silence stretch just enough to invite more.

“In that life,” Dream said, “we live in a small house. Nothing grand. A garden, perhaps. Eila teaches literature at a university. Asteria rides real horses, not ones conjured from starlight. I work in a library. Or maybe I write. Something quiet. Something that doesn’t require me to hold the architecture of dreams together.”

His voice grew softer, more textured.

“We argue about dinner. We forget birthdays and remember them late with cake and laughter. We grow old. Slowly. Together.”

Halberd’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes did—something in them deepened.

“And would you be happy?” she asked.

Dream looked down at the stones again. Mercy. Home. Repair. Belonging. Truth. Return.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think I would feel… enough. Not eternal. Not infinite. Just enough.”

Dr. Halberd watched him with the kind of quiet that invites truth—not the polished kind, but the raw, unvarnished sort that lives beneath the skin.

After a long pause, she asked, “Do you think you would have married her? Had more children, if you’d lived a human life together?”

Dream didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted—not away, but inward, as if searching through centuries for a door that had never quite closed.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I would have asked her. Not as a formality. Not as a claim. But as a vow. To be hers, in the way mortals promise—through time, through change, through imperfection.”

His voice was quieter now, but not diminished. It carried the weight of longing, shaped by memory.

“She would have said yes,” he added. “Not because she needed me. But because she chose me. Again and again.”

Halberd nodded, her expression soft. “And children?”

Dream’s lips curved, just faintly. “Yes. I think we would have had more. Asteria was joy incarnate. She filled the Dreaming with laughter, with questions, with chaos. Eila used to say she was born with thunder in her bones.”

He paused, and the silence that followed felt like a held breath.

“I imagine a son,” he said. “Quiet, thoughtful. Obsessed with insects or clouds. Or another daughter—fierce, like her mother. Maybe they’d fight. Maybe they’d build kingdoms in the garden. Maybe they’d forget me sometimes, and I’d be grateful for it.”

Halberd smiled gently. “What kind of life would it have been?”

Dream’s eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something older. Something tender.

“Ordinary,” he said. “And that would have been its magic. Mornings with burnt toast. Afternoons chasing muddy boots. Nights where Eila read aloud while I pretended not to fall asleep.” He smiled to himself. “I would have grown old beside her,” he said. “And I would have loved every wrinkle time gave her.”

Halberd didn’t reach for another stone. She simply said, “Then maybe that life still lives in you. Not as regret. As blueprint.”

Halberd didn’t speak right away. She let the weight of his words settle, like dust on old furniture. Then, with a voice that was neither soft nor sharp, just honest:

“Then why not now? Why not marry her? Why not build that life you already see so clearly?”

Dream’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered—like a candle catching its breath.

“She deserves more than what I am,” he said.

Halberd didn’t blink. “She deserves truth. And choice. You speak of her as if she’s a memory, but she’s still here. Still choosing you.”

He looked down at his hands, as if they might hold the answer. “I fear what I would do to her. What loving me might cost.”

Halberd leaned forward. “You fear hurting her. But you’re already hurting her by holding back. You think grief is the worst thing love can bring—but it’s not. It’s absence. It’s silence. It’s the life not lived.”

Dream’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t know how to be ordinary.”

“Then learn,” she said. “Let her teach you. Let the garden teach you. Let the child you already imagine teach you. You don’t have to be ordinary. You just have to be present.”

He closed his eyes. And for a moment, the Dreaming stilled.

“She would say yes,” he whispered.

Halberd nodded. “Then ask her. Not as a king. Not as a myth. As a man who wants to be hers.”

"I don't feel as though I can."

"I know."

ATHENS, GREECE
2025

“Family: like branches on a tree, we all grow in different directions, yet our roots remain as one.”
- Unknown

“The only people that you really have, that I learned, are your family, because they love you no matter what.”
— Miley Cyrus

“Family is a unique gift that needs to be appreciated and treasured, even when they’re driving you crazy.”
— Jenna Morasca

"Might I join you, sister of mine?" It was a question that Dream was not sure he would have asked a short while ago, but after his one and only therapy session (he was quite sure it would not become a regular thing), he felt the need to visit his sister--the only sister he had ever felt capable of conversing with in any matter that would be productive. Though, when he considered it, Despair had occasionally had her moments over the eons. She could occasionally prove to be insightful in conversation, but it was occasional.

