#justice for jessamy

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 18: the beating of her wings | 3.2 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Morpheus begins to figure out and accept how this all works; Hob tries to hold the line against Fawney Rig.)

Hob Gadling did not die. Hob Gadling never died. But the world did go dark and empty on a thunderous bang that he only heard for a fraction of a second. He did not feel the shattering of his face and skull nor the liquidation of his brain. He did not feel his lungs and heart stop with an absence of a mind to drive them, did not hear the way Alex threw up on the stones or his father scolded him for his weakness. He did not hear the distorted bang as Morpheus fell to his knees, pressed as close to the glass as he could get, staring at his remains in utterly numb helplessness: the dregs at the very bottom of despair that swallowed them both and damned them whole.

He did not hear in the Waking how Constantine tried to calm Gwen as his living heart stopped beating and his breaths stilled in the wake of a deafening bang neither of them heard, and Morpheus’ own sleeping pulse neared two hundred. He did not hear them struggle to find something to do, anything to do, and arrive at the only horrible truth there was.

Nothing.

There was only onward. Forward. And so Gadling went.

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

“Impotent,” Burgess muttered as he watched the mighty Endless cave into himself like a child, rocking ever so slightly on his knees as the pulp of flesh and bone beside him twitched even now in senseless silence and the lungs spasmed in apnea. He moved to leave, handing the gun off to Alex as he did in favor of his cane, and wrinkled his nose at the bits of viscera that flecked his shoes and clothes. “Leave the blood,” he commanded and indicated the mess before the sphere. “Repaint the sigil over it once it’s dried.”

Morpheus’ stunned vigil closed, and he raised his setting glare to Burgess, his hatred and sworn oath hardening into a blade he would wield until death as the man paused on the first step and considered him.

“And give Endless a roommate.” Morpheus’ resolve faltered but did not break. Burgess held his ire without flinching, and his lips tugged in almost a smirk, almost disgust. “Perhaps the suffering of one other than yourself will break your will.”

Morpheus memorized the faces of every man who assisted in what came next, every man who helped melt the top of his imprisonment free, who helped lift away the glass pane without shattering it, who ensured the ladder did not ruin the sigils, who hefted Gadling’s remains up to the now-open top, spilling blood across the glass as they came. And he especially memorized the face of the one who did the final deed: heaving Gadling over the edge into his cell without any care for mercy and leaving him to land in a crunching splatter of flesh and bone. The glass settled once more above them and was welded back into place.

Despite the fresh air, Morpheus did not breathe.

His companion would need it more.

Robert Gadling knitted himself back together slowly, only to return to a life that was not life all at once with a horrible banshee wail of agony. At first, Morpheus had tried to comfort him, slipping to his side in the blood that stained his skin like an unyielding dye, but he came to the swift and dreadful realization that Hob was not yet aware of himself or the world. He cried out in the way that infants cried—where screaming was the only language known, the only means his body possessed to voice that something was deeply, terribly wrong. What followed was such a horrific cacophony of unnatural sounds and movements that eventually Morpheus had to turn away, to press himself to the furthest wall of the sphere that he could and stare into the basement’s gloom beyond with unblinking eyes that filled with tears he could not let fall. He flinched at every little jerk and noise, each amplified within their prison. His hands tried to grip and cling to cold shear as behind him Hob continued to make his inarticulate sounds of unknowable pain, his body spasming and seizing as his brain matter fully reformed. His lungs eventually closed, the buckshot purged from his tissues and bone in the way the skin pushed out a splinter. And as his skull began to grow back into place—his scalp following along the advancing edge, his hair growing with it, his facial bones finishing their restructuring—Hob’s inhuman noises coalesced into intelligence, and motor control returned.

He wept first. He wept with half-healed eyes and sobbed and went to claw at his agony-stricken face as his tissues and bones renewed. Hands were on his wrists in an instant, holding him down as he thrashed and fought.

“Gadling.”

Make it stop. Make it stop, it hurts, it itches, it hurts, make it stop—

His sobs and his Stranger’s voice echoed oddly. Gone were the stones beneath him, replaced instead with something cold and curved and smooth and…oh God.

He was in the damn fishbowl.

I fucked up. I fucked up, get me out of here. Get me out!

“CONSTANTINE!” he wailed with his fractured mouth, blinded still, and clawed in the dark for the exorcist. “Wake—wake me up! Wake me—”

Something moved him, something far stronger than he expected, and his split, blood-matted head pillowed against a bony shoulder, his back to their chest, as they gripped his wrists and locked their joined arms about his stomach. Their own chin, sharp and cool, dug into his collarbone where their head drooped over his blood-soaked shoulder, and feather soft hair brushed against his healing skin as their legs came up on either side to cradle him close.

“Gadling,” his Stranger whispered against his partially mangled ear, holding him tight, and echoed familiar words. “It will pass, my friend. It will all pass.”

…and it’ll all feel better. Promise.

And after a breath in which he processed the voice, the touch, the embrace and reassurance conjured forth from a December alley, Hob fell to uncontrolled tears, releasing to the safety of the arms around him as he drifted into a dissociated sort of shatter. In time, his tears improved from bloody to their usual clear, his sight gradually returning with it, and the agony faded to a migraine’s throb that he could handle any day of the week. And after an indeterminable length of time, he found himself whole once more.

His heart beat steadily on, as unending as it always had been and always would be. His ribs expanded and collapsed back into an evening rhythm he knew as well as the moon and the vanishing stars. His ever-treacherous stomach changed its tune from the nausea of unbridled pain to the nausea of hunger. But while his nerves processed the world once more with an appropriate amount of discomfort, while his eyes blinked and revealed with clear vision the doming iron and glass that imprisoned them and the darkness beyond the distorted reflections of their entangled bodies, Gadling neither moved nor spoke. He only allowed himself to be, to remember how to be again in far too short a window of time; he grounded himself in the comforting press of his Stranger’s arms around him, the dig of his own spine into the plane of his bare chest and gut, that softness that entangled into brutal strength locked away within the flimsy guise of humanity. He grounded himself in the chiseled line of Morpheus’ chin on his shoulder, in the softness of his hair to his filthied skin, the coolness of his skin against his jaw. He tried not to think about how his Stranger was naked behind him, and found it far easier than it would have been in any other circumstance to do so. He merely lay there in the cradle of Morpheus’ embrace and breathed and shivered and remembered how to be without agony and desperation and terror.

Beneath him, still, his guardian did not breathe. And all too soon, Hob understood the reason for such a sacrifice.

It started as a faint dizziness. Then, a vague sense of anxiety, of pressure within his chest and electricity inside his skin. Wrong…something was wrong, despite his calmed distress and reformed lungs, and he was beginning to suspect a culprit. He sat forward, pulling from Morpheus’ arms and patted at his chest as he braced on his hands and knees in his own tacky crimson. He frowned, coughed up a spat of old blood, and tried to breathe again. His head swam. His chest ached. His breath came quicker, deeper, emptier, and every noxious sensation worsened in turn.

“Can’t—breathe—” he gasped and nearly pitched sideways.

“I am sorry.”

Hob glanced back to Morpheus to see the man watching him with shining eyes before looking to the ceiling of their cage. He looked up with him and immediately grew so dizzy he slipped, rolling onto his back, and his chest heaved with full breaths that delivered nothing.

“I am sorry,” his Stranger repeated. “It is sealed.”

Suffocating. I’m suffocating. Fantastic.

“It’s fine,” Hob panted, lying through his teeth, and felt his hands and newly reshaped lips begin to tingle in warning. “Have had…worse…just today.” He gave a shaking, dizzy laugh and patted haphazardly for Morpheus, stopping only when he felt the man’s thigh. “Just…wake up.”

“I have tried,” Morpheus said, not meeting his eye, and tried to subtly draw away to give Hob as much space as he could manage as the claustrophobia of suffocation began. “I cannot.”

Hob groaned, loud and a little panicked, deep in his throat, and forced himself to roll over.

“Then—just have—to find—the way—out,” he panted and pushed himself back to his knees. The world spun so severely he could hardly see, and he caught himself on the glass wall. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop breathing so fast, he was just eating up what little air he had left.

“The way out does not come for decades,” Morpheus returned, the despair as heavy in him as lead, and as he spoke, Hob braced a hand to his swimming head.

Stop it. The air doesn’t matter. And why doesn’t it matter? Because….

“This isn’t real, Stranger.” Hob stopped and swallowed as his mouth began to dry under the adrenaline now hitting his system. His every muscle began to burn. “It’s just. A dream. Lots…lots of ways out. In a dream. Just have…to find it.”

Christ, but he was dizzy.

“There is none,” Morpheus was saying, shaking his head, and the despair deepened, the guilt suffocating Hob faster than the literal suffocation. “I have watched for decades, there is no way but to break the sigil—”

“STRANGER,” Hob slammed his fist against the wall as he pitched forward, the impact reverberating through their hellish snow globe, “THIS ISN’T REAL!”

Morpheus’ mouth snapped shut in a click of bone on bone, and Hob watched him through once more darkening eyes. In any other situation, he would have practiced some tact, some patience. But he had none left, not here, not after what he had just gone through, not staring down the barrel of decades of suffocation in a goddamn nightmare. He knew Morpheus was slipping between roles, confusing the now and the then, knew he could not keep tethered for long to either in Fawney Rig. He knew that.

The exertion of his silencing shout did him in, and Hob let out a huff of worthless air as he fell onto his back once more and stayed there, gazing at the spinning ceiling and struggling to remember how to string words together. The burn in his muscles neared a sear.

