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itskindofidontknow · 2 months ago

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What dreams know about love?

Chapter 16

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

TW: Abortion as an option, light violence between sisters

If I forgot any TW, please let me know!

The lake shimmered beneath the gentle rays of the afternoon sun, its surface dotted with the occasional ripple where a stray leaf or bird’s feather met the water. Surrounding the lake were tall trees whose branches swayed lazily, offering shade from the warmth above. The breeze was soft, warm tender even, brushing through the reeds at the water's edge. It was a typical summer day and one could easily hear the buzzing of cicadas all afternoon. It was a place designed for peace, a sanctuary of nature where the muses often congregated for lazy leisure and might enjoy each other’s company undisturbed by the chaos of gods and mortals. And yet, tension now held the air hostage.

What was meant to be an afternoon of gentle persuasion had already turned sour.

Calliope sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the far side of the lake, with her back turned away from her sister. The gentle overture from Polyhymnia, the eldest of the muses, to begin the conversation—one that every muse but Calliope knew to be the very purpose of this gathering—had met with quiet resistance. What began as a moment of peaceful indulgence, as Polyhymnia softly brushed her hair in that familiar sisterly manner, soon transformed into a posture of defiance, quickened by the shift in the air, her sisters encircling her as if she were some creature ensnared. Their expressions ranging from concern and frustration.

“She is a spoiled child who saw something she could not have and worked in a devious way to take it!” Calliope’s voice rang out, raw with the emotion she could no longer suppress. Her dark eyes flashed with fury, but beneath that fiery surface, tears glistened, threatening to spill. Her sisters had ambushed her, invited her under false pretenses to what she believed would be a tranquil afternoon. Instead, they had brought their judgment, their warnings, and she could no longer bear the condescending in their demeanor.

“Sister!” Polyhymnia’s tone was sharp, her face marked with the effort of maintaining composure. “Do not speak of what you do not understand.” Her dark brows knitted together, and for the first time in this conversation, her regal calm began to waver. She had promised herself, and the others, that they would approach Calliope with reason, that their words would be tempered with love and concern, the way that was always the best to talk to Calliope, the only way to make her listen. But how difficult it was when faced with such stubbornness, such blindness.

Polyhymnia’s figure, always elegant, now felt rigid. Her dark, braided hair, so carefully woven into a crown, stood in contrast to the loose, windswept strands that framed Calliope’s tear-streaked face. Both sisters, mirror images in appearance, now seemed so far apart.

“What is there to understand?” Calliope spat, turning to face the older sister, even if it felt almost unbearable. “She got what she wanted, didn’t she? She trapped him, and Desire helped her. They plotted together to force him into this—this cage of a marriage!”

At this, Polyhymnia’s lips thinned, her patience unraveling thread by thread. But before she could form a response, Erato stepped forward, her eyes burning with righteous anger. "Is that the sweet lie Oneiros has been feeding you?” Her voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the air between them. Erato’s cheeks flushed with the heat of her own frustration, the kind that only sisters can invoke in one another. Though a few years older than Calliope, she moved with the restlessness of youth, her steps quick as she paced in front of the group. “Does he truly make you believe he is some victim of love, poor and powerless in the hands of a scheming queen?”

Polyhymnia sighed, casting a glance at Erato—her warning unheeded. She had told her sister not to let her closeness with Lady Love cloud the conversation. Erato and Calliope always had friction between them, disagreeing on even the most mundane topics, and Polyhymnia was clear that Erato should not let the emotions of the heart interfere with the delicate matter at hand. But now it was too late.

Her devotion to Lady Love had always made her the first to rush to protect the queen, and judge anyone that dares to speak ill of her. It could almost be compared to the devotion of cupids, although they would not like to be compared. And it showed now in every line of Erato's body.

“He is not kind to her, Calliope. Oneiros treats her with cruelty,” Clio interjected quietly, her voice steady, calm—too calm. She emerged from the lake, her red hair dripping as she wrung it out with slow deliberation, as if the conversation was but a trivial matter.

Calliope’s breath hitched. That calm tone unnerved her more than Erato’s fire. Clio, ever the pragmatist, always seemed to know more than she let on, as she was a specialist on every subject in the universe. And Calliope always believed in her sister's wisdom, now however it sounded as over-the-top pretentiousness. The younger muse looked up at her, seeing in her sister's expression not malice, but pity. And that, she could not abide.

“And what of it?” she replied, her voice now cold, detached. “He is cruel because she deserves it. He punishes her for what she took from him. A fitting retribution for all that she has deprived him of.”