"Hello, Dream," his sister replied, the sweet melody of Death fluttering as she continued her walk, her younger brother stepping in time with her. "I had not expected to see you again so soon. How long has it been since you and I last saw one another? A few months?"

"I believe so, sister."

"And yet, in such short time, you so quickly forget your manners," she chimed, leading him down a street toward a market.

Dream smirked as much as a Lord of Dreams might smirk at his elder sister (not a lot, mind you, it was faint, but to the learned eye, it was wide as the Andromeda galaxy). "Ah yes, my manners. Misplaced, it seems. How are you, mine own sister? How fares Death on this summer's day in Athens?"

She grinned. "Much better. I'm great. I got to see a really nice musical the other day. Ride The Cyclone. It was quite fitting that I collected a choir boy during the performance. He seemed quite happy with how he went, getting to go while watching a musical he loved."

"I suppose that is all these mortals can ask for. An end that suits them. Even if they seldom get what they wish."

She was inclined to agree. "I do not decide whether they get a death that suits them. I simply collect them when their time is up. Where they are when that happens is not up to me."

"And where are you off to next?"

"There is a woman at the market, Eleni. She's forty-two, currently at her fruit stall. She's had a heart condition for years and she's currently having a nap, but it's time for her to go."

"I suppose you shan't mind if I accompany you for a short while."

"Don't you have anywhere else to be, little brother?" She asked, sliding between passing tourists. "I thought you were rebuilding your realm."

He nodded. "I am, but I am taking a few short hours to myself in order to...be, I suppose."

"How odd."

"I was not aware my actions would be deemed 'odd'."

She chuckled softly, the sound nearly lost beneath the hum of the city. The street they walked was narrow and sun-drenched, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Cades spilled out onto the pavement, their tables crowded with locals sipping expresso and tourists poring over maps. The air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee beans, fresh bread, and the faint tang of citrus from the nearby market.

Shadows danced along the walls as awnings fluttered in the breeze. A street musician played a mournful tune on a violin, his case opened at his feet, coins glinting like tiny offerings. Children darted between legs, chasing bubbles blown by a vendor with a cart shaped like a carousel. The city was alive, pulsing with the kind of vibrancy that made the presence of death feel almost out of place--almost.

She moved with purpose, her steps light but deliberate, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who had walked this path many times before. Her brother followed, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking from one face to another with quiet curiosity.

The market entrance loomed ahead, framed by wrought iron arches entwined in ivy. Inside, it was a riot of colour and sound. Stalls overflowed with produce--plump tomatoes, glossy eggplants, pyramids or oranges and lemons. Vendors called out their prices in melodic bursts, their voices rising above the din like birdsong.

She paused at the threshold, letting the energy wash over her. The scent of peaches and basil mingled with the musk of old wood and sun-warmed stone. Somewhere deeper in the market, a bell rang--soft, distant, like a chime marking the hour.

"There," she said, nodding toward a stall draped in faded red cloth. A woman reclined in a folding chair behind crates of nectarines and figs, her head tilted back, eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, a half-eaten sandwich resting on a napkin beside her.

"She looks peaceful," her brother murmured.

"She is," she replied. "And she will remain that way."

They stepped forward, the crowd parting instinctively, as if some unseen force made way for them. The moment hung suspended--quiet, reverent--as the market bustled on, unaware that one of its own was about to slip away. The woman--Eleni--shifted slightly in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips as if she were letting go of something unseen. Her fingers twitched once, then stilled. A fig rolled from the edge of the crate, landing with a muted thud on the cobblestones.

"She's gone," Death said gently, her voice low and reverent.

The air around them seemed to hush, as if the market itself had paused to acknowledge the passing. But only for a breath. Then the world resumed--vendors shouting, children laughing, the violinist striking up a new tune. Life surged forward, indifferent and unstoppable. Her brother watched Eleni's still form with a thoughtful expression. "She was dreaming," he said. "Of her childhood. A grove of olive trees, and her mother's voice calling her in for supper."

She nodded. "I saw it too. It was a good memory to carry her out."