Morpheus might be fine for a few decades. Might. He, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of time.

“What’s…the lesson?” he pressed in a far kinder, far more reasonable wisp of a voice once he had recovered as much as was possible. “What did I change?”

Morpheus clamped his molars shut until his jaw trembled with it. His eyes glittered in sorrow and hatred and shame. 

…And there came the sound of wings.

They were not Death’s wings, nor were they Matthew’s. These were wings of careful precision, of a bold loyalty native to a time long gone…the feathered equivalent of a loyal hound’s bay or the unmistakable gallop of a knight’s favored steed. And Hob watched as Morpheus’ attention drew against his will to the wall where Hob’s blood still stained the glass, and he watched something beyond it near with growing haunt.

“…Jessamy,” he murmured.

“Jessamy?”

Morpheus spoke now as if he were not truly aware, as if Hob were but a voice in his head, which he supposed in a manner he was. He rose to his feet and moved with slow care toward the stain and to the shadow that moved beyond it.

“My dearest companion…” Hob could see now that there was a raven outside, a beautiful bird with a white hood who watched Morpheus with furiously flapping wings as he came to meet her. She hovered there, waiting, and he pressed his hand to the filthied glass as she struck and pecked, trying with all her limited ability to pries him free. “…I am so sorry.”

Tears sprung once more to Hob’s eyes at the depth of heartbreak in her strikes, in the way his friend’s voice trembled and broke. He thought of Dream of the Endless morphing from a similar specimen of bird that had pulled him from Fawney Rig before with a mighty yank on the back of his jacket—of a loyal voice, a kind voice…strong and loving and sure.

“The bird,” he whispered, and Morpheus bowed his forehead to the glass as Jessamy continued to strike and fight with all her might.

“If I had just asked for help,” Morpheus breathed, his confession meant only for his fallen servant, “if I had sent you to him, if you had known of him…if I had asked my….” A set of tears slipped from his eyes, and he forced himself to behold his darling girl, to witness her. “…then, this would not have come to pass.”

Hob jumped, panic searing through him, as there came another echoing bang, louder and worse in the confines of the sphere, and the bird crushed in a fatal blow of buckshot. Her blood sprayed atop his own as her shredded remains collapsed to lie amid his stains on the floor. And as he stared at her lying in his own blood, something truly strange occurred. Hob felt himself shift, as if in one moment he just knew innately that something was no longer as it had been. He forced his swimming focus to narrow on the reflection of himself in the curving glass and blinked.

A young woman hardly more than a girl looked back at him with what was unmistakably a death mask: a young thing in strange, fantastical garb of a place and time far away. She wore a rogue’s black leathers with looping drapes of silken black and white that tucked into place beneath her broad corset belt and her gauntlets that had been engraved in the theme of a raven. Everything was decorated with baubles of found coins and leather strips and pretty ribbon all lovingly woven together and placed upon her lithe form. Beneath the span of her arms spread great black wings, and in her young hair ran a large swath of white pinned with feathers. Her face was caring, even in death, so strong and fierce…cut low.

Her chest was blown open, the ribs splayed, the wings shredded, and as Morpheus’ hands crept upon him, Hob looked back to see the same visage of the strange girl from his own vantage. His friend looked upon him in the girl’s form with such love and sorrow, his touch sacredly tender as he caressed Hob’s transformed face, his arms, as he touched his ruined wings and the fatal wound that finally felled him. And when Morpheus bowed over him to bury his face in his neck, slipping his hands beneath him to his shoulder blades and lifting him close, Hob found he no longer felt the urge to breathe.

“I loved you,” Morpheus whispered, “and I failed you.” He held him, held her, tighter for a moment longer, then returned them gently to the blood-stained glass. And Hob closed his eyes with a passing of tears as the once-King took his head in his hands, bowed over him, and pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead.

“Please,” he murmured into the skin of his brow, with velvet soft lips and a voice as old and deep as royal tombs, “forgive me my pride.”

Hob gasped, and once he began to heave for air, he could not stop. Morpheus did not seem to notice as he moved to take his hands that were still not his own. Around them, the glass spidered with cracks that glowed and gleamed, as thin as thread but growing, multiplying like a mycelial network. It shone with stardust, with dreaming, and Hob felt their essence knitting the last of his deepest wounds back together, filling his lungs with reprieve as Morpheus guided him to stand—

Hob sucked in a breath of fresh air and collapsed to his knees with retching, gulping inhales. Stones. There were stones beneath his hands, and he looked sharply to the fissuring prison to watch as the girl in the reflection finished rising in his place. And as Jessamy reached to rest a silver-ringed hand along her Lord’s face, the threads glowed brighter until nothing could be seen beyond their shine.

Grief…Hob was filled with such grief, such pain, the echoes of such dreadful powerlessness, and it swallowed him whole as the sphere shattered in a cathartic release of energy and iron and glass. He dove before its ruthless onslaught, throwing his hands over his head and ducking for the stones as the eruption thundered in his ears like the bombs in the Blitz—

He landed face-first in dust and rubble and carpet, the weight of a house crushing him. For a moment, he thought Morpheus had brought Fawney Rig down on them, but as he came to, he heard a distant, chilling sound that to this day still stuck him with a knife of fear followed by heart-rending sorrow.

Air raid sirens.

He softly groaned and tried to lift his head from where he was pinned.

“H-Hob?” a shaking voice called, tearful and dazed and a little higher than he normally let it get.

He went cold.  

No. No, no—

Through the collapse of their home’s two stories plowing down into the basement atop them, in the light of their cracked lanterns that flickered still and the spotlights trained skyward that whirled overhead in search of Germans, he saw a short, lithe man sprawled on his back. His strawberry blond curls were dusted with gray, his freckled face dotted further with grit and soot. And a splintered shard of the rafters stood tall from his gut, running him through and pinning him in place through the buckling floorboards to the earth below. He looked back at Hob across the ground with shining eyes.

“Jim?” Hob breathed.

They were no longer in Morpheus’ dreams.

They were in his.

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Chapter Five - Ostensible

Summary: Truth comes to light between the hushed whispers of destined lovers. Friends emerge in the oddest of places and flowers bloom in place of words.

Notes: ~9k words, holy fuck. Sorry this took so long, I realized that it's been literal months since I updated this story.

Warnings/Tags: Gault's funeral, Reader is slapping bitches as they should.

Tag list is open, just let me know :)

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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Ostensible (adj.) - stated or appearing to be true, but not necessarily so

Morpheus brings you to his chest as your scream turns into buzzing breaths and you’re trying to gulp down your unrelenting fear. You push against his hold weakly, the fabric of his jacket seemingly too rough against your inflamed skin.

“How—how could you do—do that?” You scream at him through hiccups. You feel your eyes start to sting as the prickling tears start to emerge from your eyes. “I trusted you… I trusted you!”

“I fought justice with justice,” your husband answers simply. 

His response angers you in return. What is his definition of justice if he killed a person without reason? Without fair trial? You look at him with a hardening frown. 

“No, kings fight with honor and that was not honorable. You answered justice with injustice,” you accuse, hands on his chest to give yourself more room. The tears have caked themselves on your cheeks, drying and pinching the skin beneath. 

“It is as I make of it, I will not hear it!” Morpheus growls down at you, his hands gripping harder around your arms, squeezing as he screams his excuse.

Smack!

The stinging of your fingers meets the night air, the imprint of your hand swelling on Morpheus’ left cheek. His eyes are wide as it takes him a moment to realize you have struck him. When his eyes finally meet yours, he finds not the eyes of the woman he knew. 

Morpheus sees anger, resentment, and hatred in your eyes. Your lips downturned with no regret of the action you just did. His jaw hangs open, the hit stunning him. 

Matthew winces at the slap, having before been on the receiving end of it⎼even if it was under different circumstances. He and Jessamy turn around to give the two—should he call them lovers?—some privacy. The young knight follows Jessamy’s new fascination with toeing the loose garden path. This path sure is made out of path tonight… Matthew thinks to himself as he draws a pattern.

“Do not dare to touch me. Not now, not ever.” Your glare only softens when Morpheus lets you go, his fingers seemingly snapping open after realizing his grip on you.

“Forgive me,” Morpheus whispers, his head dipping in embarrassment. 

A similar apology sits heavy on your tongue for striking him, but flashbacks of how you got into this situation play in your mind. Your teeth clamp over your tongue until you taste the iron of blood.

With a deep breath, you ask a question you’re not sure you’ll get an answer to. “Why are you so angry?”

The question shakes through his core, the words ringing in unfamiliar territory. 

“I… I don’t know,” Morpheus answers slowly after a few quiet moments.

The crickets chirping fill in the growing silence as you take in his answer. With a sigh, you leave against the betterment of your judgment towards the scene of the crime.

You don’t have to look to know that Morpheus was trailing behind you. The ever-familiar sound of armor from Matthew and Jessamy follows as well.

You stop early, seeing the laying stump that is the recently passed Rodrick Burgess. In all of his past glory, real or not, here he laid for his crimes. 

Morpheus follows your eye line, squinting in the dim light of the eclipse until they widen in realization. He jogs over, and this time you’re following him with heavy and dragging footsteps. Your heart rate picks up once more and though you know he is dead for good, a primal part of you still fears he may come back to life. 

You can still feel Burgess’ scrutinizing gaze upon you and how his hands so easily wrapped themselves around your neck. The lack of power you had in the situation as your breath was taken from you, as your nails did nothing against his armor. Your hand reaches towards where he laid his hands on you and you wince as you touch the blooming bruise.

