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rainbowmoonstonestories · 2 months ago

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Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings | Chapter 24

Chapters: 24/? Fandom: The Sandman (Netflix 2022, minor content from the Comics) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dream of the Endless/Morpheus x F!Reader Characters: Dream of the Endless/Morpheus, Lucienne, Matthew the Raven, Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Hob Gadling, Death, Rose Walker, The Corinthian, other minor Sandman characters, Original Characters. Warnings: 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching, very long chapters to read. Summary: You always dreamed of becoming a successful Fashion Designer, sharing your creations with the world and making your father proud. But with him being very ill and so many costs solely weighting on your shoulders, things didn’t go as planned and you had to take a different path instead. An interesting offer led you to the elder Alex Burgess and you were hired as a new housemaid for a very good pay. However, your kindness and outstanding empathy convinced the man to give you an additional task for a doubled compensation; gaining the trust of Dream Of the Endless, held captive into the basement for over a century. Despite the shock of finding such an ethereal entity stripped of all his clothes and contained into a confined space, you had to accept for the sake of your father. But the more you got to speak to the mysterious anthropomorphic personification who didn’t utter a single word, the more you were lost into his eyes that, conversely, seemed to contain the entire universe. A deep connection formed between the two of you, separated only by a thick layer of glass.

Little did you know, what started like a simple housemaid job was about to change your life forever.

Credits: The moon dividers were made by firefly-graphics

Tagging: @number-0-iz, @emarich7, @jaziona92, @bridkesby If anyone else wants to be tagged in the next updates, let me know.

You can also read this on AO3 if you feel more comfortable!

Author's note: This chapter was at risk of becoming too long, so I had to move some things to the next one. While I'm not sure how many updates this story will have, I still got quite a bit to include. I'm also keeping my fingers crossed that the second season will be released before summer. I need to know if they'll establish a clear timeline between the end of S1 and the beginning of the second season, as some of my planned finale content might not align with the canon. I know this isn't a major issue since my story is fanfiction, but I tend to be rather picky about these details.

Now, this chapter contains several significant developments. Though our dramatic duo won't reconcile just yet, I promise their reunion will happen in the next chapter.

Additionally, I've finally started upgrading the earlier chapters with a complete rewrite. I've updated chapters 1 through 6 so far, and I'm currently working on chapter 7. While they remain basically the same, I've made some noteworthy improvements and additions (particularly in chapter 6).

The absence of Morpheus was a never-ending test of endurance, as your enigmatic dreams continued to manifest. Subsequently, Morpheus received a visitation from a most improbable guest.

You observed the kitchen sink intently, where water droplets fell in a steady rhythm from the faucet, their sound reverberating through the empty house.

With Hob out on a brief excursion to retrieve the morning paper, you found yourself in solitude, accompanied only by the tumultuous thoughts that occupied your mind. The haunting remnants of your dream left you in a state of deep contemplation, wrestling with a myriad of uncertainties and deep-seated apprehensions.

Additionally, the peculiar incident where Hob discovered you surrounded by glowing light during your sleep further compounded the mysteries already presented by the Book of Paradoxes. According to his description, an ethereal luminescence emanated from your skin, manifesting as luminous filaments that extended throughout the room—mirroring what previously transpired in the Dreaming realm. If there was merit to Lucienne's disclosure, perhaps this inexplicable phenomenon was intrinsically linked to the living being you were supposedly carrying within you.

Your mind reeled at the implications. Could you really be pregnant with Morpheus' child? You—expecting, of all things? Although the prospect of starting a family had been a distant consideration for your future, the immediate reality of potential parenthood had never been a pressing concern.

The realization that you had failed to consider such consequences during your time in his realm filled you with regret and disbelief. How could you reconcile this development with your assurances of taking precautions and the understanding that your relationship with the Endless had been suspended indefinitely?

Upon checking your calendar, you noticed your menstrual cycle was delayed by approximately a week from its expected date. Accessing your phone, you conducted a search for pregnancy symptoms, methodically reviewing the results which merely confirmed the information you had already acquired on your own: nausea and vomiting, general morning sickness, persistent tiredness, headaches, indigestion, emotional fluctuations, dyspnea, and abdominal distension. The list was extensive, but you were a match for all of these primary descriptions with certainty.

With a weary exhale, you set aside your phone and reclined in the chair, finding yourself at a critical juncture with no clear direction forward. While this revelation provided some relief regarding your concerns about more severe medical conditions, the prospect of caring for another life during such a tumultuous period raised valid fears about your preparedness.

The absence of the child’s father from your life, combined with your own motherless upbringing, left you without any guidance or example to follow. How could you discuss this matter with Morpheus, particularly given his current unresponsiveness and ongoing emotional turmoil regarding the Orpheus situation? The last thing you wanted was to evoke painful memories of his previous paternal experience.

Furthermore, you couldn't exactly shout "Yo Morpheus, I'm pregnant!" into the vast expanse of the Dreaming, with the high chance of him not hearing you through the self-imposed isolation and withdrawal.

The sound of keys in the lock disrupted your reverie as Hob returned, carrying a newspaper and a bag of groceries. "Good morning! Thought you'd still be asleep," he greeted cheerfully.

You shook your head and smiled. “I've been awake for at least an hour."

"Are you holding up all right? You know... after that peculiar business last night?"

"I'm fine. Still a bit nauseous, but that's nothing new. What did you get there?"

Setting the bag and newspaper onto the table, he replied, "I wasn't sure what your stomach could handle today, so I picked up a few bits that might help settle things down."

“Oh?”

"Unsweetened almond milk for breakfast, some cucumbers, couple of apples, avocados, and a nice bit of fresh salmon. How does that sound, Shortcake? Are you in the mood for any of that?"

You chuckled, touched by his thoughtful consideration yet slightly embarrassed by the unusual attention. "Thank you, Hob. They all sound wonderful. The almond milk seems perfect right now."

"Right then! Let me sort that out for you. Don't you move a muscle."

While the presence of another person in your living space felt somewhat unfamiliar, you were grateful for your friend's steadying influence during this difficult and uncertain time. You watched quietly as he prepared the table, warming the milk and deliberately foregoing his usual coffee preparation. The aversion to its scent had become quite pronounced since your last visit to the New Inn, compelling you to abandon what had once been an essential part of your daily work routine.

Taking a seat beside you, he gently blew across his steaming tea while you cradled the warm cup of almond milk between your hands. "I'm sorry about the fright I gave you, by the way," you murmured. "If I were in your position, I would have panicked at least twice as much as you did."

"Really, what in the bloody hell was that anyway?" He inquired. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I've seen some strange things in my time, but nothing similar. I get up for a bit of water, and I see this light coming from your room; thought you might be up reading or something.”

"I know, it sounds absolutely wild even just hearing about it."

“You were glowing like some sort of celestial being, Y/N. Proper freaked me out, that did. I thought you were going to blow up on me!"

You took a sip of milk, feeling the nausea subside slightly. "And yet, you still came in to check on me—even touched me without knowing what might happen."

"Are you crazy? Of course I couldn't leave you like that. Besides, I'm immortal, aren't I? Not that it matters, I would've done it either way.”

"I truly appreciate that, Hob."

He sighed. "Don't mention it, sweetheart. But I am rather curious what all that glowing was coming from, if you don't mind sharing?"

You paused, setting the cup down. "I really don't know for certain what caused that."

"So this is something new then?"

"I've never turned into a human torch before, I can assure you that."

Upon closer examination, the occurance seemed to defy conventional logic. While such events might be expected within the realm of dreams, their manifestation in the Waking World was unheard of. If this wasn't attributed to an autonomous activation of the Dreamstone, there remained only one plausible explanation.

“But… I may have a theory,” you said. “Just a hunch."

"You do?" Hob's eyebrows rose. "Well then, let’s hear it."

You took a deep breath, gathering your composure before attempting to vocalize your suspicions, though your voice trembled with uncertainty. "Hob, I… I think I'm pregnant."

A profound silence descended as Hob's demeanor shifted to one of utmost gravity, his gaze fixed and intense, the teacup frozen mid-motion in his grasp.

After a moment of deliberation, he adjusted his posture. "About that. Been meaning to bring it up myself, actually. I am not exactly shocked, if I'm being honest."

"What? You suspected?"

"I've been a father before, remember?" he replied with a gentle grin. "Different era, mind you, but I've been around long enough to recognize the telltale signs when they're right in front of me."

"Well, with your centuries of experience, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," you said with a wry smile. "Why didn't you mention it earlier?"

"Look, I may have been a right bastard back in my day, a proper rogue and scoundrel if you will, but I do try to be a decent man these days. It wouldn't have been right for me to bring it up first, would it? I Figured you'd sort it out eventually."

You released a short laugh. "You have no idea how worried I've been. I'd even imagined the worst-case scenarios."

"Wait, you weren't considering the possibility of inheriting your father's medical condition, were you?"

“Uhm, yes?”

"Christ," he slumped. "You mean to tell me you never once thought this might happen? Not that I want all the details of what you and my old mate got up to, but... really?"

"I thought that would be impossible. You know I've been on birth control for years," you said with a frown.

"What's gone wrong here, then? Your little tablets decided to take a holiday?"

Ironically, it was you who unintentionally took a break from them. And in retrospect, you questioned whether conventional contraceptive methods would maintain their efficacy when involving an entity as extraordinary as Morpheus.

You snorted. "The thing is, I don’t even know what to do now."

"I'm guessing he doesn't know yet, eh?"

"No, I don't even have confirmation myself."

Taking another sip of almond milk, you felt tears beginning to well up in your eyes.

‘Oh, not again.’

“Y/N….”

"I'm just terrified, Hob," you confessed. "We've broken up, and we haven't exchanged a single word in days. If I'm truly pregnant, how can I possibly handle everything all at once?"

"Well now, let's take this one step at a time," he replied, reaching out and resting his hand gently on your wrist. "You've got me, all right? Whatever you need, I'm here. Just tell me what to do and I'll make it happen."

You wiped away your tears before they could fall. "I suppose I should probably get a pregnancy test to confirm it, at least."