They lingered a moment longer, unnoticed by the living. A breeze stirred the red cloth of the stall, lifting it like a curtain before letting it fall again. The scent of ripe fruit clung to the air, sweet and earthy. Then, without ceremony, she turned and began to walk. Her brother fell into step beside her. "Do you ever wonder," he said, "what they see after?"

She glanced at him. "No. That is not for me to know. I simply know where they go."

"But you must be curious."

"Curiosity implies a desire to change something. I have none. I am what I am."

Her smiled faintly. "You always were the pragmatic one."

They passed a stall selling dried herbs, the bundles hanging like talismans from twine. A woman offered them lavender, mistaking them for tourists. Her brother accepted a sprig with a nod of thanks, tucking it into his coat. "Will you stay long?" she asked.

"Just until the sun sets. Then I'll return. I promised Eila that I would have dinner with her."

Death's grin sharpened with amusement. "Of course you promised Eila," she said, stepping over a crooked cobblestone with practiced ease. "She's the only one who can keep you from vanishing into your own nonsense."

Dream raised an eyebrow, but didn't deny it.

"She's good for you," Death continued, voice light but edged with truth. "She doesn't get lost in your riddles or your tragic monologues. She listens, nods, and then tells you when you're been a pompous ass."

"She's direct," Dream admitted.

"She's honest," Death corrected. "And you need that. You need someone who doesn't flinch when you start waxing poetic about the architecture of longing or the geometry of sorrow, or whatever it is you do."

He gave a quiet laugh, the kind that barely reached his eyes. "She once told me that if I spent half as much time living as I did brooding, I might actually understand joy."

Death snorted. "She's right. You're brilliant, brother, but you're also exhausting. Eila sees through you. She knows when you're hiding behind your cloak because you're afraid to be simple."

They passed a shuttered tailor's shop, the mannequins in the window frozen mid-stride, draped in half-finished coats. The sun was sinking now, casting the street in a warm, amber hush

"She's the only one who doesn't treat you like a god," Death said. "She treats you like a man who's trying to make sense of things he'll never full grasp. And she loves you anyway." She smiled. "Go to her. Enjoy your dinner. Let her tell you when you're being ridiculous. let her remind you that even Endless need grounding."

"And you?"

"There's a boy nearby," she said, her tone bright. "Seventeen. He's riding his bike too fast down a hill. He's laughing. He feels invincible. And he's about to learn that invincibility is a myth."

Dream nodded solemnly.

"But he'll go with joy still in his lungs," Death added. "And I'll be there to catch it."

Dream lingered a moment longer, then turned toward the fading light. "It has been a pleasure, sister, as always."

THE DREAMING
2025

The Dreaming shifted around her like breath held in velvet. The dining table stretched impossibly long, carved from petrified moonlight and veined with strands of memory — some hers, some not. Candles floated above the surface, their flames flickering in rhythm with thoughts unspoken. The air tasted faintly of ink and thunder.

Eila sat at the head, though there was no hierarchy here — only intention. Her fingers traced the rim of a goblet filled with something that shimmered like nostalgia. The chair beneath her pulsed gently, as if alive, responding to her mood with subtle shifts in texture: now velvet, now bone, now the soft moss of forgotten forests.

Around her, the room rearranged itself. Portraits blinked. A grandfather clock ticked backwards. The chandelier overhead dripped starlight onto the tablecloth, which was embroidered with constellations that changed depending on where she looked. Somewhere in the distance, a door sighed open and closed, though no one entered.

She was waiting. Not for food — the table offered dishes that reflected longing more than appetite — but for something else. And he came quicker than expected, a shadow on the wall that stepped forward and took the form of stars-incarnate: Oneiros.

He emerged as if drawn from the ink of night itself — tall, solemn, and impossibly still. His cloak shimmered with constellations that pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of the cosmos. Eyes like twin voids met hers, unreadable yet intimate, as though he had already wandered through the dreamscape of her thoughts and returned with quiet understanding.

Eila did not rise. Rising felt too mortal, too abrupt for the presence before her. Instead, she inclined her head, fingers still resting on the goblet, which now rippled with starlight instead of wine.

“You came,” she said, voice steady, though something in her chest fluttered like pages caught in wind.

“I did make a promise to you,” Oneiros replied, stepping fully into the candlelight. His voice was quiet, but it carried the gravity of stars — not loud, but inescapable. “And I do not break promises lightly.”