Morpheus crouches down to the body, placing the back of his hand to Burgess’ nose, and only stands back up when he concludes that he isn’t breathing anymore. He turns to you with a forlorn look on his face and his mouth agape with words that he tries to push out. 

“Forgive me, for doubting you,” Morpheus manages to squeeze out eventually. 

You turn your head away from him, staring off into the distance as his apology only skims across your ears. Morpheus’ eyes drift down towards your neck, guilt eating him alive as he sees the distinct bruise that encircled you like a noose. 

A straying hiccup is fighting its way past your throat as you hear him coming closer to you. The air is thick with tension and a wedge grows between you like the weeds that sprout between the cracks of your garden path. Even if you try to stamp them out, they will grow back because both of you are too prideful to work together. 

Your eyes retrace the dead body once again, the low light doing well to hide most of the gruesome aftereffect of Gaunt’s actions. But the smell, it permeates through the night wind and reaches your nostrils, making you sick to your stomach.

You’ve never even stepped in the kitchen when your father brought in fresh geese from his hunting trips; how do you deal with a person? The smell of death is so distinct. You turn away, the nauseating feeling of acid once again building up in your throat. 

“Please,” Morpheus calls out to you, grabbing onto the fluff of your dress. 

You turn quickly, feeling the seams ripping at the force of it. Your eyes widen as you see the great King Morpheus on his knees before you. His lithe fingers still grip your dress, the blood that had besmirched his hands transferring onto the silk and tulle. 

“Gods, what are you doing!” You curse, dropping to your knees with him.

The grass pricks at your skin but you pay it no mind, grabbing onto Morpheus’ elbows to bring him up. He doesn’t go easy, because when has he ever? He’s just as stubborn as you are.

“I am sorry, please, I am sorry,” He apologizes into your gown, head low and almost bowing on his knees. 

“Please, get up, Morpheus,” You whisper, grabbing at his elbows again and lifting him to stand with you. 

His nose and eyes are blushed red as he holds back tears and he dips his head into your neck to hide himself. He hovers just above your neck, not quite touching your skin but you can feel his shaky breath along the curve of your neck. His hands are fisted at his side as he punishes himself mentally for what he has done to you.

Despite everything, despite your pride, despite your differences, your hands wrap themselves around his head, shielding him as he trembles like a lost boy in your arms. You feel no tears hit your shoulders and it’s a sad realization indeed when you’ve concluded that, even now, Morpheus won’t let his image crack in front of others. 

Under judgment of the Celestial Lovers, the two of you remain like that for a few minutes. Silence, for once, was welcomed between the two of you. Morpheus’ breath slows down to match your speed and calms himself. 

He is the first to pull away and he doesn’t look in your eyes after. It is a subtle action that you did notice and should you not have such a caring heart as you do, one you would’ve ignored. But, you can’t and so your heart lurches out to comfort him even when your mind is pulling you in the opposite direction. 

“Where did we go wrong, Y/N?” Morpheus sighs defeatedly. 

“We never ‘went wrong’, Morpheus,” you say after a few seconds with a sigh of your own. You think back to the first day you met him, the day of your wedding, to the whispered confessions he proclaimed to someone else. “We were doomed from the start…”

“Will you let us try?” 

After all of this time? After months of neglect and loneliness? How could you possibly believe that Morpheus wants to start a relationship with you now? All of his past actions have contradicted everything that has led up to this moment. His question strikes a chord with you, and yet—

“Tell me, my lord.” You swallow your fear, gripping onto the dark cape Morpheus had draped over you previously. “Tell me of the conversation you shared with your beloved Calliope tonight and I will think about it.”

A small frown etches on Morpheus’ face. “Calliope is not my beloved,” he says first and foremost. “But, I told her that she was right after all, that we were simply not meant to be. That I do love you, it just took me a while to realize the feeling.”

“Why do I not believe you, Morpheus?” The confession was sweet, but he has yet to do anything to prove his words. “Words are not actions, and I cannot in good faith believe a single thing you have said to me tonight.” 

This time, it is you who looks away. You must steel your heart away, you cannot let it get hurt again. Even now as it beats erratically in your chest, it feels like his fingers are gripping themselves around the muscle. Your fingers tremble as they continue to grip onto the cape.

“Jessamy, let us depart.” Morpheus finally says, clearing his throat and walking away, his footsteps silent compared to your beating heart.

Morpheus plays with his bracelet, pulling at it as it grows tauter against his wrist in retaliation. It sears into his skin, leaving a new reddening bruise. Your own mimics its partner, twisting and tightening in on itself, but you had long gotten used to the pain. 

“Take me back to my room, Matthew,” you eventually say when Morpheus’ figure is no longer seen. 

You lead the way, having long since memorized the outline of the castle gardens. Your company is that of night critters as they also enjoy the early night. Fireflies dance in the air in pairs as they celebrate the yearly union. The further you walk, the more dilute the smell of death becomes. Soon you are back to smelling the subtle hints of jasmines and evening primroses as they blossom in the night. 

Blind by thoughts, you walk straight into another body, a small grunt leaving your lips. Matthew is there by your side to steady you before you even recognize what is happening. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Calliope’s infamous voice comes through the night. 

“All is well,” you say, too tired to bring out the other negative emotions that usually show with her mention: jealousy, rage, resentment… No matter, not tonight. You grip onto Morpheus’ cape tighter as you make your way past her. 

“Wait,” Calliope calls out. In a moment without thought, her hands reach out for yours, gently grabbing themselves over your cold digits. 

“Hands off the Queen!” Matthew announces loudly in your ear. His nerves are on edge from all of the events that have occurred so far tonight. 

“No, Matthew, it is quite all right.” You push the knight away with the back of your hand and a ringing of his voice in your ears. 

“I simply want to say that I wish you the best of luck. Morpheus is very, shall we say… shy, about his actions. If he has not told you, we are not lovers. I stopped seeing him the day before your wedding. I just want you to know,” she rambles and you could never see it in her to do so. Yet, here she is, rambling, afraid that you would go back on your word and never speak to her again. 

“I know, Calliope,” you sigh, holding her hand in your own. “I was angry and in denial with myself when I heard those words he whispered to you on that balcony.”

“You heard that?” Calliope gasps with wide eyes. She pulls herself closer to you and her presence feels like an old friend. “I am so—” 

“I do not need any more apologies tonight, though I am thankful for your honesty. It is time to look toward the future on a more positive note. I would be honored to call you a friend, if you can forgive my own actions against you.”

“I never held that against you, Your Majesty. Being friends, it would be a dream come true.” Her hands squeeze yours like a small hug. 

“You are too kind, my lady,” you say with a smile—a real, genuine smile.

A new flower blooms that night in your garden. From the blood of your spilled enemy and the promise of your first friend within castle walls, a hybrid between forget-me-nots and lilies emerges from the late summer grass. 

Agnes greets you as soon as you step into your door. Her worry and fussing as she scans your tired face and bloody ripped dress is a contrast to her normally calm facade. She’s dragging you on your tired feet and undressing you head to toe before shoving you into an already prepared bathtub.

“Honestly, do people have no sense of decency anymore!” She mutters to herself as she frolics throughout the bathroom grabbing at this and that. 

Agnes began throwing different creams and petals into the water, you might as well have been stew she was cooking. The water turns milky and orange like the summer firefruits the servants used to freeze for you to eat. 

You stay quiet as she begins to scrub your body down with a new sponge, the familiar roughness of it calming in an odd way. Agnes is still muttering to herself as she does so, making sure to get through every nook and cranny she can. 

The water is almost boiling hot, something that you would normally condemn but tonight you welcome it. It burns and washes away the sins and tragedies of tonight.

You’re nothing but a lump of flesh at her mercy as she suds your hair, her nails breaking apart dry blood and turning the soap brown. Her face is still tense, eyebrows furrowing as she washes away the sins of the past. 

Iron permeates the air and the nauseating smell of death comes back like a disease on the horizon. 

“Agnes, what is your opinion on the King?” You ask, half to distract yourself and half to learn more about him.

Would it be too late to learn more about your husband? Perhaps, it has been several months since you've sworn to each other for eternity. But, tonight an abundant amount of new information has come forth. Some were just speculation and some were outright facts.

“King Morpheus has always done right by us, Your Majesty,” Agnes states honestly. 

“Us?” You probe.

“Yes, my late husband left us out to dry and I don’t make near enough for our son. King Morpheus is paying for his education and lets me sleep in the palace as long as I work under him. And to keep you safe of course, Your Majesty,” Agnes further explains. 

She globs on a different type of cream into your hair and the air starts to smell like fresh fruit instead of dried blood. The image of Morpheus starts to shift as you imagine him through Agnes’ eyes. What was once dark turns lighter in your mind. 

You suppose he isn’t a terrible husband, just a neglectful one. He lets you do as you please: tearing away at his gardens for your own sanctuary, permitting you into the royal library, and letting you paint uninterrupted in the studio. 

Was everything he confessed tonight true then? That his feelings for you have changed from resentment of forced marriage into love? It is hard to believe, there is no way a person’s feelings could change so fast. 

For all of the good that he’s done, there is also the bad. Neglecting you is the most obvious answer, but he also failed to listen to your pleas for mercy and rejected you from his inner royal court. He has refused to let you serve your kingdom and share the burden of ruling as a monarch. And though you resolved the issue of his former love for Calliope yourself, would it have wounded him to tell you himself? Why? Why?

The never ending torment that is your own thoughts has you sulking deeper into the bathtub until the only thing above the water are your eyes and nose. Agnes dumps water over your head and your breath creates bubbles in the water. 