"Shall we venture forth to the apothecary today?"

You nodded. "Would you mind going with me right after breakfast? I just want to face this head-on."

With a reassuring squeeze of your hand and a knowing glance, Hob said, "You don't even have to ask, Shortcake. I've got your back."

The remainder of the morning passed in silence as you both finished your beverages, while the weight of the forthcoming confirmation loomed over you, prompting careful reflections of the many potential directions that lay ahead.

Regardless of the circumstances, your thoughts invariably returned to one consuming reality: the excruciating void procured by the man you loved, who had retreated into voluntary seclusion, creating an insurmountable distance between you.

At the pharmacy counter, you purchased three pregnancy tests for a higher percentage, waiting for the bill to be printed as the clerk's well-intentioned but misplaced enthusiasm suggested she had mistaken you and Hob for a couple. Any unnecessary commentary was discouraged by your withering glare, since you weren't in any mood for any sort of celebration. Hob, meanwhile, managed to stay perfectly composed yet amused throughout the exchange.

The designated waiting span indicated by your phone's timer stretched into infinity. With Hob waiting patiently in the living room, you retreated to the bathroom and carefully opened the first test. Though tempted to use all three packages simultaneously, you followed the recommended protocol of spacing them apart at different intervals. While the first test should provide 98% accuracy, you knew this was merely a formality given the unusual situation you were in. After all, it seemed unlikely that the Dreaming would detect a heartbeat in your body only to dismiss it as a mistake.

Perched nervously on the toilet, you watched the numbers tick by with mounting anxiety, finding it impossible to remain seated. Eventually, you rose and traversed the small space, fidgeting anxiously and alternating between wringing your hands and drumming your nails against the sink's edge. Your attempts at deep breathing only served to heighten your racing pulse, forcing you to surrender to the inevitable wait.

Finally, the timer ran out, signaling the countdown reaching zero with a soft alarm that you immediately switched off, nearly dropping your phone in the process. You were breathing heavily, your fingers trembling, as the test stick lay in front of you. With a pounding heart, you carefully lifted it to inspect the verdict, staring at it through tear-filled eyes. The instructions were clear: a positive result would be indicated by two lines appearing in the test display, while a single line would signify a negative result.

Your test was showing two clear red lines, leaving no room for doubt.

Immobilized by the (unsurprising) confirmation, you gazed at your reflection, tears silently streaming down your face as the full magnitude of these newfound complications settled upon you - complications that seemed particularly daunting to face on your own. The crushing realization that you would be embarking on this journey without Morpheus by your side proved to be the breaking point that finally shattered the last bit of strength holding you together.

When you returned to the living room with heavy steps, Hob immediately sat up straight. "Well? Did you do it?"

“I did.”

"What's it say then?"

One look at your face told him everything he needed to know, with mascara smudges beneath your eyes.

"Oh… Christ. I want to say congrats and all that, but..."

Without a word, you lowered yourself onto the couch beside him and placed the pregnancy test on the coffee table, where the dual crimson indicators provided irrefutable evidence.

"What's the plan? What're you gonna do about all this?"

"I don't know, Hob," you said weakly. "This feels completely surreal. How am I supposed to be a mother?"

"If anyone can handle this, it's you. You're gonna be a brilliant mum, I've no doubt about that."

"Thank you, but I'm not convinced."

"You've got to tell him, yeah? No way around it."

You crossed your arms and sank deeper into the couch. "Yes, I know. And I will. It's just... I need some time to process this myself."

“That is understandable.”

"Still, would it really change anything in the end?"

He frowned. "What, you think he won't accept the little one? Come off it."

"It's not that exactly. Think about it; he left me because he was convinced his presence in my life would condemn me to ruin. What if he believes the same about our child? He might decide to watch us only from a distance, letting me raise the baby alone. All for 'our own good.'"

Hob's eyes darted uneasily. "And repeat the story of your childhood..."

"Exactly… only in reverse."

He exhaled, placing a gentle hand on your back. "Y/N, if the baby made you glow like a beacon last night, it means they've got some of their father's magic in them, right?"

“…I guess…?”

"Then it looks like they’re gonna need you both around."

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache beginning to form. "Maybe. I can't think clearly right now."

"Just take it easy, yeah? It’s not like you're popping out the little one tomorrow."

You smiled. "Well, wouldn't be the first time I've seen something like that happen."

"Okay, I’d rather not know the details of that one, either."

With a faint laugh, you sought comfort against Hob's shoulder as a gesture of familial trust. "If you want to avoid a headache yourself, then yes, it's probably best you don't know."

As he entered the chamber he had crafted for you, Morpheus was immediately enveloped by memories of your smile. The space resonated with echoes of your laughter, while your essence seemed to suffuse the very atmosphere around him. His attention was drawn to your nightgown, gracefully arranged upon the mattress, like a ghostly reminder of the woman he loved. The garment's embellishments created an enchanting display, as countless glittering points of light pulsed across the obsidian fabric resembling a constellation of stars.

With measured steps, he approached the bed and sat down, taking the nightgown in his hands. He lifted it to his face, breathing in your scent as his eyes drifted closed. His longing for you was profound and all-encompassing; the melodic sound of your voice, your delicate touch, and your unique ability to see beyond his immortal nature and love him for all he represented, embracing every facet of his intricate being. He yearned for you with the aching emptiness of a moonless night.

Gently placing the garment down, his fingertips lingering on the delicate fabric, Morpheus rose and made his way to the balcony, where heavy rain cascaded from the darkened sky. He allowed the torrential water to fall over him, the fierce droplets striking his form with relentless intensity. Within moments, he was soaked through, his dark hair plastered against his forehead.

As his hands rested on the cold balustrade, an intense wave of sorrow pierced through his heart. He wished he could hold every fiber of you—your heart, your body, your spirit. He needed your inner strength as much as he craved the tender sight of color rising to your cheeks.

He wished for all of it, yet could possess none.

His love for you simultaneously elevated him to euphoric heights while subjecting him to the deepest depths of despair. Nevertheless, if presented with the opportunity to alter the course of his existence and rewrite your story, he would invariably choose the path that led him to you.

The Book of Paradoxes now resided in a remote section of the library, obscured in shadows. Despite exhaustive consultation of its contents, Morpheus had come to accept the finality of his decision while awaiting what fate might bring.

He stood motionless on the balcony, his countenance downcast, while rivulets of rain intermingled with his silent tears, descending in parallel streams down his face.

Another week had passed, yet accepting the discovery of your pregnancy remained an undeniable daily struggle. In order to be thorough, you methodically completed all three tests over the following days, with both additional sticks confirming the initial positive result.

In the Waking World, only Hob was privy to this information, as you had not yet mustered the resolve to share the news with your father or Ella during your regular communications. To maintain privacy, you had cited stress-related health concerns as a reason for your absence, while Hob had extended his leave from teaching duties by claiming a family emergency.

Your experiences in the Dreaming had become erratic, alternating between moments of vivid clarity and hazy visions that primarily conjured fragments of memories or apparitions of your anxieties. Despite your diligent search throughout the realm, Morpheus was still conspicuously elusive. His prolonged disappearance increased your sense of loss, creating an ever-growing emptiness in your existence.

Despite the adage that time heals all wounds, your suffering appeared to be escalating rather than diminishing.

"So, what're those rocks you've got there then?" Hob inquired, glancing up from his laptop to examine the array of crystals and beads arranged on the table before you.

You smiled, absorbed in crafting bespoke jewelry pieces using simple, straightforward techniques that didn't need any specialized welding or soldering tools. "What? The all-knowing Robert Gadling can't recognize these stones?"

"Not like I've had much time for those in my centuries kickin' about.”

"Fair enough," you replied, picking up a drilled, faceted milky crystal. "This is white jade. And here's some rare lepidolite," you continued, holding up a purple piece with silvery sheens. "Plus a variety of high-quality quartz, moonstone, agate, and malachite. Then—"

"Slow down, love, you've lost me there. But looks like quite the fancy selection you've got, I'll give you that."

You smiled, threading beads one by one onto a thin steel wire. "Thanks. My friend at work wanted something unique, crafted from scratch, rather than just reselling wholesale items like most small businesses do."

"Right, all that mass-produced rubbish you see everywhere these days."

You shrugged. "I wouldn't call it rubbish, actually. Most items are good quality. They just lack uniqueness—though that's partly why they become viral, since they follow trends."

He typed a few more lines into his document. "I don't know much about fashion if I'm being honest. But I've got to ask; are these sparkly little things actually selling? Just, you know, wondering if people are actually buying these lovely bits."

"I get it. I was skeptical at first too. Clothes are one thing, but would people really pay extra for unique accessories when they could just buy the trendy jewelry that all the influencers are wearing?"

You paused, concentrating on threading the wire through a tiny bead opening. "But we've been getting lots of requests for that through our emails and social media. It wouldn't make sense to stock common items when everything else we make is completely original."

"If these look half as good as what you've got on now, your customers are gonna be right chuffed with them."

Your eyes lit up. "Really? You like them?"

"Look, I may not know jack, but I'll tell you what, they're absolutely you. Not too fancy, not too simple either. They really make your whole outfit pop with those vibrant colors and sparkles catching the light."

Your jewelry collection had expanded significantly in recent weeks, featuring an array of sophisticated pieces, from professionally crafted metalwork with fine-quality stone settings to delicate beaded accessories that you had assembled yourself. Thanks to Ella and Oliver's strategic sourcing partnerships, you had access to premium materials, including exceptional quality crystals and precision-engineered metals.

The creative process of designing and crafting these creations provided a calming and restorative outlet, drawing inspiration from both the ethereal realm of the Dreaming and the artistic influence that Morpheus had imparted. The ensemble incorporated natural elements that evoked celestial imagery, featuring gemstones and beads in a sophisticated palette including deep oceanic blues and rich forest greens. The decorative charms included an eclectic array of motifs, resembling mythical creatures and symbols that echoed the enchanting essence of your dreams.