In an instant, the air seemed to still. Polyhymnia’s breath caught, and the others exchanged startled glances. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, Polyhymnia’s hand connected with Calliope’s cheek, the slap echoing in the quiet, idyllic scene. Not even the buzzing of cicadas could be heard.

Calliope’s hand flew to her cheek, stunned. She had not expected this. Not from Polyhymnia. A deep sense of betrayal flooded her, mingling with the stinging pain of the slap. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words, only a raw, wounded silence.

Polyhymnia’s chest heaved with the effort of regaining control, her hand still trembling slightly from the force of the blow. She never raised her hand to any of her sisters, she never resorted to violence and her immediate instinct was to hug Calliope, and beg for forgiveness. A quick glance at Clio, who locked eyes with Poly, gave her the strength to keep her stance. This was bigger than Calliope’s feelings. This was for her own good. “You defend a man who punishes his wife, and for what? A fleeting love that cannot last?” Her voice softened, but the steel remained. “This affair... it must end, Calliope.”

“She deserves it,” Calliope whispered, her voice barely audible, her pride still clinging to the remnants of defiance. Her sisters exchanged glances, even Euterpe, Melpomene, Thalia, Terpsichore, Urania who let the older ones guide the conversation, sitting on the side, realized with the exhausted sigh of Poly. They were no longer listening to her as a sister, but as a threat to their way of life.

Clio stepped forward, her eyes hard. If love and gentleness didn’t resolve, maybe rationality would. “And what of us, Calliope? What do we deserve? The wrath of the Queen of Four Loves for your defiance?”

The muses all knew what that meant. Lady Love’s sisters, the Ladies of Emotion, were known throughout the realms for their beauty, gracefulness, the embodiment of every form of feeling— They were good sisters, and loving nieces to the Aunts, but they were also known for their ruthless and unforgiving nature. Each had their way of exacting revenge. Honesty and Pride were quick to act when their husbands strayed, they had a tendency for the drama, crafting the bloodiest violent scenes as lessons to their husband.

Not that it worked, as their husbands were equally kin on bloodshed, feeling more proud and enticed by their wives. It is what Lady Honesty called “games of love”. Melancholy and Happiness had more long-term provoked suffering, playing with the lovers' emotion until they themselves ended their lives. Love didn’t agree with her sisters, and they would often fight when it came to discussion. Love used to say that they should punish their husbands for the infidelity, not the affairs they search for. Her sisters always disdain her opinion, saying that she would understand when she got a husband of their own.

Eoster promised herself to her if it ever came to infidelity, she would punish her husband and hold no ill against their lover. But more than often she broke that promise, and hated Calliope and referred to her by despicable names when fighting with Morpheus. Eoster knew it would elicit a reaction from him, she would have his attention, and after she hated herself for it, to reach so low, and found herself wanting her husband to defend her honor against the gossip and awful whispers that called her frigid and unfit, as he defended Calliope’s to her. But even in her lowest moments, Aphrodite never thought to resort to her sisters’ tricks and games. The muses however couldn’t know this, they couldn’t be certain, and they couldn’t risk it. It was for Calliope's own good and survival.

“If Lady Love chooses to punish you…,” Clio said, her voice now edged with fear, “She may be softer, but do not think her heart will remain unscathed by your defiance. She may not draw blood as Pride and Honesty do, but she can withhold her blessings, and with them, the very inspiration that keeps us alive.” Calliope’s sisters feared not just for her, but for themselves. They could not afford to anger the Queen of Love, the one who controlled mortal desires, the very prayers that sustained the Muses’ power.

Polyhymnia’s eyes hardened, her voice unwavering. “The mortals pray to us because they are moved by Love, Calliope. The songs, the poems, the art—it all begins with her. And if she turns away from them, if she takes away that spark… what would become of us?”

Calliope’s heart sank. She knew the weight of those words. Without the prayers, without the devotion of mortals, the Muses would fade. And it was all tied to Love, the queen whose influence stretched farther than even they could see.

“Oneiros won’t allow her. He promised me…” Calliope began, but her words sounded hollow even to her.

“Promised you?” Clio cut her off with a cold laugh. “What good are his promises when our very existence hangs in the balance? He will protect his queen, his soul, not you. You are a passing affair. She wears the crown.”

Polyhymnia stepped forward, her voice firm but tinged with sorrow. “You must understand, Calliope. This is not just about you or your heart. This is about all of us. We cannot risk losing everything for the sake of your… infatuation.”