The words settled between them like dust on ancient parchment. Eila’s breath caught, just for a moment. She remembered the night he’d said it — not in words, but in gesture, in presence, in the way he had stood beside her when the dream threatened to collapse. A vow made not with ceremony, but with silence.

The Dreaming responded to his arrival. The walls pulsed with slow rhythm, like the heartbeat of a sleeping god. The chandelier above dimmed further, casting shadows that curled like ink across the tablecloth. The fig on her plate glistened anew, its honey now swirling with flecks of silver — memory stirred by proximity.

Eila’s fingers tightened around the goblet. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remember everything,” he said, and there was no pride in it — only truth. “Even the things you wish I wouldn’t.”

"Sit, please."

Oneiros inclined his head — not in deference, but in acknowledgment, like a monarch accepting the gravity of a moment rather than the invitation itself. The chair across from Eila unfolded from the shadows, not summoned but revealed, as if it had always been waiting for him. Its frame was carved from dreambone and duskwood, its cushions stitched from the silence between heartbeats.

He sat with the grace of inevitability, his cloak folding around him like the night tucking itself in. The table responded instantly: the candles flared, casting halos that danced across his features, and the constellations in the tablecloth rearranged themselves to mirror the sky above the dreaming sea — a map only he could read.

Eila watched him, her expression unreadable but her eyes bright with something ancient. Not joy. Not sorrow. Something older than both — recognition, perhaps. Or the ache of knowing someone who has always belonged to the world more than to you.

Eila’s fingers stilled on the goblet, the shimmer within it dimming to a soft glow. She tilted her head, studying him across the table — this being of myth and shadow, of silence and stars — and asked, gently, “How was your day?”

It was a mortal question, simple and small, but in the Dreaming it carried weight. It was not idle curiosity. It was an invitation to be known.

Oneiros’s gaze did not waver. “I saw the psychiatrist,” he said, voice low, like wind through cathedral glass. “The one you recommended.”

Eila’s breath caught, just slightly — not in surprise, but in quiet relief. The chandelier above them pulsed once, casting a warm ripple of light across the tablecloth. The constellations shifted again, softer now, as if the Dreaming itself exhaled.

“I’m glad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to tell me what you spoke about. I don’t need the details.”

Oneiros inclined his head, the gesture subtle but deliberate — a signal of understanding, not dismissal. The shadows around him softened, curling inward like petals at dusk. His hands, long and pale, rested on the table as if anchoring him to the moment.

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted you to know I went.”

Eila’s lips parted, then closed again. She nodded, slowly, as if absorbing the truth of it. The goblet in her hand shimmered once more, its glow deepening to a warm amber — the colour of quiet pride.

“I didn’t suggest it because I thought you were broken,” she said, her voice steady now, like a thread pulled taut. “I suggested it because even gods deserve to be heard.”

The chandelier above them flickered, casting a brief constellation across the tablecloth — a spiral galaxy, delicate and fleeting. The Dreaming responded not with grandeur, but with intimacy.

“I’m glad you went,” she said again, firmer this time. “Not for me. For you.”

Oneiros regarded her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching like a thread spun from starlight. Then, slowly, he nodded — not as a ruler acknowledging a decree, but as a man accepting a truth he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

“I did not expect it to be difficult,” he said. “But it was.”

The chandelier above them flickered, casting a brief shimmer across his face — not enough to soften it, but enough to reveal the wear behind his eyes. The Dreaming responded in kind: the walls pulsed once, and the air grew heavier, as if the realm itself were listening more closely now.

Eila didn’t press. She simply watched him, her fingers resting lightly on the goblet, which now glowed with a quiet warmth — the colour of understanding.

Oneiros’s gaze lingered on her, the shadows around his eyes softening just slightly. The Dreaming pulsed in rhythm with the silence, as if waiting for something more.

“And you,” he said, his voice quieter now, less like cathedral wind and more like the hush before sleep. “How was your day, Eila? What did you get up to?”

The question was simple, but it landed with unexpected weight. Eila blinked, surprised by the shift — not just in topic, but in him. He rarely asked. He rarely turned the mirror outward.

She smiled, the kind that curled at the edges and warmed the air around her. “I wandered,” she said. “Through the Library. Lucienne let me browse the restricted shelves.”