Following Morpheus' departure, you had removed the golden bangle he had given you, returning it to safekeeping within the memory box. The Moonflower contained inside, originally enchanted for eternal bloom, had begun to deteriorate and wilt—a reflection of your deepening melancholy and the current state of the Dreaming itself.

The Dreamstone persisted as an essential adornment, however, its presence around your neck seamlessly complementing the rest of your current stack.

"You may not know much about fashion, but you definitely have a good eye," you said, clearing your throat.

"You've got a real talent for this. So tell me straight up; how's the project actually going?"

"It's going so much better than I expected. The response has been amazing, and Corbyn&Jones' established reputation definitely helped. Just a few photos were enough to make our follower count skyrocket."

"Well, it's not really the photos, but more like the subject," he clarified with a wink.

"Oh, I wasn't the only one photographed wearing these. Ella knows several genuine influencers who received prototypes to showcase."

"As the brand's creative director and lead designer, you've become the face of Corbyn&Jones, Shortcake. Your dedication has made the show a tremendous success, and you've created a lasting impression that resonates with your audience far more than any typical influencer campaign."

With a composed gesture, you adjusted a wayward strand of hair, blushing quietly at the compliment.

"You're a proper dream weaver, my dear."

Dream…

Shaking your head, you let out a shaky breath. "There's only one being who can do that, Hob. I deal more with the material world."

Hob fell silent, immediately recognizing his unintentional insensitivity and the emotional anguish his words had caused.

"Ah, shit. I've gone and put my foot in it, haven't I?"

“No, don't worry. I know what you meant.”

With determination, Hob closed his laptop. “That's enough of that now. You’ve been hunched over those trinkets for hours. Can't have you breaking your back, can we?"

“I’m not that tired though.”

"Right then, I'm off to the shops to get us some good treats. How about we have ourselves a proper pajama party with some ridiculous films?"

You tittered. "Hob, that's basically what we do every day."

"Who cares? It's good fun. And you need to get your mind off all this dreary business. Come on now, pack those bits away, put the kettle on, and I'll be back before you know it."

You acquiesced with a gentle smile, acknowledging the futility of debating with his determined spirit.

Shortly thereafter, Hob headed out the door, leaving you alone with your troubled mind again. As another wave of sickness hit, your hand instinctively found its way to your abdomen, gently rubbing it in circles as if to address the tiny life inside you.

"Come on, little one," you said with a smile. "Won't you give your mum a moment's peace?"

For a moment, you envisioned your future as a mother, visualizing the delicate balance between raising a child and traversing the Dreaming realm. In your mind's eye, you pictured yourself cradling your precious infant while seated in your chambers within Morpheus's domain, the King of Dreams standing beside you. The daydream crystallized as you imagined him holding the baby, his face adorned with that subtle, enchanting smile you cherished so deeply.

The idyllic vision dissolved, replaced by the prospect of facing parenthood in solitude.

"Morpheus..." you sobbed, collapsing into yourself. "Morpheus! Please come back. Please!"

Though your heart felt shattered and your spirit weary, your love burned eternal. Despite the daily torrent of tears, your resolve stood unshaken, particularly given that Morpheus had unknowingly gifted you with a child of magic.

The pain was tremendous and all-consuming, threatening to tear you apart from within, devouring every atom of your being.

"Hob, are you serious?" you asked, examining the facial treatment masks he had selected from the store.

"They were on sale! And besides, aloe's good for your skin."

"Okay, but... of all the things I expected you to buy, these weren't on the list."

"I got you some proper snacks too! And don't worry your pretty little head, they're all healthy," he announced, unpacking his haul from the grocery bags. "Got these almonds here for protein, magnesium, and good calcium for the bones.”

You observed with appreciation as he placed the substantial package of almonds on the table.

“And some proper dark chocolate; keeps the doctor away. Or so they say these days."

"You know that saying is for apples, not chocolate, you goof!"

"Dark chocolate's got antioxidant that boost your immune system! I was around when they made these bars."

"All right, all right. Thank you for being so thoughtful."

His expression radiated genuine warmth and affection. "Anything for my pregnant bestie. Besides, if I don't keep a proper eye on what you're eating, he'll have my head for it."

"Well, he's not here anyway. So what's the plan tonight? Snacks, beauty masks, and movies? What should we watch?"

Noting your swift deflection of the topic, Hob tactfully redirected his attention to the evening's preparations. He made his way to the couch with two bowls in his hands, one filled with almonds and another containing cheese and bacon-flavored chips.

The aroma combination wasn't particularly appealing to your sensitive pregnancy nose, but you couldn't bring yourself to mention it.

"Since we both fancy the oldies, we can't go wrong with a proper classic like this one."

You gaped at the VHS he pulled from his bag. "’Who Framed Roger Rabbit’? Oh my goodness, I haven't watched that in ages!"

"Right, let's slap these masks on our faces and settle in for a proper rewatch!"

With practiced efficiency, you examined the package while Hob mirrored your actions, both of you reviewing the application guidelines.

"So, these fancy things need to stay on for just 30 minutes, yeah? Any longer and they'll dry up like a raisin."

"I don't think I could wear it for very long anyway," you remarked. "My skin would probably start to itch."

While applying the facial mask, which transformed his appearance into something both comical and terrifying, he proceeded to load the VHS tape into the player. "And we don't want to muck up that lovely face of yours, now do we? Come on then, let's get comfy."

Once your own mask settled into place, a cool, refreshing feeling spread across your cheeks, nose, and forehead. "Please don't tell me you're going to drool over Jessica Rabbit."

"Oh no. She's fit and all that, but not exactly what I'm after."

You laughed, bumping his shoulder with yours. "Good. She's such a stereotype I can't stand her. And besides, she married a rabbit! How bizarre is that?"

"It's just a cartoon. Well, half cartoon, half real world madness, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, and it's still weird. She's got quite the singing voice though. And the animation is absolutely top-notch."

He awkwardly maneuvered a chip into his mouth through the hole in the face mask. “What can I say. The old stuff is of a higher level.”

"I agree. There was a special kind of magic in the 80s and 90s that's hard to capture these days."

"Indeed. Out of all the centuries I've lived through, those decades were something special, weren't they? Proper good times, if you ask me."

You carefully managed to eat an almond without hitting the fabric of your mask. "Tell me, how accurate are medieval movies?"

"Well, most of it's absolute crap. I mean yeah, they get some stuff right, but the amount of nonsense they put in there really makes me laugh. They are proper creative with their 'historical facts'."

You chuckled. "They should hire you as their consultant. I'm sure movies and TV shows would be much more accurate. Not that I mind fantasy."

"Well, I'm immortal, aren't I? Makes me a bit of a fantastical creature myself."

You turned your head, staring at his face covered in the beauty mask, and couldn't contain your snort. "Yes, but right now you look more like a strange one with that thing plastered on your face."

With an amused expression, he retrieved his mobile device from his pocket. "We've got to capture this moment for posterity. Come here, budge up closer."

"Oh no, don't you dare take a picture of me."

"Come on! I swear on my eternal life I'll keep this picture safe and sound."

With a resigned sigh, you gave in as he placed a companionable arm around your shoulders. "Well, I suppose resistance is futile anyway."

"It ain't that bad now, right? Give me a proper smile!"

Against the backdrop of the movie's animated sound effects, you both smiled for the camera, creating a charming snapshot that perfectly captured your friendship despite the absurd appearance of your face masks.

"Ah, brilliant. We look proper ridiculous, don't we?"

"Absolutely ridiculous," you agreed with a laugh.

After putting his phone away, Hob kept his arm around you, gently squeezing your shoulder in a way that brought solace and warmth. You sank into the friendly embrace as you both enjoyed your snacks, sharing lighthearted commentary about the movie between removing your face masks.

As the film reached its climactic confrontation between the protagonists and villain, your consciousness began to fade as fatigue overtook you. The characters' voices grew distant, blending into an indistinct murmuring.

"Y/N?" Hob called you softly, uncertain whether you were still awake or already surrendered to sleep.

Drowsily content, you said, "Yes…?"

"I know it's not my place to ask, but... you're keeping the baby, yeah?"

Since discovering your pregnancy, you hadn't formally considered all your options. Even if Morpheus persisted with his decision to stay away, whether out of his own conviction or as a misguided attempt at protection, you would have been justified in questioning the difficulties of single motherhood.

And yet, in both your mind and heart, you felt absolutely no uncertainty.

Taking a deep breath to steady your emotions, you gave him your definitive answer. “Yes, Hob. I am.”

You couldn't pinpoint exactly when you had arrived at the library. Standing amidst the towering shelves, you found yourself examining the books before you with unfocused eyes, slowly regaining clarity. It seemed you had wandered through the maze-like corridors for quite a while, having lost track of both time and location.

As you continued your exploration, Lucienne's familiar voice resonated through the distant halls. Moving methodically through the corridors, you traced your fingertips along the shelves for orientation, when suddenly a faint, ghostly whisper echoed your name through the stacks.

"ʸ/ᴺ...”

Turning around, you surveyed the surroundings but detected no discernible presence. After a momentary pause, during which only the ambient sounds of the library persisted, you proceeded forward, allowing intuition to guide you through a winding aisle.

Then that mysterious voice spoke again through the silence.

"ʸ/ᴺ.”

It was both alluring and unsettling, a dissonant element that seemed to defy the natural order of the library and the castle itself. Its unsettling quality felt paradoxical, fundamentally foreign to the familiar ambiance of the Dreaming.

“…Y/N…?”

Startled, you pivoted abruptly as Lucienne appeared before you.

"Oh, there you are! I was certain I heard footsteps echoing through these halls."

"Lucienne, hello.”

"Are you all right? You look as if you've just encountered a ghost," she jested with a smile.

Your eyes drifted away with disquiet. "No, I... I thought I heard..." You dismissed the concern with a slight gesture. "Nevermind."

"I have some new volumes that need cataloguing, would you care to keep me company while I work?" she asked warmly, her accent carrying a gentle composure.

“Of course.”

"Splendid. Follow me, if you please."