Tears welled in Calliope’s eyes, but this time, they were not born of anger. They were tears of realization, of betrayal. Her sisters—her family—were not standing by her out of love or concern for her well-being. They were protecting themselves, preserving their own power.

Melpomene with her melodic voice, spoke for the first time, without directly facing Calliope, her tone different from all the others, she didn’t seem like to be talking directly to them, but to an invisible audience preaching a prophecy, her voice was distant “When push comes to shove, he will have one choice only. And she is the one sitting by his side, wearing his crown. She is, and always will be, his queen.”

Calliope looked at each of them, searching for a sign that they still cared for her, that their words came from love. But all she saw was fear—fear for their power, for their survival. They used the worry for her as an excuse to veil their desire of self preservation. The bond they shared, as muses, as sisters, had been broken, replaced by cold practicality.

She stood, feeling the sting of betrayal heavier than the slap across her cheek. She had lost her sisters.

—------------------ Calliope sat at the edge of the bed, her thoughts swirling as heavily as the storm outside the window. Her fingers rested on her belly, a gentle gesture, yet one laden with uncertainty. The Three stood before her, their dark chitons contrasting sharply against her pale gown, their presence an embodiment of fate and finality.

“My child,” the Mother began, her voice both tender and admonishing, “I feel for your tears, but you were warned. You were advised against this.”

Calliope had hesitated to summon them, but the silence of her sisters and the weight of her secret had driven her to desperation. She could no longer bear the burden alone. Weeks had passed without her monthly bleeding, and as the truth of her condition settled in, fear took its place. Oneiros had to know—yet how? How could she speak of the life growing inside her when the very act of creating it was shrouded in betrayal?

She could almost see the dream she once had, seemingly a lifetime ago, before the complications. Calliope watches them from the window from the same bedroom she sat now. A child wrapped in Morpheus’s arms, eyes like the starry skies of the Dreaming, cherished by the Lord of Dreams, as Morpheus would cradle him with the same tenderness he once held for her. How Morpheus would love him, their child, his child. She knew that, just as surely as she knew the stars would continue to shine. A father of stories would fill their child’s nights with tales of the Dreaming. In another life, perhaps, it would be a perfect future. But perfection, Calliope now knew, was fragile.

“It is the last time,” said the Crone, disapproval dripping from her lips as if she had already judged Calliope’s heart. “That is what she said, the last time,” echoed the Maiden, sitting beside Calliope and placing a compassionate arm around her shoulders.

Every breath Calliope took seemed to make the room smaller, as though the air itself was pushing in on her. “Please, my mothers, what shall I do? I crave your guidance.” A blessing it should be. A blessing that belongs only in that perfect life in her dream life.

Because the moment the universe learned of this child, the whispers, and gossip would become insufferable. A scandal, which according to Oneiros, was all that Love wanted to avoid. The Lady of Love herself floated through socials with her sweet, brittle smile and gentle manners. But a child would be different. No amount of feigned ignorance or public pleasantries would quell the storm that would follow.

Calliope knew little of Eoster beyond her public mask—preaching love, displaying polite affection for her husband, always by his side, with her hand holding his arm, in a way that grated on Calliope’s nerves. She expected to see a fracture in her facade or regret, but the Lady of Springs was always composed. In private, Eoster was miserable; Calliope knew this. And yet, despite her misery, the queen had never directly harmed her. She didn’t torture her by any means. But could she trust that?

Eoster might not harm the child, but Calliope didn’t know that. What guarantees did she have, besides Morpheus' word?

And worse— She could see the future as clearly as she could feel the weight in her womb—Morpheus loving their child, yes, but unable to silence the outside judgment. He could not protect him from the scorn of entities, nor from the cruelty of his own family. What would be his place in the universe? The opinion of others might not be relevant to the Dream King, but to a child, it might shape their future.

“I see it,” Calliope whispered, her voice trembling. “I see the life we could have. The child would be so adored by his father, loved as no child could dream to be loved. But...”

Her voice faltered as the weight of the decision pressed down upon her.”My mothers, What would you have me do?” She repeat the question, craving for an answer, for an solution made by others. If she kept the child, he would be a source of joy, but also a source of endless conflict. Their son would grow up knowing he was not entirely welcome, his very existence a reminder of the broken vows of a True Marriage. Would Eoster ever allow Calliope’s child to feel love? Or would she punish him by devoiding him from the feeling? An empty shell, never satisfied, never knowing what is missing.

“It is not a question of what we would have you do,” replied the Mother, her expression softening as she seated herself beside Calliope. “It is a question of what your heart will allow.”