Oneiros raised an eyebrow, just slightly. “She must trust you.”

“She does,” Eila replied. “I read a half-written lullaby that made me cry, and a recipe for a soup that only exists in dreams of winter. Then I sat by the river of Unspoken Things and watched the fish leap through sentences no one ever said.”

The chandelier above them shimmered, casting a soft glow that rippled across the tablecloth. The fig pulsed once, as if pleased.

“I didn’t do anything important,” she added, lifting the goblet to her lips. “But it felt… full.”

Oneiros nodded, slowly. “That is important.”

Eila set the goblet down, her fingers brushing the rim again. “I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m learning,” he said.

And the Dreaming, ever listening, rearranged the stars above them to reflect the truth of it.

Chapter 19: THE TIES THAT BIND US (2) - THE ENDLESS STORM OF MEMORY

Chapter Text

THE TIES THAT BIND US BOOK TWO:
THE ENDLESS STORM OF MEMORY
a dxrkneptxne novel

“Memory is not a place but a weather system—unpredictable, relentless, and vast. It rolls in like thunder over still waters, stirring what was settled, flooding what was buried. We do not walk through time; we are drenched in it. And in the endless storm of memory, we are both the lightning and the tree it strikes—burned, illuminated, and changed.”
- Me (Dxrkneptxne)
"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
- William Faulkner
“Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading. They become part of you. They shape your silence. They haunt your choices. They are the quiet architects of your soul.”
—Kazuo Ishiguro from Never Let Me Go
"We are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss. But memory is not gentle--it is a storm that reshapes the shoreline of who we are."
— Cassandra Clare from City of Heavenly Fire

Some stories are remembered rather that written. They linger like perfume on a scarf, like fingerprints on glass—traces of something once vivid, now half-faded but never fully gone. They are whispered between generations, carried in the marrow of memory, stitched into the quiet moments when the past brushes against the present.

Other stories are forgotten, and the author must begin again. Must return to the blank page with trembling hands and a heart full of ghosts. The character must be reborn—not as they were, but as they might be. The place must be redrawn, the plot rethreaded like a tapestry unravelled by time. The dialogue shifts like wind through broken windows. The tone darkens or lightens depending on the season of the soul. The motive, once clear, becomes a fogged mirror. The want, the will, the desire, the destiny—all must be dismantled and rebuilt until the figure standing in the narrative feels almost real. Almost whole. A silhouette filled in with borrowed light.

To forget is to begin again. To reinvent and remake. To redesign and reimagine. It is the architect’s curse and the alchemist’s hope—the belief that from the ashes of absence, something new might rise. That forgetting is not an end, but a chrysalis.

At least, that is what it is in principle.

In reality, forgetting is loss. It is the slow bleed of meaning from the veins of memory. It is the quiet closing of a door that once led to wonder. It is the erosion of names, the vanishing of faces, the silence where laughter used to live. Forgetting is not a clean slate—it is a slate shattered; its pieces scattered across the floor of the mind. And no matter how carefully one gathers them, some fragments are always missing.

Still, the author writes. Not because they remember, but because they must. Because the silence demands a voice, and the void aches to be filled. Because even in the absence of memory, there is the pulse of possibility—a rhythm that insists on being heard.

The act of writing becomes a kind of resurrection. Each word is a shovel in the soil of forgetting, digging for fragments of truth. Each sentence is a bridge stretched across the chasm of loss. The author writes not to reclaim what was, but to conjure what could be. To give shape to the shadows. To name the unnamed.

But forgetting is not a gentle erasure. It is a storm that strips the leaves from the tree, leaving only the bark and the bare. It is the tide that pulls the sand from beneath your feet, until you are standing ankle-deep in absence. It is the slow unravelling of a tapestry once rich with colour, now threadbare and mute.

And yet, in that emptiness, there is a strange kind of freedom. A terrifying, beautiful blankness. The forgotten story becomes a canvas unclaimed. The character, no longer bound by the past, is free to become anything—a thief of stars, a keeper of secrets, a wanderer between worlds. The author, too, is reborn—not as a chronicler of what was, but as a dreamer of what might be.

Perhaps that is the paradox: forgetting is both wound and window. It is the ache of what is lost, and the invitation to begin again. It is the silence after the song, and the breath before the next note.