As Lucienne navigated the corridors with practiced ease, you placed a hand on your abdomen and continued the discussion. "By the way, I've looked through those 'appropriate channels' you mentioned, and... you were right."

"About that... I do apologize that you had to learn it from me in such a manner. And Matthew..." She adjusted her glasses with a slight frown. "Well, he really ought to learn when to hold his tongue."

You shook your head. "No, that was actually a good thing. You see, I thought this kind of situation wasn't even possible. I'd been feeling absolutely dreadful for so long that I was starting to worry I had some sort of disease."

“Oh?"

You fell quiet momentarily before responding. "It's part of my family history, something I'd rather leave in the past. But as positive as this might be… well. There are definitely some complications to deal with."

Lucienne decreased her pace before coming to a complete halt. "I haven't mentioned your condition to Lord Morpheus yet. But I strongly advise you tell him yourself, and soon. Trust me, it would be better coming from you than if he discovers it through other means."

"But Luce, how can I possibly tell him when he won't even answer my calls?"

"You've tried to call him? And he's ignored your summons…?"

"Did you think he would still speak to me after ending things?"

"No, but I did hope he would at least maintain some basic courtesy towards you."

"Seriously, I don't know what to do. I want to speak with him about this, but I'm afraid his stubbornness about that book is clouding everything else. He has completely shut me out—I can't find any way to reach him."

Lucienne's expression grew contemplative as she gestured for you to continue walking. "I must confess, I've thoroughly searched every corner of my library for that particular volume, yet I couldn’t find it. This rather strongly suggests that His Lordship still has it in his possession."

"And... is that a good sign?"

"I don’t know. He might still be poring over those prophecies, trying to make sense of them. But whenever I attempt to discuss it, he's rather tight-lipped about the whole thing. He barely even comes to the library anymore, which is quite telling in itself."

When you arrived at her main desk, you gracefully seated yourself in one of the available chairs. "In other words, we're right back where we started."

"I wish I had better news for you, truly I do," she replied with a gentle sigh.

"It's not your fault. You're doing the best you can, I know this isn't easy."

"I will persist in my search," she assured. "And mark my words, he cannot maintain this silence indefinitely."

"Luce, I know I'm asking a lot, but could you please keep the news about the baby to yourself just a while longer?"

"Of course. But you must understand, such things have a way of making themselves known, whether we wish them to or not. Particularly in this realm, with Lord Morpheus himself being so attuned to every aspect of his domain."

Your hand returned to your abdomen, as if to soothe the developing life contained inside. "I know. I'll keep trying to reach him for as long as I can. If he continues to avoid me, then... I'd prefer he learns it from someone he trusts, like yourself."

At your protective motion, Lucienne smiled warmly. "This new life will be a blessing to the Dreaming. I do hope we can sort all this out soon enough."

Clutching the fabric of your nightgown, you released a heavy exhale. “Me too Lucienne. It’s all I really wish for right now.”

The throne room was bathed in its usual muted hues, the cold stillness of the Dreaming's heart mirroring Morpheus' own desolation as a neverending storm raged outside. He stood by one of the tall windows, his figure silhouetted against the vast expanse of stars—now hidden behind a weeping sky. His hands were clasped tightly before him, the sole visible sign of the tempest that raged within.

A faint rustling broke the silence as Astra stepped cautiously into the room. The creature moved with a graceful hesitance, its shimmering fur catching the dim light.

"My Lord," he spoke softly, his voice clear yet tinged with concern. "May I interrupt?"

Morpheus did not turn, his voice low and sharp. "I wish to be alone."

The creature did not retreat. Instead, Astra stepped closer, his hooves making only the faintest patter against the floor. "Forgive my intrusion, but I cannot ignore what’s happening here.”

"Astra," Morpheus said, cold with warning. "I did not request your presence."

"I know, and I apologize for intruding, but... she needs you, sir. Are you going to abandon her in such a state?"

The faintest twitch of his jaw betrayed Morpheus’ struggle, though Astra couldn’t see it. "My decision stands. I will not waver from this path. Nor do I desire to discuss this matter further."

"But is this path truly the right one?" Astra pressed gently. "You have read the book, yes, but have you truly understood it? Where you see endings, there might be beginnings. What frightens you so deeply, My Lord? Why do you choose to give up?"

Morpheus' shoulders stiffened, his tone dropping into a dangerous growl. "You dare presume to understand my fears?"

"Well... I know you fear for her," Astra replied. "You believe you'll bring her ruin. Yet have you considered that your absence might do the same? That she may not survive without you?"

Morpheus finally turned, his eyes blazing with a fury seldom witnessed. His words fell like ice, cutting enough to pierce even the boldest of hearts. "You are but a dream, which I have created. It is not within your authority to pass judgment upon my actions. This is far beyond your role."

"Yet it is precisely because you created me—and your purpose in doing so—that I am able to see beyond the surface."

“Enough. You forget your place. Now go, before my patience wanes entirely."

Astra flinched and lowered his head, his starry dark eyes clouding with sadness. "If that is your wish, My Lord, I shall take my leave."

He turned gracefully on his hooves, moving with heavy, reluctant steps toward the doorway. At the threshold, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "You may dismiss me, but the truth will not be so easily silenced. You know where you belong, Lord Morpheus. I pray you remember before it's too late."

Morpheus stood like a stern statue, his eyes dark and piercing as splintered glass.

"Moreover, it is because you made me Y/N's familiar that I understand what is eluding you. If you would only speak with her once, you would see it as well."

Morpheus remained still, though his eyebrows drew together in evident confusion.

"But then again, I'm merely a dream. What could I possibly know?"

And with that, Astra disappeared, leaving Morpheus alone in the cold, vast emptiness of the throne room once more. The Endless turned back to the windows, the fading stars outside seeming even more distant, as though reflecting the weight of his torment.

As time progressed, the emotional impact of the situation became devastatingly difficult to bear. While Hob's companionship provided valuable emotional support and a welcome respite, the circumstances remained uniquely impossible to navigate independently.

Despite your efforts, Morpheus was still inaccessible, withdrawn behind an impenetrable barrier of silence. The child developing within you was as much his as it was yours, yet he remained completely unaware of its existence.

Gradually, you returned to work with reduced hours to resume your professional responsibilities and project oversight. Though you kept a composed exterior at the office, the strain on your face could hardly be concealed. Fortunately, Ella and your colleagues weren't informed of the underlying situation, simply attributing your lack of energy to your temporary health concerns.

Admitting that your relationship had fallen apart was not something you wanted to face head-on, especially since, deep down, you still clung to the hope that Morpheus would return to you one day. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Your dreams had become hollow and devoid of their former vibrancy, as the Dreaming underwent continuous transformation. This ethereal domain, once so familiar and unique, had deteriorated into a mere vestige of its former splendor.

One night, you traversed through the dreamscape, following interweaving paths that ultimately led to the beachland, where the scene crystallized with stark clarity. The once-radiant sky had transformed into a lifeless expanse of pale grey, while below, the sea lay unnaturally still, its darkened surface reflecting the melancholy atmosphere like a vast pool of sorrow.

Approaching the shoreline, you walked across the darkened sand, its texture coarse and chilled beneath your feet. The weakened waves undulated before you, their diminished force reflecting the somber sky, as you gently placed your interlaced hands upon your abdomen.

"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Morpheus... if you can hear me... I need to see you. I have something to tell you."

As expected, only silence answered your plea.

"Morpheus, I implore you."

The Dreamstone pendant offered no connection to its master. His absence suggested either deliberate avoidance or a complete withdrawal from the domain he once meticulously governed.

Resigned, you lowered your hands as tears welled in your eyes. Gazing at the dark sea, you removed your clothing, allowing the garment to cascade down until it pooled at your feet, leaving your bare skin completely exposed to the elements.

Carefully, you waded into the water, its piercing cold making your dream self shiver and hesitate. Yet you pressed on, moving deeper until the dark ocean reached your neck. It was overwhelmingly real, making you feel every ache as strongly as if you were awake. Both physical and emotional.

You waited, searching for any sign of the King of Dreams—for his dark silhouette to materialize on the shore, for his eyes to find yours, for his hand to reach out in invitation. But only emptiness greeted you, on the desolate shore and deep into your soul.

Hugging yourself, you exhaled shakily as a golden spark appeared beneath the water's surface, emanating from your chest. The light expanded, transforming the ocean into an enchanting spectrum of colors, from light to deep blue, through shades of green and violet. A luminous garment shaped against your skin, taking the form of a golden dress that shimmered like a constellation of stars.

As you emerged from the ocean, you appeared completely dry, as though you had never entered the water at all. A pair of equally sparkling shoes adorned your feet, golden sandals more beautiful and comfortable than any you had ever seen or imagined. Your previous garment lay scattered across the sand, now fading back to its brownish color, stirring gently in the wind.

"I see you've done it again."

At the sound of that familiar voice and approaching hoofbeats, you smiled and turned around. Astra stood there, as majestic as when your light had restored him, his ears twitching gently.

"Astra, it's good to see you well."

"Likewise, though circumstances are... not the best."

"I feel so helpless, Astra. He refuses to speak with me."

"I know... he won't speak to me either. I've tried, but he becomes distraught at the mere mention of your name."

You sighed, brushing your fingers against his smooth head. "He is so maddening. And I can't even find a way to tell him about the baby."

"I'm afraid any attempt to contact him would be futile. He has withdrawn from everything, even us Dreams. His heart aches, and though he struggles to keep the kingdom intact, it crumbles alongside him."

"What can I do?"

"Well... you helped me. Perhaps you can help someone else too."

“Who?”

"Come with me—it's better if I show you."

Wordlessly, Astra pivoted on his hooves and began leading the way forward into the unknown. Gathering the folds of your gown, you followed in his wake as you strode along the shoreline. The surrounding landscape started to transform anew, enveloping you both within a mystical tunnel adorned with nebulae and stars.

“Astra, where are you taking me?”

Your voice resonated softly, rippling through the tunnel's crystalline walls.

"We're almost there," he replied. "Hopefully we'll make it in time."