You wish to stay in the warm waters for the rest of your life, like returning to the safe womb from which you were born. At least there, you wouldn’t have to deal with… well whatever this is. 

“I am sure that His Majesty never meant to harm you,” Agnes starts again, taking your forlorn expression. 

Too many times has she seen a lonely wife on this side of the universe. Though poorer herself, she is blessed to have been married for love and not arrangement. A lonely wife is always the first ingredient for disaster, followed closely by an angry wife. 

“The King is one of few words, but his actions proceed him. He thought he was doing right by you, Your Grace.” She quickly continues. 

You don’t bother with a response. Perhaps he did think he was doing the right thing. You can imagine what it must have looked like to him in the dim light. A weapon in the hands of an unknown soldier, kneeling over you while your face was still panic-stricken. 

It, however, doesn’t ignore the fact that he proceeded to ignore your pleas, too focus on bringing you his version of “justice.”

You don’t see Morpheus for another week, the tension between the two of you has died down to a low simmer instead of the raging boil you left at. In your time, you’ve started to enjoy Calliope’s company more and more. 

Oftentimes, the two of you share conversation within one of the several drawing rooms in the palace. Calliope brings lemons from her home kingdom of Boeotica that are hardly grown in the seaside soils of the Dreaming. And with lemons comes to fruition your new favorite dessert of tiny lemon cakes. 

Calliope often thinks that you seek out her company each day of the week just so you have an excuse to eat the pastries and drink tea, though you would deny it. You do genuinely enjoy her company. Had you never overcome your diversities with each other, you would have never known how kind, witty, and graceful she is. 

She never minds it. Calliope has missed her sisters dearly, and your company ebbs away at the homesick feeling she’s had since coming here as emissary. And between laughs and hushed whispers of shared stories does she come to find a sister in you as well. 

Other times, you find that Calliope loves to take morning strolls through the open grounds within the castle. She loves the way the sun feels against her skin, warming her up in the mornings like the soil beneath her feet. Matthew accompanies the two of you while she listens to your rambles, your mind having far too many topics of conversation given your lack of friends within palace walls. 

“How did you come into Morpheus’ care?” You ask one day on a familiar stroll in the palace gardens. 

Calliope hums as she acknowledges your question. She thinks for a moment amidst the sound of mourning doves and fountains trickling. You wait with bated breath. Your jealousy of Calliope has long dissipated, but a part of you wishes to know how she managed to become so amicable with your husband. 

“Morpheus and I grew up in the same circle, being royalty and all. It is not uncommon to say that we had our fair share of encounters while we were children. Did you know that he was quite the rambunctious one while he was young? He, Hob, and Lucienne were oftentimes found chasing each other through the halls with wooden swords and empty threats.

Morpheus got into a lot of trouble, he often came back to his nanny covered in bruises or dirt. His mother never appreciated it, thinking it was unsightly for a prince to look and act as he did. I first met him when my parents were visiting as guests and I had holed myself up in some library. He comes bargaining in to hide from Hob and Lucienne from some game they’ve made up. 

We became friends through our love of literature and when Hob and Lucienne eventually found him, they nicknamed him the Prince of Stories. He hated it, of course, saying something about how it was not regal enough for him. 

Eventually, he had to step into the throne. As you may know, his brother was in contact with the divine and thus became divine—and had to step down as the next king of the Dreaming. His eldest sister left to travel, though for reasons unknown to anyone outside of the royal family.” Calliopes goes on.

Her voice is light and smooth, perfect for reminiscing and storytelling. You find yourself smiling at this new found information about Morpheus. His more solemn and distinguished attitude is a stark contrast to his childhood. 

“Do you still love him?” You ask hesitantly, finding distraction in the morning bees that collected the last few drops of autumn nectar. 

“Yes,” Calliope replies honestly. “But as friends.” She nudges you with a knowing smile as she sees you deflate slightly. 

“I see.”

“You need not worry. I believe our relationship was due to his wish for simpler times. Everyone had grown up, Lucienne filled in her role quite well as the royal advisor, her studies proven well. Hob married and inherited his father’s fortune and lands. And Morpheus took to the throne, you must imagine how that is for a boy who was never meant to take to it?” Calliope stops just before the colonnades that reentered the palace as she asks you the question. 

“How do you feel, Calliope? Now that he has listened to you and stopped the relationship?” You inquire, a curious frown etched upon your face. 

“As if he’s finally grown to be the man he is meant to be,” she answers with a soft smile. 

With that answer, she leaves you, having other responsibilities to tend to. The fall chill comes down, kissing across your exposed shoulders and caressing through the loose strands of your hair. Your mind is muddled with thoughts as you watch Calliope’s figure recede. 

On the seventh day, Calliope is nowhere to be seen and instead, you find Morpheus standing in the middle of the drawing room. You had just finished a new book that you wished to share with Calliope, but instead, you’re greeted with bouquet after bouquet of different flowers. 

“Oh!” You exclaim, confused. 

You tilt your body outside for a moment to make sure that you stepped into the correct room. Jessemy’s body seems to materialize out of thin air, and her quiet demeanor makes her a lot more difficult to sense. You even look to Matthew just to make sure, but he meets you with a shrug. 

“Good morning,” Morpheus coughs out when you turn your attention back to him. 

Matthew lets out an aggressive sneeze as the sickly sweet smell from the abundance of flowers reaches his nostrils. The armor-clad knight sneezes again and practically shoves you into the room so that he can close the door behind him.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” he apologizes. Matthew’s muffled sneezes can still be heard on the other side.

A few seconds pass too fast, the atmosphere fills with awkward tension. You could hear the ringing in your ears and wish to crumble and hide within yourself. 

“This is… a lot of flowers,” You state the obvious, scanning over the different colors and shapes. 

“Yes,” Morpheus agrees, perhaps a little too quickly. “Lucienne said you might like a gesture, and I do not know what your favorite flowers are. I find that I do not know about you, at all.”

Morpheus watches closely as you trace the delicate petals of a yet to bloom dahlia with a soft smile. Dahlias are an incredibly romantic flower with the message being “forever thine” and he wonders if you knew that when selecting the flowers. 

“I do like flowers,” you admit absentmindedly. “These are dahlias, an incredibly romantic flower, but not many know that they can be toxic, too. And these,” you practically skip over to another bouquet, “these chrysanthemums mean joy and optimism, and they can even make a soothing tea.”

Your eyes light up as you scan the room, taking in the different species and colors as you start to ramble about each one you like, naming their meanings and purposes. Morpheus listens intently, learning and smiling at the way you flitter around the room like an untamed pixie.

Your smile grows with each new flower you name and you turn to see him smiling back at you. The moment is lost, however, when you realize what he is trying to do. 

“Wait,” you pause, leaving the flowers behind. “You thought that you would be forgiven after everything with just a few flowers?”

“I would not call this a few…” Morpheus laughs slightly and gestures towards the wall of flowers. “I want to get to know you.”

“That would have been a more appropriate conversation you should have shared with your wife on our wedding day,” you grit out. 

The flowers are just a distraction. Morpheus may be a man of a few words, as Agnes has said, and you can see that he is trying in his own weird way. But it will take a lot more than some pretty flowers to gain your favor again. 

“We are gathered here today to honor the recently passed Ser Gault, a noble soldier of the Dreaming whose bravery saved none other than the Queen’s life. As per King Morpheus, Ser Gault will be buried with the highest honor given within the kingdom.” The Reverend Destiny reads off of his old, leathered book. 

You stand amongst the crowd of gathered attendees, the late autumn sun is just about to clip below the horizon. Through your black veil, you garner a small peek at your husband. Morpheus stands next to you, perfectly straight-postured as always and you’re having a hard time trying to read his emotions. Your eyes return to the wooden casket in the ground. 

Six feet under, lies Gault. The very reason you are standing here today, alive and breathing, and yet she wasn’t. It’s been a couple of months since her death, the funeral had taken that long to carefully prepare. 

Perhaps it is the black dress you wore or the cold and dry weather, but with every passing moment Destiny draws on, the harder it is to breathe. You feel as if your living body is going to freeze on the spot. 

No one else spoke, you’re not even sure what the relationships between the attendees and Gault were. You did know that you felt out of place. Funerals should be surrounded by loved ones and you barely knew her past her name. 

Even when everyone else leaves, having already given their prayers and flowers, you stay, feeling as if it was the best way to pay your respects. With each new layer of dirt the grave digger throws on top, you bury the guilt that weighed down your heart. 

It could’ve been you.

It could have been you. 

…

Should it have been you?

Morpheus’ presence brings you out of your thoughts and you find yourself blinking back tears. He’s twirling a singular white tulip between his fingers, contemplating something before he gives the flower to you. No words are exchanged as you hesitantly take the flower, but you understand him.

“Please forgive me,” He asks through the flower. 

You take the flower from his hands, your fingers grazing his for a moment. The warmth is ever fleeting, and it’s missed as soon as you pull away. The tulip is light and delicate in your fingers, a simple push of your nail could snap the stem in half. 

“I am still angry at you, Morpheus, and you are still not forgiven…. but this is a good start. You have always acted before you thought, and I’m not so sure anymore if it is a blessing or a curse,” You whisper to him. 

The funeral staff have left, and the mound of dirt now rests, ready to be compacted down through time. You place the white tulip on the mound and walk away, giving Gault her first and last gift from you. The autumn chill creeps up quicker now that the sun has set and you briskly make your way back to the comforts of your suite. 