Extracted from a letter from Eila to Ximena, 1794
collected by Asteria and bound in an anthology
titled 'all that my mother is' (dated, 1813)

CONTENTS

A PROLOGUE

The rain had stopped, but the sky still wore its bruises.

Eila sat curled into the corner of the window seat, her fingers wrapped around a chipped porcelain mug. The coffee had long gone cold, but she drank it anyway—bitter as truth, dark as the thoughts she hadn’t yet spoken. Outside, the garden shimmered with the aftermath of the storm, leaves slick and trembling, the earth breathing steam.

Across from her, Oneiros stirred his tea with a silver spoon, slow and deliberate, as if the motion itself held meaning. He didn’t look at her, not directly. His gaze drifted somewhere between the past and the present, as though he were watching memories replay on the fogged glass. The scent of bergamot hung in the air like a question neither of them wanted to ask.

They hadn’t spoken in hours. Words felt too fragile, too easily broken. Instead, they sat in the hush that follows revelation, in the quiet that memory demands. The room was filled with echoes—of laughter once shared, of arguments that left scars, of stories half-told and half-remembered.

Eila traced the rim of her mug with her thumb. She was trying to recall something—an image, a phrase, a feeling—but it slipped through her like water through cupped hands. Oneiros, ever the keeper of dreams, seemed to sense it. He tilted his head, listening not to her voice, but to the silence between them.

Outside, the wind shifted. A single leaf detached from the sycamore and spiralled downward, slow and deliberate, like a thought finally let go.

And somewhere deep within them both, the storm began again.

Eila watched the steam rise from Oneiros’s teacup, curling like breath from a sleeping god. The storm had passed, but its silence lingered—thick, expectant, like the hush after a final note. Outside, the garden glistened with the memory of rain, each leaf trembling as if unsure whether to relax or brace again.

She set her mug down, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood. Her voice broke the quiet like a ripple across still water.

Eila took a slow sip of her coffee, grimaced, and set the mug down with theatrical disgust.
“Cold. Bitter. Dramatic. Just like me,” she muttered. “And yet I keep drinking it.”

Oneiros didn’t look up. He was still stirring his tea, as if the leaves might rearrange themselves into prophecy.

She watched him for a moment, then leaned back against the window frame. “You know, most people celebrate after surviving something catastrophic. Champagne. Dancing. A questionable tattoo. You? You sit there steeping Earl Grey like it’s a sacred rite.”

“I prefer quiet beginnings,” he said.

Eila snorted. “Of course you do. You’re practically made of quiet. If you were any more composed, you’d evaporate.”

He finally looked at her, one brow raised. “Would you rather I made a speech?”

“I’d rather you told me what you’re planning,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Now that the world’s stopped spinning sideways. What happens next in the grand Oneiros saga?”

He set his spoon down, folded his hands around the cup. “I rebuild.”

“That’s it?” she asked. “No dramatic pause, no cryptic metaphor? Just ‘I rebuild’?”

“I thought I’d try being direct,” he said. “You complain when I’m vague.”

“I complain regardless,” she said, smiling. “It’s part of my charm.”

He gave a quiet laugh, the kind that barely disturbed the air. “The realm needs structure. Memory needs shape. I’ll start with the foundations.”

Eila tilted her head. “And what about the rest of us? Do we get a say in this new architecture, or are we just ornamental gargoyles?”

“You’re welcome to contribute,” he said. “Though I suspect you’ll do so whether invited or not.”

“Correct,” she said, lifting her mug in mock salute. “I’m a storm in boots. You build your realm, Oneiros. Just don’t forget who wandered through the ruins with you.”

He nodded once, solemn. “I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

She looked away then, out at the garden, where the light was beginning to soften. The storm had passed. But something else was stirring—quieter, deeper.

Oneiros took another sip of his tea, eyes distant but steady, as if he were already sketching blueprints in the steam.

Eila leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her coffee abandoned. “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “the gallery stays. Non-negotiable. I don’t care if the rest of the realm collapses into a poetic void—those paintings are sacred.”

Oneiros gave a small nod. “The gallery will remain.”