A light shone in the distance as the tunnel dissolved, revealing a desolate forest. Your sandals rustled against dried leaves, their crisp sound echoing through the air. From somewhere ahead came deep, rhythmic breathing, its force substantial enough to create subtle vibrations in the ground beneath.

“There! Hurry!”

Astra began to run, and you followed through, quickening your pace. Something big and scaly caught your eye; a giant creature that you had seen before, a dragon Morpheus had created at the start of your relationship, during your very first dream together.

Morpheus stood a few paces away, his hands clasped before him. His subtle smile conveyed evident pride in his creation.

"Now you're just showing off," you stated with a smirk. He merely responded with a soft chuckle.

Your throat tightened as you approached the dragon, its once-luminous scales now ashen and battle-worn.

"It's dying," Astra said, gently nuzzling the dragon's head with his muzzle. "Many Dreams and Nightmares are suffering just as this one does. As I did."

Kneeling before the majestic creature, you extended your hand toward its face. Its glazed eyes locked with yours, conveying an unspoken entreaty.

"I don't understand. Morpheus would never allow his world to fade like this."

"No, but I'm afraid he's at a loss right now. His feelings run deeper than anything he's ever experienced."

"But why?" you asked softly.

"Because of you, of course. He needs you as mortals need air to breathe."

"He left me of his own accord—to protect me, that much I know. But why must he face all this alone?"

Astra shook his head. "As you noted yourself; Lord Morpheus is obstinate beyond measure."

"Is there a way I can mend this?"

"I believe so. You restored me, and just now you mended your dreamland. Perhaps you could work that same light magic again?"

"Astra, I have no idea how to control this power. It seems to happen completely at random," you explained.

"Just try. This power, whatever it may be, simply comes from within you."

With careful deliberation, you pressed your forehead against the dragon's weathered scales, closing your eyes to focus your consciousness within the ethereal realm of the dream. As you attuned yourself to the dragon's labored breathing, the Dreamstone's warmth radiated outward from where it rested against your chest. The sensation cascaded through your body, flowing from your heart down to your abdomen, converging into luminous tendrils that flowed from your form. These glowing strands of light merged seamlessly with your attire, extending outward to encircle the dragon in an intricate, spiral pattern.

The creature's scales underwent a remarkable metamorphosis, shifting into brilliant tones of emerald and amber as its respiratory pattern stabilized, becoming more steady and controlled. Little by little, the dragon rose to its full stature, and as you lifted yourself to stand, its imposing height and magnificent proportions became even more apparent.

With a graceful smile, you acknowledged the creature's respectful bow and reciprocated the gesture. The dragon then unfurled its imposing wings and, with a single powerful thrust, ascended into the air. The force of its departure created a substantial downdraft before it vanished into the distant horizon.

"Well, I'd say you're mastering that gift of yours," Astra remarked, moving to stand beside you.

"It's not truly mine though, is it?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm carrying Morpheus' child. Clearly, these powers are coming from the baby."

Astra's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "In part, yes. But I believe there's more to it than that."

"What do you mean? I'm only human, Astra. Morpheus is the one who has full control over this realm, not me. And surely, his child is no different."

"You may not have direct control over the Dreaming, but I think you're more than you believe yourself to be. This golden light? It's undoubtedly coming from you."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I never had it before. This is no coincidence."

"Look, I may not have all the answers—and truly, only he would know for certain. But as a supernatural creature myself, Y/N, I can assure you that this magic isn't coming from our future Prince or Princess of the Dreaming. Not entirely at least."

You sighed heavily. "I'm completely lost right now."

"Don't worry yourself over it, my dear. You're already doing far more than anyone could expect in this realm. I can see how much you're hurting."

Your lower lip quivered. "I'm so tired, Astra. I miss him terribly. I want to see him, to talk to him, to tell him how much I love him… how desperately I need him in my life."

Astra nodded. "You will, I promise you. Somehow, this will all come to an end. For now, though... you must return to the Waking World."

"I'm not ready to leave yet."

"Don't worry. I'll always be here, and so will the Dreaming. I doubt he would let it collapse… sooner or later he'll get his head out of his rear, as you humans like to say."

You laughed, taking his face between your hands and gently kissing his muzzle. "Thank you, Astra. You’re so precious to me."

"And you are to me as well, Y/N. He created me for you—I'm your familiar. And as such, even when you can't see me, know that I'm always with you."

As you gave him a gentle nod, Astra moved closer and delicately pressed his snout against your abdomen, his eyes falling shut.

"See you soon, my Queen."

With those parting words, consciousness returned as you awakened from the realm of dreams, greeted by the warm, amber tint of daybreak filtering through the windows.

The uncertainty of waiting felt like an endless ordeal. Even with Astra's reassuring outlook, the passage of time only intensified your apprehension about the coming days.

Your eyes were swollen from constant tears, and although your pregnancy symptoms had slightly subsided, the pain of nurturing this new life without Morpheus felt like an impossible burden to bear.

The Book of Paradoxes could not be found, and according to Lucienne, it seemed improbable that Morpheus was still referencing it. Despite your multiple attempts to summon him, he remained withdrawn, isolating himself in his grief and refusing to engage in any communication with his subjects.

Although he had promised to continue searching for a solution during your separation, the book's alleged disappearance suggested a concerning possibility: Morpheus had abandoned his quest to find a way back to you.

Meanwhile, your dreams persisted, and with each exploration, they grew increasingly enigmatic and complex, filled with cryptic messages and meanings you struggled to decipher.

Until, one afternoon, a seemingly ordinary nap turned into your most impactful dream yet.

Navigating through the library's shelves, you found yourself walking through an extensive maze of books and corridors. An inexplicable force seemed to guide your steps, while the familiar mysterious whisper once again called your name, drawing you deeper into the unknown.

"ʸ/ᴺ... ʸ/ᴺ...!”

"Who are you?" you asked, turning your head in every direction but unable to locate the source of the voice.

"͓̩C͕͓̝̠͔̞͑̈̉̋̒̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̥͍̦̩̱o̘͇̩̞̗͓̜̥̭ͯ̋ͭ͂̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̲̦͚̙̍ͭ̓ͦe͕̬͕̰̔͛͌̒ͨ̈́r̯̠̦̩ͨ̌̑..."

You pressed onward, your heart pounding wildly as the rows of books appeared to close in around you.

"͓̩C͕͓̝̥͍̦̩̱͑̈̉̋̒o̘͇̩̞͙̗͓̖ͯ̋ͭ͂ͬͩ̊m̩͈͕̲̦͚̙e͕̬̔͛͌... ̯͍̱c̟͕̥͍̦̩̱ͩo̘͇̩̞͙̗͓̖ͯ̋ͭ͂ͬͩ̊m̩͈͕̲̦͚̙e͕̬̔͛͌ ̯͍̱c̟͕̠͔̞ͩ̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̥͍̦̩̱o̘͇̩̞̗͓̜̥̭ͯ̋ͭ͂̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̲̦͚̙̍ͭ̓ͦe͕̬͕̰̔͛͌̒ͨ̈́r̯̠̦̩ͨ̌̑..."

Upon reaching a corner, you came face-to-face with a dead end, forcing you to retrace your steps and pursue an alternate route. The voice grew more persistent, its omnipresent nature evoking frustration rather than fear as it echoed throughout the space.

A somber, misty ambiance permeated the library. This section was unfamiliar—an unexplored wing that seemed to challenge rather than accommodate your presence. You ventured into the perpetual labyrinth of corridors, maneuvering through narrow passages and confronting various impediments. The journey appeared to stretch interminably, leaving you with the distinct sensation of being trapped in a constant loop.

You halted at the center of a circular chamber where multiple passageways converged. The air grew still, and an unsettling silence fell over you, unnaturally absolute in its totality. Footsteps echoed through the distant halls, rendering you motionless, your feet inexplicably rooted to the ground.

"̣̝́Y͇̲̦͚̙̚e͕̬̗͓̜̥̭̔͛͌̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̍ͭ̓ͦ, ̯͍̱c̟͕̠͔̞ͩ̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̥͍̦̩̱o̘͇̩̞̗͓̜̥̭ͯ̋ͭ͂̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̲̦͚̙̍ͭ̓ͦe͕̬͕̰̔͛͌̒ͨ̈́r̯̠̦̩ͨ̌̑... à̜̫͍̣͖̑̉ͧ̿ ̠͔̞̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̜̟͙͕̎̄̆i̠̜͗̈́ͯ̾͊ͅt͓̙͔̠̜͊̈́ͯ̾͊ͅt͓̙͔̠͔̞͊̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̲̦͚̙e͕̬̔͛͌ ̯͍̱c̟͕̠͔̞ͩ̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̥͍̦̩̱o̘͇̩̞̗͓̜̥̭ͯ̋ͭ͂̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̲̦͚̙̍ͭ̓ͦe͕̬͕̰̔͛͌̒ͨ̈́r̯̠̦̩ͨ̌̑... ̯͍̱c̟͕̠͔̞ͩ̔͒̐̏́l͙̬̞̥̥͍̦̩̱o̘͇̩̞̗͓̜̥̭ͯ̋ͭ͂̄̈ͪͧs̲̬̝͕̲̦͚̙̍ͭ̓ͦe͕̬͕̰̔͛͌̒ͨ̈́r̯̠̦̩ͨ̌̑!"

Your respiration accelerated, resonating prominently in the stillness that enveloped you. The whispers dissolved into an indecipherable chorus, their words interweaving in an almost ritualistic manner.

The footsteps grew more pronounced, their resonance becoming deafening until they halted mere paces behind you. Your hair lifted gracefully into the air, suspended as though floating in water. The atmosphere carried a nostalgic blend of fragrances: distinctive notes of sandalwood intermingled with winter forest and exotic incense, crowned by the unmistakable essence of sea salt.

That unique combination of scents could belong to only one being in all of existence.

As you turned, the breath froze in your lungs. Standing before you was Morpheus, his commanding presence unmistakable in his characteristic black attire. His dark, untamed hair moved in mystical synchronicity with your own, creating an otherworldly tableau that marked the end of your prolonged separation.