Calliope’s gaze fell to the small cup in the Crone’s hands. The tea was warm, fragrant, almost inviting. “Poppy for a dreamless sleep,” said the Mother. “Peony and safflower to ease your pains, and honey to sweeten the bitterness.”

She stared at the cinnamon-colored liquid, her heart pounding in her chest. How easy it would be—just a sip, and the terrible weight that had settled in her bones would lift. Maybe in a few decades she would tell him. What would he think of her then? Morpheus would forgive her, embrace her, soothe her pain, but beneath that forgiveness would always lie a wound—a wound that would never heal, because she had taken away something he would have loved beyond all measure. He would always feel betrayed, even if he never said it aloud.

The Maiden’s voice broke her thoughts. “What pains you now will not pain you any longer.”

But Calliope’s hands were already trembling. Could she live knowing that she had denied her child the life he could have had, the father who would have adored him, all because she feared entities whose whole lives revolve around gossiping and whispering lies? Could she truly carry on, lying beside him, pretending as though nothing had happened?

She looked at the tea again, the weight of her decision pressing down harder with every passing second. She imagined again her child in Morpheus’s arms, the life they could share together. But then the universe’s whispers crept in—the cruel, cutting judgments, the sarcastic jokes and mean laughs, the reminders that their love was hurting love itself.

The Mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, gentle yet firm. “A child can be a blessing.”

“And a curse,” added the Crone, her tone far less comforting. “What the Dream Lord gives to one, he denies to another.” Calliope closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She had made her choice, though the weight of it bore heavily on her heart. “I will talk to Oneiros,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The Three exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. The Mother spoke softly. “Guard your heart, for his answer may not be what you wish it to be.”

“And yet,” the Maiden added, “perhaps it will be.”

Calliope swallowed hard, fear and hope warring within her. Whatever path she chose, it was clear: there would be no peace. Whether she kept the child or ended its life, the scars would remain forever. Yet one thing she knew—she could not bear the weight of this choice alone. Morpheus had to know, and together they would face whatever came.

But the final words from the Three echoed loudest of all, chilling her to the bone. “Remember dear Calliope, if you keep this child, it will never be entirely only your son. It belongs to the Dreaming, and tragedy follows the Dream King.”

—------------------ They had a home, the Dream King and Calliope. It wasn't a palace, like the one in the Dreaming or the one in the Garden. It was a quiet home nestled within a secluded glade, where the trees whispered ancient secrets, and the light filtered through leaves in soft, golden dapples. It was their escape from both their realities. And Calliope and Morpheus were content there, the best they could, taking the circumstances. The land around them was pastoral, untouched by time—wildflowers spilled across the meadow, and a gentle stream wound lazily through the valley. It was a place that seemed to belong more to myth than reality, where dreams and reality blurred together, a sanctuary for their love.

In the early days, the thought of ending her pregnancy had never truly surfaced in their conversation. Calliope’s worry were clouded by the unexpected emotion by her so often introspective king. Morpheus had cradled her growing belly with tender reverence, his dark eyes softened by the love he felt for the life within her. Orpheus grew in their little bubble, they had built dreams of their son, untarnished by the harshness of the universe beyond. And Calliope had been cherished, adored by the Lord of Dreams as if nothing else mattered.

But no child can be forever protected, and Orpheus grew into a fine gentleman, and gifted of music. He was enamored by life and nature, and soon, against his mother’s wishes, started to frequent socials, only from the greek pantheon, which Aphrodite was usually absent. His charisma and harmonic voice, inherited from his mother, soon made him a dear guest at any greek social. Both Calliope and Morpheus forbade him from going to any universal manifestation meeting. Until one day his eyes turned to a girl that always ran way, but in early spring, decided to stay longer than usual, to celebrate the spring solstice and the good fortune that came from mortal’s abundant harvest.

And from a young love, the promised tragedy came.

“I am going to kill her!” Calliope's voice, raw from endless weeping, cracked with a fierce determination as Morpheus appeared, his presence still and impenetrable as ever. Her face was gaunt, cheeks hollow from the toll grief had taken. She had not truly slept since Orpheus' death, haunted by the cruel fate that had befallen her son.

Morpheus stood there, watching her, his expression unchanged—a figure wrapped in shadows, the weight of the Dreaming ever present in his silence.

“My beloved, calm down,” he said, his voice low, distant. But the words felt empty to her, hollow like the chasm now carved into her heart.