“Good,” she said, satisfied. “But everything else? Fair game. Honestly, it could use a bit of flair. You’ve got the aesthetic of a haunted monastery.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’d prefer what, exactly?”

“Oh, I have ideas,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Nebulae windows. I want stars bleeding through the glass. I want light that shifts with memory. And drapes—purple silk, obviously. Deep violet, like bruised twilight. Something decadent. Something that says, ‘I survived a metaphysical implosion and now I lounge like royalty.’”

Oneiros considered this. “And tapestries?” Oneiros asked, the corner of his mouth twitching like it might dare to smile.

Eila leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Absolutely. Massive ones. I want myth woven into fabric. I want drama in thread. I want a tapestry so large it needs its own gravitational field.”

Oneiros stirred his tea, unbothered. “You’re describing a curtain with delusions of grandeur.”

“I’m describing art,” she corrected.

He looked at her, amused. “You want me to decorate with nebulae and silk?”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “Windows that open into starfields. Drapes that ripple like the edge of a dream. And maybe—just maybe—a chaise lounge that doesn’t look like it was carved from existential dread.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said, sipping his tea.

“You’ll do it,” she replied, grinning. “Because deep down, you know I’m right. The realm deserves beauty. Not just structure. Not just memory. Something that breathes. Something that sings.”

Oneiros set his cup down, finally meeting her gaze. “And you’ll oversee this transformation, I assume?”

“Oh, I’ll be insufferable,” she said. “I’ll critique every stone, every stitch. I’ll haunt your design meetings like a stylish poltergeist.”

He nodded solemnly. “Then it will be perfect.”

Eila waved a hand dismissively, as if she hadn’t just delivered a manifesto on celestial interior design.
“But honestly,” she said, stretching her legs out across the window seat, “it’s your realm. You can decorate it however you want. I’m just here to be annoying.”

Oneiros didn’t flinch. “You’re succeeding.”

She grinned. “It’s a gift. Some people bring wine. I bring unsolicited opinions and a strong aesthetic vision.”

He picked up his tea again, unbothered. “And yet, I suspect if I rebuilt the realm in grayscale stone and silence, you’d stage a coup.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “I’d rally the tapestries. Lead a rebellion of velvet and starlight. You’d wake up one morning and the throne room would be upholstered.”

Oneiros gave a quiet laugh, the kind that barely disturbed the air. “You’d make a terrible monarch.”

“I’d make a fabulous tyrant,” she corrected. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to rule. Just to haunt the halls and critique the drapery.”

He looked at her then, properly, and there was something warm in his gaze—something that remembered her even when the realm forgot itself.

“Then I’ll build with you in mind,” he said.

Eila blinked, caught off guard. “Well. That’s either very sweet or very ominous.”

“Possibly both.”

She leaned back, watching the sky shift beyond the window. The storm was gone. The realm was quiet. And somewhere in its bones, silk and nebulae were waiting to be stitched into place.

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Comments

Starrat on Chapter 5 Sat 26 Jul 2025 11:38PM UTC

Loved it

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Parkerino23 on Chapter 5 Tue 05 Aug 2025 10:04PM UTC

I can't wait to read more of this!

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Princess_Lunala on Chapter 5 Thu 07 Aug 2025 03:13AM UTC

I don't usually leave comments but I'm already obsessed with this series! There's always that one author in a Fandom that does amazing work and you're legit that author! I love the original idea you have going on with the OC and the plot line. I feel like a lot of authors in this Fandom rely heavily on tropes or generic ideas, and sometimes don't really execute them well or make it too fast paced for it to be cohesive. The dialouge and meticulous planning, right from the prologue disclaimer, has got me soooo excited to see where this goes! I cannot wait to see how Eila's story unfolds and where Morpheus fits into that (especially since they're giving friends to lovers if I'm reading the tags correctly). Also... girlie pop is the daughter of Atlas??? Damn, I can already smell the impending stress and trauma girlie is about to endure if I'm inferring the references right. Thank you soooo much for writing this story! I look forward to the future updates! I know the Fandom is kinda dead with comments but I hope you know you have support from your fellow readers!
Take your time writing this story out! Thank you again for this budding masterpiece!