His eyes grew wide with astonishment as he beheld you, his breathing unsteady. Standing mere steps away, he filled the space between you with an almost tangible energy. Your throat constricted as you attempted to call out to him, your lips silently forming his name in the soundless void between you.

He was momentarily stunned, the redness rimming his eyes revealing the profound anguish he carried inside. But as soon as he registered your approach, his head turned away—eyes squeezing shut—as he withdrew into the shadows.

His rejection pierced your soul, leaving an aching void where your heart once beat.

“No, wait…”

With newfound determination, you left the circular room in pursuit, running through the labyrinthine shelves only to discover emptiness among them. Once again, he had vanished, denying you the opportunity for dialogue. He was fleeing from you as if you were a plague, convinced that being with you would only bring pain and devastation into your life.

If only he had known that your lives were now inextricably linked through the child you had conceived together in the realm of dreams, a magical being whose very existence necessitated the presence of their father, with no possibility for compromise.

Consumed by your emotions, you screamed his name repeatedly, searching frantically through the neverending corridors, through every row and shelf in sight.

But then, overcome with exhaustion, you collapsed to your knees as tears cascaded down your face. With trembling voice, you attempted to vocalize the crucial revelation you had been attempting to share with him for days, as he had left you with no other way to do so.

"Morpheus! Please, listen to me! I'm preg—"

However, an unseen power stopped you from revealing it, as a gust of wind surged through the space, threatening to destabilize your balance. Regaining your footing, the library's surroundings began to dissolve into nothingness, leaving you in a vast area filled with misplaced items and twisted paths.

"ʸ/ᴺ…!”

The enigmatic voice beckoned once more, but you remained steadfast in your resolve to disregard its call. Their identity and nature was still an enigma, and you became increasingly weary of your chase with an unknown presence that seemed intent on leading you astray.

At this point, you had become undeniably frustrated with anything relatively mysterious that presented itself as another riddle to solve.

"ʸ/ᴺ!”

“Oh, shut the fu—”

“—ck up!!!”

"Y/N! What's all this about? Are you all right?"

Disoriented, you foud yourself reclining on the couch, a blanket draped across your legs. Surveying your surroundings, you recognized your living room, where Hob stood in the kitchen area, preparing dinner while casting concerned glances in your direction.

With trembling hands, you ran your fingers through your hair as your gaze fixed upon the empty mug on the coffee table. In a moment of blinding rage, you seized it forcefully and, without a word, hurled it across the room. The impact against the wall shattered the ceramic into fragments that littered the floor—a physical representation of your current state.

A guttural scream escaped your throat as you clasped your temples in distress. Immediately, Hob rushed to your side, embracing you protectively while murmuring reassurances.

"Oi love, easy there now! Steady on, you're okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

Your breathing came in ragged gasps as you struggled to calm down, while he offered comfort with gentle strokes along your arm.

"It’s not good for the little one, innit? Come on now, take it easy. Did you have a rough dream? Were you chatting with someone?"

Shaking your head, you sobbed. "He was there, Hob. I saw him. But he wouldn't even talk to me… he just turned away and left."

"Well ain't that just like 'im? Bloody hell, what a right fool!"

"I was so close to telling him about the baby, but... I couldn't. Something kept stopping me, speaking to me, and I just..."

"Shhhh now, love. Best not to dwell on it. Take some proper breaths."

"I swear, this is driving me mad."

Hob let out a heavy sigh, clenching his jaw. "If I had that bloody idiot in front of me right now, I'd give 'im a proper piece of my mind."

"No doubt you would. But I'm afraid it would be a waste of breath," you stated.

"Look, I've known him for centuries, right? And he once turned his back on me over some right daft nonsense, which I've been feeling guilty about for over a hundred years. But this? This is about you now, and it's absolutely mental!"

You managed a weak smile. "He has his reasons. Even with all this anger burning inside me, I still can't bring myself to hate him for it."

"Eh, you really do love him. That's what I call proper dedication."

"He's the father of my child, after all. One way or another, he'll need to be informed—assuming he doesn't already know."

He took a seat by your side, squeezing your knee affectionately. "I don't think he does, Shortcake. He might be a right bastard, but I don't reckon he'd abandon both of you like this."

Given the tragic outcome surrounding Orpheus and the deep remorse that followed, it seemed improbable that he would deliberately distance himself from his unborn child merely due to concerns about potentially similar consequences.

Nevertheless, the way he cast you away, prompted by a prophecy within the Book of Paradoxes, made predicting his potential response particularly arduous.

Still, the dilemma of committing to an indefinite wait for his return weighed heavily on your conscience.

Confusion and mortification paralyzed Morpheus' thoughts. Following his return of the Book of Paradoxes to the library, unusual phenomena began to form throughout the realm, particularly inside his castle. Subtle whispers and voices seemed to demand his attention, persistently echoing in his mind like a cruel joke meant to toy with his emotions.

From what had reached his ears, Lucienne’s thorough investigation could not locate the volume anywhere in the library. Morpheus dismissed the matter as inconsequential, as he was resolute in his conviction that maintaining distance was essential. Your safety from the perpetual darkness that had defined his existence since inception took precedence over all other considerations, and when the voices finally subsided, he concluded the book must have simply transported itself to another location, seeking another soul to ensnare with its dire warnings.

This time, however, the voices returned with greater intensity than before, undermining his authority and throwing the library into chaos. Never did he expect to find you at the very heart of it.

You, his beloved Y/N, the woman he adored with fierce devotion yet was compelled to push away. The one he had desperately tried to lock out of his heart, erecting walls to shield himself from your desperate pleas. Hearing your voice alone would weaken his defenses and make him question everything—something he dared not risk when your safety hung in the balance of a looming catastrophe.

Your unexpected materialization in the library at that pivotal moment left him paralyzed. You were a vision of grace and beauty that tested the limits of his self-control, and every fiber of his being urged him to lose himself in your embrace and savor the taste of your lips, forgetting all he knew.

His sense of duty and conviction drove him to turn away, believing that severing your connection was the only gift he could offer to shield you from the consequences that his consuming need for your love might bring upon your future.

But now, doubt began to creep into his being. He questioned whether his interpretation of the book's prophecy had been correct, and whether his choice of cutting ties with you was as warranted as he believed it to be. Did he sacrifice your bond prematurely, based on a misunderstanding fed by his own fear of losing you?

Although every indication within the book pointed to an inevitable conclusion, his certainty in its finality had begun to waver.

Lost in his musings, Morpheus was suddenly alerted to a dramatic change within the Dreaming. A powerful burst of magic made its way through the kingdom's foundation, causing the castle to tremble violently.

His attention was drawn to the floor before the stairs, where a sigil of silver light engraved itself into the marble. Descending step by step, he examined the glowing symbol, recognizing it as a sight that required his respect. The emblem represented an ancient glyph of mercy and balance, a formal summon invoking ancestral protocols to request an audience with Dream of the Endless from another world.

It was an old rite, a petition of parley. And Morpheus knew exactly who was sending it forward.

Bound by cosmic law, he could not refuse this meeting. With silent acquiescence, he remained on the stairs as the Goddess' form emerged from the sigil. Her face struck him like a physical blow—so reminiscent of you, but distinctly different in its own way.

The glyph faded to a subtle outline on the floor. Paregoros was still at its center, fixing Morpheus with an inscrutable expression.

"I acknowledge your presence in my domain, Paregoros," he spoke, his voice guarded. "I bid you welcome to the Dreaming."

"Greetings, Oneiros," she replied with a graceful bow. "I am grateful for your audience."

"I could not deny it. What brings you to my realm?" he asked with a hint of wariness.

Paregoros smiled knowingly, casting her eyes downward. "I believe you understand precisely why I have come to speak with you."

"I must confess, I find such a formal visitation to my realm quite… unexpected."

"Indeed, I have not given you sufficient cause to trust me. That is my responsibility." Clasping her hands in front of her, she took a deep breath. "Look, I admit I held you in rather low regard, and I made it clear that I disapproved of your relationship with my daughter."

"Then you shall be pleased to know that we are no longer bound together," he stated with cold resignation.

With a heavy sigh, Paregoros shook her head with a mix of sadness and reproach. "If that were truly the case, I would not be standing here."

"Tell me then, what service might the King of Dreams provide to the Daimona of consolation?"

"I require no service from you, Oneiros. I come not for myself, but for Y/N."

"Then I'm afraid you have traveled here in vain.”

Paregoros' eyes softened as they filled with her distinctive compassion. "Oh, Oneiros. I see it now. You truly do love my daughter."

"I have made my position on this matter quite clear," he retorted. "But what relevance does it hold now?"

"You did... and I could not believe you at the time. Oneiros, I do realize that I was wrong. Please accept my sincerest apology."

Morpheus gave a stoic nod. “Your apology is accepted. If you have nothing further to discuss, I must return to my duties.”

Paregoros chuckled, whispering to herself, "My daughter truly has the patience of a saint."

Clearing her throat, she adjusted the folds of her dress, straightening her posture. "If you would permit me to speak freely, Lord Morpheus, perhaps I could explain."

"Very well. Proceed," he intoned solemnly.

"I am aware of your situation with Y/N. You chose to leave, claiming it was to protect her from some perceived danger—or perhaps to shield her from yourself.”

His hands tightened into fists, yet he remained silent, allowing her to continue.

"I may have contributed to the problem. I planted those doubts in your mind, speaking against you and using your history with Calliope to persuade her to move on. Though I believed she deserved better than what you could offer, everything she told me about you gave me much to reflect upon."

Morpheus moved down a few more steps. "I can assure you, your words had no bearing on my decision."

"In any case, I urge you to reconsider. I realize this may sound contradictory, but... against all expectations, you two may really be destined for each other."

"We are not," he stated with cold finality. "My past actions have brought only pain and destruction. I need not remind you of the consequences of my affections."

"You don't. But the being I see before me now is not the same one who existed then."

"That is irrelevant."