Morpheus lets out a deep sigh, watching your receding figure merge with Matthew’s the further you walk away from him. His shoulder relaxes as he repeats your words on his lips. 

“A good start…” 

He returns with haste to the royal library and begins digging around the archives. He searches in candlelight desperately for a specific book he hasn’t read in a long, long, time. 

“Looking for something in particular, my lord?” Lucienne’s voice calls out to him. 

Morpheus looks down briefly from the ladder he clung to, the wrong book in his hands. He sighs as he slides the book back into its place, pushing on the old spine. The higher he went on the prongs, the stronger the books began to smell like his oldest brother. 

“Language of flowers,” He admits defeatedly to his most trusted advisor. 

“What ever do you need that for?” Lucienne asks, shocked to say the least. 

“It seems to be the only way I can communicate with my wife.”

Lucienne raises a quizzical brow, probing him for further information without saying another word. Morpheus climbs back down the wooden ladder, candelabra in hand as he makes his way to her. 

“Every time I try to explain myself, I simply make matters worse. Y/N has a kind love for flowers and seems to understand what I said during the funeral,” Morpheus explains. 

Lucienne’s mouth opens in a silent “ah.” She knows exactly what he means, though she keeps the thoughts to herself. Looking past the already difficult past the two of you shared, Morpheus was hard to understand at his core. 

He always came to conclusions within his own mind, only speaking the final verdict without letting anyone else in on his thoughts. At least with flowers, he can communicate in a way that you would understand. 

Without another word, Lucienne disappears into the darkness of the library, knowing her way around the aisles as if it were the grooves in her own pointed ears. She comes back not a few moments later with the correct book in her arms, handing it over to her King. 

Though, in the darkness of the night and the shadows cast by candlelight, Morpheus is basked in a type of vulnerability she hasn’t seen since they were children. 

“For the Prince of Stories,” she jokes, a crooked smile dashing across her lips as she recalls the old joke. 

Morpheus casts her a playful glare, thinking it had been too long for anyone to remember that nickname. But, he thanks her nonetheless and sits by a large window to catch up on some reading. 

The moon rises higher in the sky, casting a blue hue over the worn and inked pages. His fingers trace across the drawings of different flowers and herbs alike as he pages through the book.

Jessamy remains by his side still as he makes his way to the palace gardens, muttering to himself as he tries to find the specific flowers he finds agreeable. By the time the moon reaches Her peak, Morpheus smells like fresh dirt and he interlaces the stems together into something more presentable, tying off the bouquet in some twine he found lying in a greenhouse. 

He presents the finished bouquet to the only person around, who happens to be Jessamy. Ever silent, Jessamy only shrugs, her armored shoulder pads falling as soon as they rise. 

Not exactly the greatest boost of confidence, but it was better than Jessamy ripping it to shreds, he supposed. He leaves the bouquet in the servant’s quarters with a specific note that Agnes is to send the flowers to you.

You wake up to a very excited Agnes shoving flowers ino your face. Sleep still clings to your eyelashes like glue and your frown only deepens when someone opens the heavy curtains of the room. 

“What is going on,” you say sitting up, eyes blinking open. 

Agnes shoves the bouquet of flowers into your hands, which you poorly grab at. 

“It’s from King Morpheus,” Agnes explains as she begins to prepare you for your day. 

A brush runs through your hair as you push your sleep aside. You stare at the flowers, a bouquet made of blue salvias, hawthorns, myrtles, hyacinths, and marguerite daisies. 

“The more I look at it… the bouquet is kinda ugly,” Agnes mutters from behind you, her brush stopping mid-stroke. 

You don’t respond to Agnes but silently agree. Morpheus didn’t seem like the type of person to send something half-done and you rack your brain as you start to name off the meanings behind each flower he sent you. 

Blue salvias… meaning “I think of you,” hawthorns which represents the term “I am hoping,” while myrtles means “love in a marriage.” Your cheeks flush as you decipher the hidden message in the flowers. The remaining two flowers, hyacinths and marguerite daisies, decipher “to play” and “I await you.” 

“I’m thinking of you. I am hoping for love in our marriage. Come play with me, I await you.” The message reads. 

Morpheus waits for you? Figuratively or literally? If it was literally, where in the vast palace grounds would he wait for you? You ponder over the message across breakfast with Calliope, her voice muffled as you silently chew on your fruit, debating if you should even accept the invitation. 

At least he isn’t forcing your hand, it will be your decision whether or not you should meet with him. At first, you considered not going at all, but that darn bracelet from the Sister Fates kept twisting and tightening around your wrist until you couldn’t take the subtle pain anymore. 

You spend the rest of your afternoon hunting him down. If he couldn’t specify where he would like to meet, then you would just have to revisit all of the locations in which you have interacted with him. That was the best you could come up with at the time. 

The drawing room was the closest to you at the time, the flowers Morpheus had gotten you were disposed of and the room returned to its original cleanliness. It still smelled of flowers, but the scent was less intruding this time around. Still, your husband was nowhere to be found. 

You head to the ballroom next. With the lack of whimsical effects from the eclipse, the ballroom was just like any other space within the castle. Though the open ceiling was still a beautiful touch, casting everything in natural sunlight. You spot Lucienne near the unmoving decorative thrones at the very front and you make your way to her. 

“Lucienne,” you call out to her, quickening your step to catch up to her. 

“My lady,” she greets, clasping her hands over the heavy book she was holding. 

“Have you seen Morpheus?” You ask outright. 

“No, Your Majesty. King Morpheus has cleared his entire schedule today, therefore I haven’t a clue to his whereabouts.”

“Hm, interesting,” you think aloud. Lucienne was your first and only hope of easily finding him. 

“Forgive me for not being of much help,” the royal advisor apologizes, pushing her round glasses back into place. 

“Do not fret. Thank you, Lucienne.” You acknowledge this before letting her continue with her daily responsibilities. 

Next, you make your way to the royal library, where you find Mervyn dusting the table lights with a grumble. The brighter blue of his new denim overalls makes him stick out like a sore thumb amongst the brown books. The pumpkin-head man doesn’t bother to answer your question, shooing you away with a dirty glove as if your very presence was enough to annoy him. 

You leave, tail tucked between your legs and a little offended as you make it to Hob’s studio. Opening the door greeted you with past emotions you’re not sure if you’ve processed. You haven’t been back in the studio since that eventful evening and no one has been in since, either. 

Dry paint was still splattered across the walls and floors, broken canvases were strewn across the room. Dust sprites have made themselves a small home, covering every inch of the place in a fine layer of dust. Upon seeing your face, they get shy and fly out past your head, leaving you sneezing and still unable to find your husband. 

“Wait out here, Matthew,” you instruct as you slowly make your way into the studio. 

You run a finger across a shelf, collecting the dust on your finger and rolling the lint into a small tube. The brushes have dried, paint caked onto them as if frozen in time with the promise of something new. But you know, you know the brushes are destroyed—that no matter how much water and oil you soak them in can you return them to the state they were before. 

Evening came quicker now that it was autumn, beginning to cast the studio in a warm yellow light and illuminating the dust. You let out another sigh, relaxing your posture in the solitude of the broken room. To think that it was autumn already… 

The window unlocks with a click and you open the glass panes to let the dust fly out. You enjoy the chill that ran down your shoulders as you lean out the window to escape the stuffiness of the room. The blissful solace was interrupted by a rustling below you. 

In the colorful flowers of the gardens below you, you see Morpheus and Jessamy, their black colors displaced amongst the lively backdrop. Morpheus paces back and forth along the cobblestone path, looking towards the entrance below you before returning to his pacing. 

Had he been there this whole time? You step away from the window, wishing to keep yourself hidden as you too begin to pace back and forth. This whole day was spent looking for him but now that you found him, you’re not sure if you want to see him. 

Yes, you should see him, give him a piece of your mind. 

No, you shouldn’t see him, let him suffer in his silence. 

Yes, you should go to him, you can see his efforts in trying to reprimand his mistakes!

No, did you forget he refuses to let you do anything in the castle?

He lets you do a lot, all things considered. 

“Oh, be quiet,” You scold yourself as your mind races. 

Your feet move you out of the studio and out of the royal library all the while your mind still plays tug of war between yes’s and no’s. Soon you’re flying down the winding stairs that lead down to the gardens, your heart pounding and your breath shaky. 

No, what if he hurts you again? And your hand pauses on the door handle. 

But what if… Oh, gods above! Shut up!

You push the door open, the sun blinding and the air fresh against your flushed face. It’s too late to turn back now. Morpheus’ head snaps up at the sound of the door banging open, standing to his feet even though he had just sat back down. He stares, wide-eyed and unblinking at you. As if afraid that if he does, it would have all been a figment of his imagination and you were nothing but an illusion of his wishes. 

A beat of silence passes between you, even leaves don’t dare fall as if trying to avoid the tense atmosphere. It’s you who breaks it first for if it continued any longer, you would run back up those stairs again. 

“Hello, Morpheus,” you greet and raise your hand in a wave and inwardly cringe at how horrible this is and you should just turn around and hide in your room. 

“Y/N,” Morpheus breathes out your name like a song. 

“How long have you been waiting?” You ask, noting the amount of pacing he had been doing. 

“Since dawn,” He responds honestly, his cheeks and nose flushed from the cold air. 

“Forgive me for keeping you, the flowers… they did not specify where,” you apologize quickly. He nods in understanding, there isn’t exactly a flower that means “meet me at the garden under the marble statue of the naked woman fountain.”

“No, I would’ve waited the night if necessary,” Morpheus assures and another beat of silence follows at his confession. “Would you like to promenade with me?”