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Lia010 on Chapter 5 Thu 14 Aug 2025 04:36PM UTC

Ngl. Raph didn’t have to do my girl like that. I know he is scared. But to call her nothing and questions her worth is crazy workk

She deserves better

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Rosetta (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 19 Sep 2025 09:05PM UTC

I’m literally in love with your writing

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Carlotta (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 19 Sep 2025 09:06PM UTC

Had to come back and reread this because it’s literally my favourite fic ever. The writing is phenomenal ughhhhh this should be the new feeding the five thousand because that bread and fish have nothing on you

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Princess_Lunala on Chapter 4 Thu 07 Aug 2025 11:28PM UTC

Noooooo, she doesn't knooow he's been captured and is trapped in that crazy man's cellar (obv from the comics/show), but daaaaaaamn she's grieving losing him and she doesn't even know the truth to be properly consoled 😭😭😭 poor mama needs a hug and counseling 🫂
Also, the fact that Morpheus and Eila had a child together who's just as free-spirited as her sends meeeeee 😆 if he saw what she was doing in his absence, I feel like he would low-key have a heart attack 🤣🤣🤣
I hope we get more details on Eila/Morpheus getting together and how they came to be with child/raise said child! I'd love to see that included in future chapters if plot and story permits! I wonder if she ever grew to have a close relationship to Morpheus's other son, Orpheus? Eila and her daughter. That'd be cute but I can also see that being a slim possibility with the whole timeline of everything. Also, is her daughter the same Greek Goddess Asteria who was pursued by Zeus???? I really hope not since that would be weird since her mom is his oracle 😬
I look forward to reading more of this story! Thanks for the updates! 🥰

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Reychel_sama on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 09:12PM UTC

This is going to be sooo interesting. But... OH MY GOD HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH ONE OF THE TRAUMATIC TOPICS ZEUS AHAHAHA🤣🤣🤣
Brilliant

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Holland (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 19 Sep 2025 09:04PM UTC

I CANNOT WAIT AHHHHH

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Zoe (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 19 Sep 2025 09:05PM UTC

The Zeus trigger warning is the realest thing ever honestly

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Maddy (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 19 Sep 2025 09:07PM UTC

Can’t wait to read this

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Princess_Lunala on Chapter 8 Tue 02 Sep 2025 09:33AM UTC

Lmaoooo I love how Constatine just sees right through Dream and his mask 🤣 their whole conversation had me cackling like a hyena lol wait till she meets Asteria and Eila! She's gonna be in for quite a shock when she realizes this somber man cracked a vibrant woman and, therefore, has an equally vibrant, if not more, brilliant daughter with said woman 🤣🤣🤣 can't wait for her reaction and interactions with them lol

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Kikaaaas(elektra) (Guest) on Chapter 13 Fri 22 Aug 2025 08:17AM UTC

I loved every word of this beautifull chapter, you are very talented baby, I'm going to read all the others❤️

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1. dxrkneptxne on Chapter 13 Sat 23 Aug 2025 07:53AM UTC
  
  I’m gonna faint I literally love you
  
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Princess_Lunalla (Guest) on Chapter 13 Sun 21 Sep 2025 12:38AM UTC

Fuck, if Eila wasn't so inlove with Dream (and honestly, same), I'd want her to be with Hob. The chemistry is too good 😭 can't wait for Dream to find out she's befriended Hob and for Hob to find out Asteria is Dream's kid with Eila

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Lia010 on Chapter 19 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:37AM UTC

Guys I am so confused with the updates everything is scattered. This chapter says book two.
But we only got up to 1.5 in chapters and two fillers ???

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1. dxrkneptxne on Chapter 19 Mon 08 Sep 2025 05:54AM UTC
  
  It’s just a partition chapter. Everything that comes before it is book one. Everything after is book two. It’s not an actual update.
  
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2. 1. Lia010 on Chapter 19 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:15PM UTC
    
    So book one is 1.05
    But you also have 1.20 there also?
    
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Ma7shi_betengan on Chapter 19 Wed 08 Oct 2025 09:47PM UTC

I think I’ve stumbled upon a genuine hidden masterpiece. I cannot believe the amount of thought and care and work that was put into this, it bleeds with love and loss and it feels so raw and real. Thank you so much please never stop writing I can’t believe I get to experience this as you are writing it. Kudos to you, and a million roses. Thank you for writing, from another aspiring poetry loving writer to another. <3

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