"No, Oneiros. It is very relevant.”

“How?”

“Y/N saw you in a way that no one else could, not even me or your former wife. Your heartbreak now runs so deep that I can feel its weight from here.”

She paused, pressing her lips together as tears welled in her eyes, moved by what she could empathize with.

“If you believe you deserve this self-imposed suffering, let me assure you: you have nothing left to prove."

"I did not abandon her to prove anything," he stated, his gravelly voice resonating with a hint of barely contained fury. "I left to ensure she has a future. One untainted by the tragedies foretold in the Book of Paradoxes. As her mother, surely you must understand the necessity of my actions."

Paregoros blinked several times in rapid succession, absorbing his words, as disbelief spread across her face. "Wait… the Book of Paradoxes? You ended things with my daughter because of that?"

"You must know the significance that such a tome bears, and the gravity of its pages."

She exhaled deeply, pressing her fingertips against her nose bridge as comprehension dawned.

"Oneiros, the Book of Paradoxes is never as straightforward as it seems. It is far more complex than a vessel of catastrophic prophecies."

"Do you truly believe I would make such a momentous decision without thoroughly examining every possible interpretation? That I would cast aside my bond with your daughter based on a mere cursory reading?"

"You are Dream of the Endless, I would not expect you to take anything lightly."

Morpheus released a heavy breath, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting the Goddess' gaze once more. "I refuse to allow this fate to become a tangible possibility. I will not subject her to that suffering, even if the cost to me is immeasurable."

"I understand. And believe me when I say that I'm truly grateful for your demonstrated care. But that doesn't change the fact that whatever the book presented may actually hold a very different explanation beneath those lines. Especially—"

She abruptly stopped speaking, pressing her lower lip between her teeth as the weight of her unspoken sentence hung in the air.

"Especially... what?" he inquired. "If you possess knowledge pertinent to this matter, I insist you share it."

Her eyes darted back and forth as she brought her hand to her lips, carefully choosing her next response.

"What I can say is that she needs you, Oneiros. More than she ever has before."

"You are concealing something from me.”

"My apologies, Dream King. It must come from another source, not from me."

"First my subjects, and now you,” he said with exasperation. “Why is it that everyone seems to know the answers that perpetually elude me?"

She laughed softly, her melodious voice echoing through the throne room. "The real question is how you haven't noticed. I mean no insult, of course. But given how thoroughly you've isolated yourself, it's hardly surprising."

Intrigued by her implications, Morpheus descended the remaining steps, closing the distance between them to only three paces.

"Enlighten me, then. What is it that I have failed to perceive?"

"You have changed, Oneiros… but so has Y/N. She is no longer the same mortal you met over nine months ago. Her existence has deepened and transformed, and so has yours."

"I must insist you dispense with these allusions and speak with clarity."

Unfazed by his demand, Paregoros shook her head. "If you’re looking for answers, then speak to my daughter. Stop burying your head in the sand like a stubborn ostrich. Pun absolutely intended."

In his solitude, Morpheus grappled with a torment that pierced the very core of his immortal essence. Without you, he felt himself dying piece by piece, molecule by molecule, his heart fragmenting into ever-smaller shards.

"I find it curious that you, who once sought so fervently to shield your daughter from my influence, now advocate for our reunion."

"As I mentioned, circumstances have changed significantly. Oneiros, the Book of Paradoxes never appears by chance. It seeks out specific beings when they are meant to see it, at predetermined moments in time," she explained with gentle patience. "You might think it revealed itself to prevent a disaster on her, but from what I know, this is not an ending at all; if anything, it’s the beginning of something beautiful. If you would only open your eyes to see the truth."

Paregoros, Astra, Lucienne, and Matthew…

What vital message had they all been trying to convey? Something lurked beneath their words, a revelation that had escaped his understanding when it had been right before his eyes all along.

He had fought against his better instincts to preserve your light, to give you a chance at a prosperous future—even if it meant he wouldn't be a part of it. Now the fabric of the Dreaming continued to fall apart, and each attempt to mend one breach seemed to result in new fractures emerging elsewhere, beyond his immediate attention.

An unseen power stirred within his castle walls, drawing him toward you. If even the faintest possibility existed that he could stay with you without becoming the architect of your downfall, he would give up everything he was.

"Dare I contemplate the possibility of redemption? Of making choices that will not lead to the same regrets of the past?" He mused aloud, speaking more to himself than to the Goddess.

“For what it's worth, I believe your redemption lies in my daughter. Promise me, Oneiros. Promise me you won't leave things as they stand."

Finally yielding to a new glimmer of hope, Morpheus acquiesced. "I give you my word."

With evident relief, Paregoros offered a radiant smile and inclined her head in appreciation. She executed another bow, this one carrying deeper sincerity, before activating the sigil beneath her feet.

"This is all I came here for," she affirmed. "I owe you thanks, Oneiros. The life of my daughter, all that she is and will represent for our worlds, is in your hands."

The floor illuminated once more with silvery light, and as Paregoros dissolved into a shower of luminescent particles, Morpheus found himself invigorated with renewed determination.

Perhaps a path existed for reconciliation, one that would allow him to mend the emotional wounds he had inflicted to your heart, and upon himself.

While you both returned to your respective work, Hob graciously extended his stay. You welcomed his continued presence in your home, knowing that solitude would only worsen your contemplative state.

As night approached, a peaceful calm enveloped the apartment, punctuated only by Hob's gentle snoring from the living room and the soft cadence of your measured breathing. The apartment was dark except for city glow filtering through the windows, with occasional car headlights briefly illuminating the rooms. You reclined in a supine position, with one arm tucked beneath your pillow while the other rested gently at your side.

Deep in slumber, you didn’t notice the shift in the air as Morpheus took shape beside your bed. His gaze fell upon you with reverence, though guilt pierced his heart at the sight of a tear-stained tissue on your nightstand.

He examined your sleeping form carefully, the delicate bedsheets draped to your waist, searching for any indication that might explain the allusive statements he had received. Everything appeared unchanged, your essence as captivating as when he last beheld you.

Tentatively, driven by his irrepressible need to touch you, he extended his long fingers to your face, softly brushing a few strands away. Though you deserved far more than he could offer, you seemed unwilling to seek happiness elsewhere, and he loathed himself for wishing every mortal man would burn to ash should they dare come too close to you.

His chest constricted with emotion as you shifted slightly in your sleep, his hand staying in place. With calculated gentleness, he traced his fingers through your hair, observing how the strands flowed like silk between them.

That brief touch eased the pain of his yearning, temporarily mending the void within his soul.

But then, something unexpected occurred that made even the King of Dreams recoil in shock.

Suddenly, your skin began to emanate a celestial golden radiance, forming as luminous filaments that extended outward and immediately surrounded his form. He watched the spectacle with wonderment, sensing its gentle warmth against his cool exterior. As he rotated his hand, the responsive light followed his movements with fluid grace, embracing his form like a second skin.

You lay still in deep sleep as he advanced to examine it. The ethereal illumination emanated from your chest cavity, creating a brilliant corona that radiated outward, its tendrils of light weaving an intricate display throughout the room.

However, upon closer inspection, he noticed something else. The energy seemed to radiate not only from your heart but also distinctly from your abdominal region, creating two separate points of origin.

His brows knitted in concentration as he extended his senses, perceiving a subtle yet distinct sound. The faint rhythm, though barely perceptible, was unmistakably present.

As he detected a second heartbeat resonating from within your form, the realization finally struck him like a lightning bolt crashing into the earth, bringing clarity to all that had remained obscured for weeks.

"You have read the book, yes, but have you truly understood it? Where you see endings, there might be beginnings.”

"You believe you'll bring her ruin. Yet have you considered that your absence might do the same? That she may not survive without you?"

"It is because you made me Y/N's familiar that I understand what is eluding you. If you would only speak with her once, you would see it as well. But then again, I'm merely a dream. What could I possibly know?"

“Oneiros, the Book of Paradoxes never appears by chance. It seeks out specific beings when they are meant to see it, at predetermined moments in time. You might think it revealed itself to prevent a disaster on her, but from what I know, this is not an ending at all; if anything, it’s the beginning of something beautiful. If you would only open your eyes to see the truth."

“A Child of the Endless…” he whispered, eyes wide, slowly sinking to his knees. “My child."

The real question is how you haven't noticed.”

Indeed. How had he not noticed it? The signs had been there all along—when he summoned you in dreams to end your relationship, during your time in the Dreaming, and most definitely when he found you in the library.

Those whispers were not deceptive or arbitrary in nature. Rather, they served as beacons, guiding him toward what he had to see: the presence of new life inside you. He would have recognized it had he not isolated himself, distancing his mind from the truth that stood bare before him.

His beautiful, precious Y/N, the one true love of his eternal life, now carried his child.

His child.

You had come into his world like a glowing star. Now you were a bridge between your realms, bearing a child of hope, and it was so much more than he could ever claim.

He finally saw deep into your soul, your memories, and your heart. So untainted and pure, with no darkness lurking inside. No lies, and no deceit. He witnessed only light, brilliant and beautiful, filling every corner of your spirit and radiating in his direction. A luminous gleam surrounded your figure, as serene as a star in the night sky.

That day within the basement, he witnessed the same golden luminescence that now shaped physically before him. He had interpreted it as merely metaphorical—a representation of your soul's essence, something figurative. However, this radiance was a tangible force, an innate ability that had been dormant in you since birth.

He had unknowingly left you to navigate these circumstances alone, both the manifestation of an unprecedented ability and the responsibility of his child. If the Book of Paradoxes had intended to guide him toward this revelation, perhaps its contents required a deeper examination.

Assuming he could find the tome once more.

With a delicate touch, he traced his fingers across the fabric covering your abdomen, his vision blurring with emotion, right as the light gradually subsided. Before departing to the Dreaming in a swirl of sand, he made a solemn vow to both you and himself: he would resolve everything without wavering, regardless of any prophecy, for you and for this miraculous new life.

Morpheus would do whatever was necessary to become the lover and father you both deserved.