“Calm down? She killed him, Morpheus!” Calliope’s fists clenched, her eyes wild with fury. “She used that girl—Eurydice! She took him from us on the day of their wedding, trapped him in darkness. Our dear boy…”she wailed, her voice thick with sorrow. “He will hate the Underworld. He loved the sun, the earth, the very breath of life. And now... now, he is lost, forever entrapped, his soul, his poor soul.” Her sobs broke free again, as though the tears would never end.

Morpheus said nothing. He simply held her, as he had done countless times before, letting the storm of her grief rage while he remained the silent center. Rain began to fall in the Dreaming, clouds swirling above, a reflection of Calliope’s inner torment. He, however, was removed from it. His thoughts drifted to the Garden, to the figure of Love, serene in her eternal role, utterly unaware of this grief. He hadn’t seen Eoster in what felt like an age. The thought of her, oddly, surfaced now, perhaps jealousy of her unremarkable week. The bond was quiet, it has been for a few thousand of years.

Calliope’s tear-streaked face turned up toward him. “Promise me you will bring her to justice. Promise me that you will make her pay.” Morpheus’ eyes darkened. “Calliope... Eoster had nothing to do with this.”

“How can you be so sure?!” Her voice broke with disbelief. “There was a mortal girl, Morpheus. He followed her because he loved her. Loved, Morpheus. Does that sound familiar to you?”

He averted his gaze, jaw tight. “I warned him. I told him not to pursue Eurydice.”

“And that is all you have to say?” Her voice trembled with rising anger. “You warned him?” She scoffed bitterly. “She despised him. She despised me. Her sisters, her aunts, her cupids, her circle of protégés—they all called him a bastard behind your back, they shunned your son. Who do you think allowed that?”

“They needed no permission to behave as they did. Eoster does not control them any more than I can control the tides of time. She would not—”

“Why are you defending her?” Calliope’s voice was raw with accusation. “Orpheus’ blood is barely cold, and you’re here defending her! Why are you not feeling this? Why are you not seeking justice for your own flesh and blood? He was your son!”

Morpheus’ voice hardened, though his expression barely shifted. “Do not mistake my restraint for indifference. I grieve our son. But I will not be ruled by madness.” “Madness?” she spat. “Is that what you call a mother’s grief?” Her breath caught as she trembled. “How can you be so... How can you not see that she is responsible for this?”

His voice was ice, unyielding. “Eoster would never harm a child. She is the queen of love, of family. She would not break her vows so easily.”

Calliope's laughter came sharp and bitter. “Easily?” She whipped a tear from the side of her eye” Wouldn’t be the first time she’s bent her ‘sacred vows’ to get what she wants.”

A brief flicker of emotion crossed Morpheus’ face—something too fleeting to grasp. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the calm he always maintained. “Do not speak of what you don’t understand.” It was difficult to explain the bond, how he could be certain that Eoster had nothing to do with it. How he could vouch for her innocence even after years of not seeing her. How he knew her nature even if he didn’t properly know his wife as one often does.

“No. You’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can stand there defending her—defending the woman who has scorned us since the day of that accursed marriage, who has despised your son from the moment of his birth.”

Silence.

Something dark and cold settled in her gaze as she looked at him.”Oh, I see” Calliope let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers through the cold air. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Her voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper. “That’s why you don’t care. She’s carrying your heir—your legitimate heir.” Morpheus’ brow furrowed, his face set like stone. “Calliope, that is not—”

“That’s why!” she cried, interrupting him, voice rising in hysteria. “That’s why you defend her! You have a new child to look forward to, a new legacy to secure. You won’t accuse the mother of your ‘legitimate’ heir, will you?”

His voice, usually a command in the realms of dream and reality, faltered for the briefest of moments. “Do you hear yourself? I know you are in pain, but do not twist this into something it is not.”

Her eyes blazed. “When push comes to shove, you’ll have only one choice.”

“What?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a deep, unspoken sorrow.

“You’ll choose her. The one wearing the crown. Sitting by your side.” Calliope’s voice was cold now, final.

Morpheus moved closer, trying to reach her with words, with a touch—but she recoiled.

“Get out,” she demanded, her voice barely audible.

“Calliope, please...”

“Get out!” she screamed, her face twisted in grief, in rage.

Morpheus stood there, the weight of centuries pressing down on him, but his expression remained impassive. He gave a small nod, turned, and walked away.

Even as the pocket sand wrapped him, Calliope’s heartache echoed through the emptiness, and Morpheus was left to face the terrible truth—he could not bridge the gap between them. She would always hate him, see him as the one who could not protect their child.

And somewhere in the depths of his silence, he knew she was right.

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya @notyourwildestdream @roxytheimmortal

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