You nod once, enough for Morpheus to close the gap between you and offer his arm. You hesitate for a moment but swallow it down as you wrap your fingers around his limb.

“Just this once,” you agree. The two of you begin to stroll through the expansive gardens, enjoying the weather and last of the sun’s rays. 

“I would like to get to know you, if it pleases my wife,” he says suddenly amongst the sound of trickling water and birds chirping. 

“What do you wish to know?” You respond. Morpheus pauses for a moment, not particularly expecting to have come this far in conversation—if he was going to be honest with himself. 

“What is your most favorable season?” He asks. 

“Spring,” you answer easily. “Though I keep that information close to my chest.” 

Morpheus smiles at your little jab. Spring would explain your love of flowers, when they are most beautiful. 

“Why do you enjoy dancing?” He inquires next. 

“It is a physical form of music and music is beautiful but intangible,” you explain as best as you could, but the feeling is hard to put to words. “I’ve always danced when I’m happy and therefore have become happy when I dance.”

“Do you miss your family?” 

“Not as much as I miss my harpsichord,” you joke, having gotten used to the freedom away from the scrutinizing gaze of your father and the constant lessons from your mother. “Tell me about your family.”

“What is there to learn? All events have been written on paper and bound in leather.” He lets out a deep chuckle at his own joke before pretending to clear his throat when you don’t laugh with him. 

“Tell me about your sister, Teleute. Why is she not here?” You ask instead.

The night that Rodrick Burgess burst into the ballroom is still fresh in your mind. Something made him believe that Morpheus’ sister could bring back his dead son and Calliope mentioned something happened to Teleute but it is a heavily guarded secret. 

“A royal family secret,” Morpheus confirms your suspicions. “Teleute almost died giving birth to her first child. Since that tragedy, she has been an oracle and foreseer of death itself, though we know not the reason why. Our parents sent her away in fear of their own deaths coming sooner.”

So, it was simply misinformation that Rodrick Burgess was fed. She could only predict when and how someone died, not bring them back from the dead. You suppose any loving parent would want to bring their child back, and even go to extreme lengths to achieve it. 

“A cruel thing for parents to do to their daughter.” You frown as you realize that the former king and queen had banned her from her own home. 

“Yes, but the last I’ve known of her, she is happier out there and not in here.” 

“What of the rest of your siblings?”

“I have six in total.” Morpheus continues to indulge your curiosity. “You know of Reverend Destiny, I have a wild card of a brother who left the royal family and his titles for no known reasons, but I don’t blame him. There are the twins, who disagreed with my ascension to the throne and have declared themselves enemies of the Dreaming, but that is a discussion for another day.”

“That is only five siblings, what of the sixth?” You question as you mentally tallied up the number.

“My youngest sister passed in her sleep whilst fighting a fever dawning on her third birthday,” Morpheus reveals quietly, briefly reliving the past. 

“My condolences, my lord.” You apologize quickly after for probing too far. 

“Thank you, but it has been many years and the ache is healed.” 

The two of you fall into another silence, following the cobblestone path beneath us. Mervyn had been doing a wonderful job in keeping the path clean, not a single blade was out of place and no insufferable weeds popped up. 

Arm in hand, you and Morpheus descend further into the gardens where the bushes are overgrown and the flowers grow wildly over forgotten statues. A gazebo stood strong despite the strong cracks in its foundation and columns. A lone stone table with a game of black and white sits beneath its roof. 

“Do you know how to play?” He asks as you two stop before the table. 

“Chess?” You confirm his question, to which he nods. “Yes, I would dare say I am quite proficient.”

“I shall take that as a challenge, for I have never lost a game.” Morpheus grins as walks up the small steps of the marble gazebo. 

“Consider your challenge accepted,” You say with a prideful glint, raising your chin high. “Which side do you prefer?”

“Ladies first, I insist.” Morpheus offers the side to the white side with his hand before taking a seat opposite of you. 

The stone seat is cool beneath your legs, a calming temperature as the air crackles with both of your egos on the line. You watch as Morpheus realigns his pieces so they all face the same way. You wonder whether or not he was giving you the upper hand by giving you the side which will move first, but the more you think about it, the more you realize it is so he could see how you think.

White always moves first, it usually attacks and black defends—but chess is not just about capturing and winning, it is a game of logic and strategy. Both opponents show their skills in how they maneuver their pieces while manipulating their opponents. Your eyes meet his once again and all playful banter the two of you shared is gone. 

The man in front of you now is no longer your husband. No, this is King Morpheus: calculating, patient, and intelligent. 

As per the rules of the game, you move first and Morpheus watches intently. He sets his next piece out and the two of you play back and forth as the game slowly progresses. You watch Morpheus hover his fingers over his bishop in thought, his mind whirling with different scenarios. 

“Do you play chess often?” Your voice cuts through his thoughts like a sword freshly sharpened off the whetstone. 

“When I have the time,” He answers soon after. 

“I see,” you hum in response and the silence continues. 

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Your voice cuts through the quiet of the game once again. 

“Yes…” Morpheus draws out and you see his jaw tick in annoyance. Your soft smile and voice is starting to distract him and any plan he tries to come up with. He lets go of the knight, forgetting if that was really what he wanted to do or not. 

“Very well,” you feign a sigh, a hint of mischief hidden in the message. 

The quietness continues as the only sounds that accompany the game are the sounds of your laughter as you capture any of Morpheus pieces and the rising crickets. 

Soon enough, the pieces are scattered across the black and white board as you enter the end game. Morpheus has a great deal of your pieces captured and you the same on your side. The game slows as both of you try to figure out the best course of action and reaction from each other. 

You try your luck at distracting him again, though this time you ask a question that has been left unanswered for months. 

“Have you ever thought back to my question from that night?” You ask even though it was your turn. 

“Which one?” 

“Why are you so angry, Morpheus?” You ask again, this time expecting an answer. 

“Do you really think me so?” Morpheus retorts as the game turns over to him. 

“Angry? No, not anymore. I think you are lonely,” you conclude as you watch his piece move across the chessboard.

The sun is beginning to set, much like the end of the game. Its final rays are casting everything in a deep orange and the night critters begin to warm their voices to sing. 

“I am not lonely,” Morpheus scoffs at you. “I am constantly surrounded by people and even childhood friends.”

“And yet, you still lie.” You frown at his evasive answer. “I, too, am surrounded by friends and servants but at least I knew I was lonely.” 

“It is my fault you had to feel such a way,” he apologizes again.

You shrug him off, the sound of his apologies now familiar in your ears and you no longer wish to hear them. You wish to hear the truth. 

“For me, people held me at a distance because by law I am their queen and they cannot look past the title. Through time, I no longer blamed them for doing so. For you, however, why do you distance yourself from those around you emotionally?” You ask, wanting to dig deeper into his thoughts. 

Morpheus seemed stunned at your new question, one that penetrated his very soul and held it out for him to see and reflect upon. When he thinks about how he has treated those around him, the answer comes out slowly but truthfully. 

“I have built myself onto a pedestal of regality and control that no one can reach. But I realized that it was not constructed of marble but that of mud and sand from which if a single grain falls, I shall lose everything. I cannot be weak, I cannot let my subjects suffer as such.” Morpheus finally confesses.

He’s not sure who needed to hear it more, you or himself. Morpheus thinks himself as the only one with responsibility. And while it is true his are more grand and important than most, he believes it to be his and his alone. To push them onto others is a burden. Should he seek others for help, he cannot control the outcome no matter how satisfied or failed it may be.

“Only a weak king would deny their weakness and faults. You are good, Morpheus. Fall if you so shall decide to, and you will find that I will be there to catch you. You are not alone anymore.” You smile at him, one he wishes to see for the rest of his life.

Your smile only widens as you move your queen and it’s soon realized to both of you that you had finally cornered his king.

Checkmate.

His king has nowhere else to run and your standing, victorious queen blocks his path. Morpheus frowns as he tries to find a way to continue playing, but no matter what he plans, nothing comes to fruition. 

“I surrender,” He sighs as he goes to knock his piece over. He had fully fallen to your distractions and whims. 

The ceramic piece topples over and bounces against the marble game board, rolling around slowly as it accepts its defeat. You glance from your seat across from him and notice the tick of his jaw as he loses his first game of chess. 

“Perhaps ‘I surrender’ is not the correct course of action here,” You say after a deep breath.

You reach for the small black chess piece and examine it closely between pinched fingers. The detailing is well done, and the craftsmanship comes from the hands of an expert. You place the ebony piece next to your queen of ivory, the two pieces standing together amidst a gameboard of fallen pawns, knights, and bishops. 

“Marriage is a partnership. I do not want you to surrender to me and in return neither will I to you. I simply ask for us to be equals.” You stare at Morpheus with a hopeful look.

Morpheus glaces between you and the chess pieces and finally gives you a small smile. You are too good for him and he promises himself that he will spend the rest of his life making sure he is the husband you deserve. 

“As you wish, my queen.” 

Dusk settles and takes your combined sorrows with it. Tomorrow a new dawn will rise with the promise of hope. 

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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God, finally they made up. Only took them fucking what? 35k words? Medium slow burn fr

♡ Yours, Layla

Tags: @dnarez @arunawayheart @acdassenza @ella33 @karma-is-a-god @bluespecs14 @boo8008 @dragon-kazansky @i-voluntears @dennixlovezelda @commanderfreethatdust @herfantasyworldd

[xen-xa]

I've got a terrible idea.

Dreamling superhero AU, but it's Dream as Batman and Hob as Superman asfjghajfgakldfg

Have I read too much SuperBat lately? No, I haven't read enough in fact.

In this instance, Dream is a single child who had loving parents and he witnesses them being murdered, which fuels his need for justice and hence Batman is created. He is raised by the family butler Mervyn and, after a few years, adopts an orphan named Lucienne who he trains to be his sidekick (because if he doesn't she's only going to go out on her own without any training and that'll be the worse outcome). After a falling out with Lucienne, who leaves the nest for her independence, Dream adopts another orphan Jessamy. Sadly she is killed by Dream's nemesis (idk Burgess as the Joker? lmao) and Dream spirals into more depression until Matthew comes barging into his life. Little Matt figured out Dream was Batman somehow and basically demanded to be his sidekick because Dream needs the help. Later on, Orpheus comes into the picture as Dream's son whose mother is Calliope (idk how to fit her into this, though I feel she fits in a more "redeemed" Talia mold if anything).

On the other hand, Hob is an alien from space who crash lands to Earth as a baby and is raised by good folk. When Hob realizes he has powers he know that he has to use them for good (though it's not like he doesn't use them for some small petty things now and again lol). He becomes a journalist so that he's up to date about current events and so that it's easy to slip away if needed. He meets Eleanor and falls in love and they have a son named Robyn. Haven't decided if Eleanor and Hob separate for some reason or she dies in childbirth.

AND AFTER ALL THIS Dream and Hob fall in love somehow. IDK I didn't think this far lmao I just though it'd be really funny if they were Batman and Superman and still feel in love MAKE OF IT WHAT YOU WILL

[darthstitch]

every hundred years

Jessamy likes to follow along when the museum guides give their tours. It gives her something to do while Mummy's working with the paintings. At least, that was if Jessamy wasn't in school.

Her Mummy restores old paintings, brings them back like they were good as new. Most kids found that boring, but Jessamy didn't. She liked some of the stories Mummy would tell about those paintings. Of course, Jessamy couldn't be there the whole time, because it was fiddly, fussy work and Mummy needed to concentrate.

Today, Jessamy was trailing along a group that included a few kids close to her own age. They stopped in front of a painting that Jessamy recognized as one that her Mummy had recently restored.

"The Devil in the Tavern," the museum guide proclaimed with a dramatic flourish. "There's a rather spooky story attached to this, just in time for All Hallows' Eve. Don't worry, the painting itself isn't cursed, though. We keep those kinds of paintings decently covered up - we wouldn't want to lose our visitors now, wouldn't we?"

There was nervous laughter among the visitors and the children giggled.

"He doesn't look like the Devil," protested one very young little girl. "He looks like a prince in a fairy tale!"

"Yeah, he's supposed to have horns or scary burning eyes. That's what my nan says," said another little boy.

Jessamy had to agree. The "devil" looked rather handsome in his old-fashioned dark blue suit, with pale skin, bright blue eyes and long dark curly hair tumbling over his shoulders. There was a ruby set in the ruffles at his neck - Mummy called that a cravat, rather like an old-fashioned necktie.

"Well," said the museum guide, "if he had horns and scary eyes, he wouldn't be able to sit all nice and quiet in a tavern, aye? The story goes that the Devil and the Cursed Soldier would meet in a certain tavern, once every hundred years…"

Jessamy listened as the museum guide continued to spin their story about dreadful bargains made for immortality, a clever soldier who'd bested the Devil in a card game and won riches beyond imagination, and how every hundred years, the two of them would meet and plot and ensnare more unwary, greedy souls to drag off to Hell. The grown ups chuckled and Jessamy heard one scoff, "Stuff and nonsense!" But that was grown-ups for you. Some of them didn't like a good story, even if it was clearly all made up.

She lingered in front of the painting a while longer, even as the museum guide finished their tale and led the group to other paintings and things to see, moving on to different stories. There was something about this painting that was oddly familiar to her. Something about the look in the "devil's" eyes that seemed more sad to her, rather than sinister.

"That is not the Devil at all," said a deep, resonant voice just behind her. "And that soldier was never cursed."

Jessamy turned to see a tall, thin young man standing there. He was dressed entirely in black - black coat, black pants, black combat boots - which went perfectly well with his black hair and snow-white skin. He kind of looked like Wednesday Addams' older brother, which made her smile inwardly.

"Did the guide make it all up then?" Jessamy asked.

The man shook his head.  "No, they told the story as they knew it.  Stories tend to change as they're told over the years, but they will always go back to their original forms in time."  

"So who was he really?  What's the real story then?" Jessamy asked.  

"He is the King of All Night's Dreaming," the man answered, a small smile playing about his lips. "He was rather proud, a little too full of himself at times. Since he knew the dreams and hopes of all humanity, he fancied that he knew all that he should of mortals. His sister, who was very wise and quite kind, decided to teach him otherwise."

"How?  And who was his sister?"

"His sister was Death.  And she pointed out the soldier to him, who was rather deep in his cups at the time. The man proclaimed to all and sundry that he had no plans of ever dying.  She decided then and there, that she would grant him his wish.  He would not die, unless he finally wanted it.

The Lord of Dreams believed that he would be begging for Death's gift in a century.  And so they made a wager about it.  

Still quite haughty, he swept up to the soldier and told him the news.  And invited him to a meeting at that very same tavern, in a hundred years.

'Aye, stranger,' said the soldier quite cheerfully.  'I'll see you in a hundred years, then!"  

Jessamy found herself spellbound by the man's voice and the way he told his tale.  She hadn't realized that the two of them were now  sitting on one of the benches in front of the portrait.  There were other children now who were obviously listening as well and they'd settled down on the floor around them.  

"So did they see each other in a hundred years?"

The man nodded.  

"The Dream Lord expected, of course, for the man to beg him for death.  For much had happened to him in the past century.  He had fought in many battles, he had seen much of suffering and pain and many, many horrors."

The man paused and shook his head, looking rueful.  

"But when the Dream Lord asked him to tell his story, the man told him about the wondrous invention of.... chimneys."

Jessamy and the other children giggled.

"And handkerchiefs."

More laughter.

The man shook his head at them mock-sternly.  "He'd lived through a time when there were no such things and people would sicken and die from inhaling the smoke from a poorly ventilated hearth.  To him, they were marvellous things.

When he spoke to the King of Dreams about his life, it was always the new things that he spoke of and there was such wonder and amazement in his tone, that he had lived to see such miracles and that he hoped he would live to see many more.

And so, when the Dream Lord asked if he still wished to live, he answered, 'Yes.'

Thus, the King of Dreams lost his wager with his sister.  But he was, as I've said, very proud.  And he was now quite intrigued with this fellow, with his talk of chimneys and handkerchiefs.

And so, they agreed to meet once more at that tavern, in another hundred years."

The man continued to weave the story of the King of Dreams and the immortal man, how they would meet at the tavern, to listen to the man tell him of the wonders he'd seen in the previous century.  How he'd risen from his own humble origins as a peasant soldier to become rich and gain a title of his own, with a wife, a son and a baby on the way.  

How, in the very next meeting, the Dream Lord would again meet the immortal man, but this time, he would see him poor and starving, having lost everything - his wealth, his wife and babe, and finally, his dear son.  

Jessamy gulped.  "Did he still want to live?"

"The Dream Lord felt quite sorrowful, when he'd beheld the man and heard his tale of woe.  It had started out as a silly game between him and his sister, but this was now more than just a game to them both.  

The Dream Lord also knew of loss and suffering and pain.  There were times when he felt he would break under the weight of it.  But he endured, for he had a duty to fulfill.  There was no one else to carry the burden for him.  

So he asked the man, with a heavy heart, if he had still wanted to live.  Perhaps, he would offer this man a final dream to ease his way, a vision of the family he had lost, to comfort him.  

The Dream Lord thought to himself that he would miss this man and his stories, but it was only to be expected.  Humans could only endure so much pain.  This was why his sister bestowed her gift to humanity.  They were only too glad to see her, in the end.  

But once more, the man surprised him.  

"Are you mad?" the man told him.  "Death's a mug's game.  I've got so much more to live for."

So much hope still in him. How extraordinary."

"Did they meet again? The King of Dreams and the immortal man?" Jessamy asked.

"Did he get all better?" asked another little girl.

The man nodded.

He continued to tell them the story of the immortal's adventures. How he had done deeds both good and terrible. How he had learned from those dire mistakes, that had haunted his dreams and nightmares, which would have broken other men before him.

And yet, he had always looked forward, tried to do better and dreamed, always, to what new and wondrous thing the future would bring him. What stories he would tell the King of Dreams when they met again.

"All that, and still, the immortal did not truly know who the King of Dreams was."

Jessamy blinked. "Why? Weren't they friends already?"

The man laughed softly. "As I've said, the King of Dreams was a rather arrogant creature."

"He's very silly,"  Jessamy declared.  "I'd rather like to be friends with someone who lives forever like that.  And I'd see him more than just once in a hundred years."  

"Then you are far wiser than the King of Dreams, little one.  And a much better friend."

"Maybe the King of Dreams was afraid," Jessamy ventured.  "I think he was lonely.  He just didn't want to admit it."

"He was.  Very lonely.  And quite afraid.  He had reason to be, for terrible things would happen to the people he loved.  He did not want the same thing to happen to this man, his friend, who had become very dear to him.  Dearest and best beloved."  

"And how does the story end?  Do they still meet in that tavern every hundred years?"

"How do you think the story ends, little Jessamy?"

Jessamy blinked.  She wasn't sure if she'd told this man her name.  But there was something in those extraordinary blue eyes, a look, that was warm and kind and knowing. Again, there was that nudge of familiarity to it, something that scratched at the edge of memory.  

"You're the Storyteller," she told him archly.  "You should know."

"Perhaps they still meet, even now, though the tavern is no longer there.  They meet someplace new, a place that the immortal has built for his errant friend, a safe place where they can sit and drink and spend time together.    

Perhaps, they meet a little more often than a hundred years, because the immortal man still has many stories to tell and the King of Dreams himself has learned his own lessons.  

Perhaps, the immortal now knows his friend's name and asks the Dream Lord to tell his own story.  As I tell it to you now."

The man smiled.  And Jessamy finally tried not to think very hard about how the man looked exactly like that painting that was just in front of them.  

"There you are, duck," said another man, walking up to them.  He was only slightly shorter than the man in black, broad-shouldered, with warm brown eyes and the kindest smile.  He paused in front of them, took in the scene of Jessamy and the children with amusement.  "Telling stories again, are we?  Do I know this one?"

"You know it quite well, dearest," the storyteller said, standing up to walk towards his companion.  "I am rather fond of this particular tale after all."

"And how does this one end?"

"I think it ends happily ever after," Jessamy spoke up, looking at the two of them.  She was suddenly very sure that she knew who they were.  "That's how the best stories end."

"There you go, love, out of the mouths of babes," said the immortal man, who had been a peasant, a soldier, a lord, a beggar and many things more in all the centuries he'd lived.  He leaned over to brush a kiss against the storyteller's pale cheek, smiled when the kiss was briefly returned, soft and sweet.  

"As you say."  The storyteller nodded regally at her.  "Farewell, little Jessamy.  Dream well."

Jessamy watched the King of All Night's Dreaming and his immortal walk away, hand in hand.  She grinned.  She was quite glad that her lord Morpheus had found happiness at long last.  

-end-

*runs*

[myidlehand]

I can't believe we got to see Dream's cutest little face

And then they straight up murdered Jessamy right after that

[batfamfucker]

Okay but Ravens can't be heard by people right? What is Jessamy screamed when she died and we just couldn't hear it but Dream could?

[darksideoftheshipps]

Day 2: Scurry

[achillesuwu]

I think it would be extremely funny if Dream time travel to 1689 (idk father time got drunk or something, I'm in the svsss fandom do you expect me to find actual world-building instead of saying "it's airplane fault"?) because, like Hob just experienced the WORST years of his life meanwhile Dream is like : "wtf is happening" but also "this is my friend, this is my labrador sunshine, this is the guy who waited for me when 99,99999% of my realm thought I abandoned them, what do you mean I shouldn't change the past? Fuck that, I'm gonna pet my labrador sunshine every Thursday like I did the past years in the futur. Watch me. "

Hob would be SO confuse because, he stinks !? (arguably, for dream every animal will stink no matter what so who care) He is poor!? He can't even get a job!? He is pathetic!? People despise him!? He is stupid, he got caught in bad situation so many fucking time!? He is SO far away from the glory of 1589 that his friend ignored, he is worst than 1389 and yet?!!? His stranger like him now!? He meets him often!?! Actually ask him if he would accept help or just need someone to be there!?!? He HUGS him EVEN IF HE STINKS!?!?!

Meanwhile the whole Dreaming wonder if their king just fell on his head and magically got +2 billion years of maturity and + 10 000 points in flirting capacity (what do you mean *HE* /ASKED/ and LISTEN to his new crush's point of views!? DID YOU HEAR THAT HE SAID THANK YOU TO LUCIENNE!?!)

[redhothollyberries]

On the topic of Jessamy

And why I’m full of feels.

So I was rewatching ep 1 for cage references, and I was once again moved by this scene - where Dream looks up at Alex after Jessamy is shot.

The grief.

The rage.

This is where he committed to doling out justice. This is where he committed to vengeance.

He’s been in a deprivation chamber for ten years. Where a human prisoner can at least escape a prison for 8 hours a day, Dream can’t even have that. He’s been alone, in a cell too small for him to lie down completely or walk a few paces, without food, water, air, painfully aware of the passing of time. He’s so far from home, forced into immobility when he’s never been still a day in his life, probably.

He thinks he’s been abandoned by everyone - his people, his family. Everyone.

Then, Jessamy appears. 

He’s not alone. He’s not forgotten.

Brave, reckless Jessamy, who’s desperate to see him out of his cage, tries to help him. Hope swells in Dream’s heart.

Then Alex shoots her. 

Jessamy pays for her loyalty with her life, and Dream is alone once again.

He cries.

He cries for his subject, for someone that perhaps he considered a friend. Who knows Jessamy had been with him.

The only show of emotion that his captors get to see from him, and it’s grief. 

Is it any wonder he’s so closed up when he leaves?

Anyway, I’m not ok. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[krsobsessions]

Everyone saying justice for Gregory like Jessamy didn't die trying to help Dream

[original-begay-docrime]

Nah cause when she died I cried. And lost all sympathy for Alex

To everyone saying Dream was just being petty; dude, I too wouldn't be handing out forgiveness to the murderer of my beloved raven

[darthstitch]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless, Hob Gadling, surprise character Additional Tags: Fluff, Storytelling, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Put Tongue Firmly in Cheek and Leave Canon at the Door, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, POV Outsider Series: Part 13 of History Class Cryptids a.k.a. The Kilig Diaries Summary:

Every hundred years, the Devil and the man he cursed with immortality meet up in a certain tavern...

[jesscmy]

Hi just popping in to tell u that you do Jessamy justice and the story you wrote for her is so compelling and intriguing ok thx bye

((Thank you! I'm a very shy lump of a person who assumes everyone dislikes them so this really does mean the world to me!))

[thenightling]

JUSTICE FOR JESSAMY!

(The way fans reacted to Barb’s fate in the first season of Stranger Things, I'm going to do that for Jessamy in The Sandman.)

[digitaldiscussions]

Social Media: facilitating abuse and hatred? (Week 10)

Within the ‘real world’, people generally understand what bullying is and what it looks like. However, bullying, trolling and other negative-centric behaviours are less easily deciphered from behind a screen. For the many benefits that social media affords its users; collaborativity, communication and collectivity, social media also presents very real and dangerous challenges to those who choose to use it. Now, more than ever, harassment and abuse on social media is at a high. This increased level of harassment means that members of society who are already vulnerable face additional abuse. 

Gaslighting is the behaviour of “psychologically manipulating a person in order to erode their sense of self and sanity” (Gleeson 2018). Gaslighting, like many other bullying tactics, originated beyond a screen, however the proliferation of social media and the ability to simulate ‘in person’ interactions has meant the behaviour of gaslighting has become commonplace on social media platforms. Gaslighting is particularly alarming within the online context due to its ability to “unnerve and demoralise” (Gleeson 2018) people. 

Social media is often utilised by support groups and social justice movements, using these platforms to inform the masses of issues and invoke change. However, the emergence of gaslighting techniques on social media has aimed to discredit and devalue these groups and movements. For example, the recent #MeToo movement, which encouraged women particularly to publicise situations in which they had been subject to sexual harassment or abuse. However, gaslighting on social media platforms aimed to “dismiss” (Gleeson 2018) these publications, instead stating that these “survivors: had “misread the situation” (Gleeson 2018) or “imagined the abuse” (Gleeson 2018). 

However, the increase of harassment and abuse on social media is not limited to specific behaviours such as gaslighting. Harassment and abuse can be harboured on social media merely through groups projecting and posting hateful and ill-informed views and thought on particular subjects. 

As identified by Marwick, “harassing behaviours” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543) online are becoming more “networked” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543), “coordinated and organised” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543). That is, users of social media are beginning to organise themselves “loosely” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543) into their own social media “networks” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543) constituting “blogs, podcasts and forums” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543), to engage and spread common thought. 

Recently, this has been evidence by the emergence of the “manosphere” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543), a social media network which aims to spread messages of “men’s rights” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 550) and hence dismiss “feminist thought” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 550) and female equality generally. Like many other collective networks, the “manosphere” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543) uses vocabulary and language to connect users to a “common” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 553) community and hence “identity” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 553). As the “manosphere” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 543) is really a collective of many different and “diverse” (Marwick et al, 2018, p. 553) online communities, the use of common language and vocabulary connects these varying communities and therefore evolves the community of hatred and bullying. 

Hence, whilst the formation of online networks of similar thought is not inherently subjecting others to harassment and abuse, when these communities main objectives is to spread messages of hatred towards a particular sector in society, these networks further contribute to conflict and bullying on social media. Ultimately, disintegrating the safety and positivity social media aims to employ. 

Social media affords many benefits to those who chose to use it. However, these benefits in recent times are potentially being outweighed by the movement of bullying and harassment into online spaces. Whilst this negativity severely disrupts the main objectives of social media in modern society, awareness and reporting of common bullying techniques and networks can assist in alleviating and reducing harassment and abuse online.

References:

Jessamy Gleeson, Research Officer, School of Global, Urban & Social Studies, RMIT University, 'What does Gaslighting Mean?' The Conversation, 2018 , https://theconversation.com/explainer-what-does-gaslighting-mean-107888

Alice E. Marwick & Robyn Caplan, 'Drinking male tears: language, the manosphere, and networked harassment'  Feminist Media Studies Volume 18, 2018 - Issue 4: Pages 543-559

[goodgrammaritan]

Justice for Jessamy

My favorite part about the Jessamy discussion so far is the fact that the pied crow is named "Shieldraven" (Schildrabe) in German.

That is now also my favourite bit.