You jolted awake, whispering Morpheus' name with a sense of his lingering presence, scanning the room methodically. As disappointment settled in, your bleary eyes caught glimpse of what appeared to be minute grains of sand suspended in the air.

Though you wished to attribute them to something more significant, the fading golden filaments in your hands suggested they were merely remnants of your power, or perhaps just atmospheric dust floating in the room, creating an illusion of what you longed to see.

Disheartened, you collapsed back into the mattress, another devastating crack forming in your already wounded heart.

"So, looks like we're still in the same boat as before, huh? Just, y'know, stating the obvious here."

Lucienne removed her glasses to rub her eyes, addressing Matthew with an exhausted sigh. "I am well aware we're not making progress."

"I know you're bustin' your chops here, but come on... if that book was anywhere in this place, you'd have found it already, right?"

"That was my assessment as well. But, as it remains our sole avenue of investigation, and given Lord Morpheus' current... disposition..."

"Yeah, we're fresh outta leads here. I get it."

"I'm afraid that's quite correct."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out. You know, do my thing, flying around, being all observant and stuff. Just give me a shout if you need me!"

“Sure.”

As Matthew flew off, Lucienne resumed her methodical search, reviewing her records and setting aside volumes unrelated to her primary focus. While the storms had quieted down, Mervyn was perpetually on edge due to the constant floods inundating the gardens, making his management duties both tedious and futile.

She walked through the aisles, scanning for any shelf she might have overlooked, confirming that all volumes were accounted for in her register. Just as frustration began to set in during her repetitive search, Morpheus' voice suddenly thundered throughout the library.

“Lucienne.”

Surprised, the librarian emerged from between the shelves to find her lord standing at the main table, an increasingly uncommon occurrence as of late.

"My Lord?" she inquired, approaching him with her hands clasped before her.

His face was inscrutable, yet a new glint shimmered in his eyes.

"I trust you have something of great importance to discuss with me," he stated "Something that requires my immediate attention."

His piercing gaze left no room for misunderstanding—there was only one matter he could be referring to.

"You've discovered that she's with child, haven't you?"

"I have. Though I’m curious as to why my most trusted librarian decided to withhold this information from me."

"In truth, I was going to tell you, sir. But she specifically requested my discretion in this matter."

"Why would she choose to conceal this from me?" he asked, hurt and confused.

"She was afraid at first... she needed time to process everything herself. And the moment she desperately attempted to inform you, you… weren't exactly making yourself available."

Morpheus looked down, realizing the extent of his actions.

While she was reluctant to press the point, Lucienne felt compelled to voice her sentiments. "With all due respect, my lord, you've been absent for all of us."

"I have failed you all,” he admitted. “An apology is the very least I owe."

Lucienne offered a gentle smile, resting her weight against the table.

"After the Vortex incident, I thought I had learned from my mistakes. I told you I would listen, and yet... I proceeded to do precisely the opposite."

"My lord, I understand these decisions were not made lightly—"

"No, there can be no excuse for what I’ve done. You all attempted to warn me; you, Matthew, Astra... Y/N. I let the shadows of my past cloud my judgment. In my arrogance, I pushed away those who wished to help, foolishly believing I could face this darkness alone. And The Dreaming paid the price for my negligence. As you did."

"What do you intend to do about this situation now?"

His fingers traced absently along a tome's leather cover, following the embossed letters without purpose.

"I require the Book, Lucienne. And you alone possess the means to aid me in its recovery."

"I was under the impression you were in possession of it still, my lord?"

"I returned it several days ago," he spoke with gravity. "But now... I must read it once more."

Lucienne shook her head slowly. "Sir, I've actually searched the entire library multiple times. And if you have returned it, then I might deduce the Book of Paradoxes simply isn't here anymore. Not that I was able to locate it during its first appearance, either."

His lips curled into a knowing smile. "I am quite certain it is here," he stated with quiet conviction. "Hidden within these very walls."

"And how exactly do you know that, my lord?"

"Because I sense its presence... and I hear its whispers," he replied.

"A whispering book? Great. That's quite beyond even my extensive library experience."

"The book is a Paradox in itself. Its very nature shifts and changes, and it never remains in one fixed location. It uses the fabric of the Dreaming to conceal its true form."

Lucienne arched an eyebrow, her voice dripping with its characteristic dry wit. "How are we meant to find it? Perhaps we should simply wait for it to grace us with another cryptic conversation?"

"I... do not know.”

"My lord, if even you cannot locate this book within your own domain, perhaps we're dealing with something far beyond our comprehension."

“I need your help, Lucienne. Please. I owe it to her, to all of you. And... to my child yet unborn."

Upon hearing those heartfelt words brimming with love, Lucienne couldn't bring herself to refuse her lord's request. Given all they had endured due to the book's influence, and the weeks of hardship both he and you had faced, she was determined not to let this obstacle stand in the way of your collective quest.

With that, she adjusted her spectacles, rolled up her sleeves, and cleared space on the cluttered table. “Very well. Where should I begin?”

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 (currently reading) Go to Chapter 25 (coming soon) ->

#the sandman #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #the sandman fanfic #the sandman fanfiction #sandman x reader #sandman fanfic

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zeciex · 9 months ago

Text

A Vow of Blood - 87

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 87: The Sworn Shield or The Boy

AO3 - Masterlist

That morning, Mertha had taken it upon herself to attend to Daenera, much to her displeasure. Daenera found herself dressed in a deep emerald green dress, its fabric thick and enveloping her heavily in the style favored by the Queen Mother–a long dress that fell modestly around her, its sleeves split and sweeping the floor, with a light underdress that added to the volume, it’s sleeves ending around her wrists. Daenera never disliked green; she appreciated all its shades, from the soft hues of meadow greens to the rich depths of forest greens, and she had always found gems like emeralds and jade particularly appealing. Green had once seemed flattering to her, but now, it constricted her chest with apprehension. The color now represented yet another tether, another filament in the web the Hightowers were weaving around her, another bare in the cage that confined her.

Nevertheless, she donned the dress, suppressing her growing disdain for it as Mertha arranged the thick fabric around her. She had other battles to fight than that of the color of her dress.

Daenera’s mind had been set on the task at hand, fully prepared to make the sacrifices that were needed for it. As Mertha had attended to her, she had worn a deep scowl, her lips moving slightly as she muttered prayers below her breath until Daenera was fully dressed and ready for the day.

“We should visit the sept today,” Mertha had suggested then, her hands carefully picking up her weathered book of prayers. The leather was worn, its pages yellowed and frayed from frequent use, and the golden seven-pointed star embossed on its surface had nearly faded away–a testament to its constant handling.

And Daenera had agreed with a measured, “Very well,” betraying none of her inner turmoil.

The Royal Sept nestled within the towering walls of the Red Keep was smaller that the Great Sept but no less splendid. Yet, Daenera’s attention was not on the sept as she walked away from Maegor’s Holdfast. With Mertha and Ser Oliver Norrey close behind, she turned towards the Red Keep, ascending the steps with a determined stride that led her not to the sept but towards the Council Chambers.

Mertha, taken aback by the sudden change in direction, tried to grasp Daenera’s arm without drawing attention. Her efforts were in vain as Daenera deftly avoided her touch. Her steps quickened, her focus fixed on the door of the Council Chambers.

“Princess,” Ser Arryk Cargyll called out in greeting, stepping firmly in front of her and effectively blocking the entrance to the Council Chambers. His brow was lightly furrowed in unease, though his eyes remained sharp and serious–the difference that told her which twin he was.

Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, looking past the gleaming white armor of the Kingsguard. “Ser Arryk, has the Council gathered?”

“They have, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied, his tone careful, a query beneath his words.

“Good,” Daenera responded, her posture resolute, her head held high. At that moment, Mertha’s hand clamped down on the soft flesh just above Daenera’s elbow. Her thin fingers pressed into Daenera’s skin with a bruising force as she tugged slightly on her arm, whispering with a venomous undertone, “And what do you think you’re doing?”

With a rough pull, Daenera extricated her arm from Mertha’s grip, meeting her gaze with a cool, unflinching expression before redirecting her attention back to the Kingsgaurd. “Inform the Hand that I wish to speak with him and the Council.”

“The Council has more pressing matters to attend to than the complaints of a princess,” Mertha interjected tersely. Her remark, however, was blatantly ignored by Daenera, whose eyes remained locked on Ser Arryk, waiting for his response.

“Forgive me, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied with a respectful tone, “The Council in session is to remain undisturbed.”

“Then I shall wait until they’ve concluded.”

“You will not,” Mertha retorted sharply, her scowl deepening the wrinkles on her face and aging her beyond her years. Had it not been for her persistent scorn, she might have aged with some semblance of grace. But the venom seemed to flow freely through her veins. She would have made a proficient Septa.

“I will,” Daenera countered firmly, her tone resolute. “Unless you wish to create another spectacle here, in front of the court,” she added, her words underscored by the bustling noise of the court, “and add to the spectacle I made yesterday…”

Mertha clenched her teeth. “I could have you dragged from here–”

“You could,” Daenera interrupted sharply, leaning slightly into Mertha’s space, her voice cutting. “But it wouldn’t serve the Hightowers.”

It was a challenge–a dare for Mertha to command Ser Oliver to seize her and drag her through the Red Keep, kicking and screaming, turning the scene into a true spectacle that would be whispered about within and beyond the walls. Such an act would unequivocally confirm her status as a hostage, one treated with marked harshness. It would lend credence to the true reason she had appeared at the feast the previous evening, clad in her mother’s color of red, a bold stand of defiance.

“You insolent, cursed child,” Mertha seethed, clutching her book of prayers so tightly that it seemed on the verge of tearing.

Daenera shifted her focus back to Ser Arryk, who stood resolutely before her, guarding the entrance to the Council Chambers like a steadfast sentinel. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his posture embodying the calm readiness of the Kingsguard. Consciously dismissing Mertha’s exasperated huff, Daenera maintained her stance before the doors of the Council Chambers, her gaze fixed on the knight in front of her.

After a prolonged moment of stillness, Daenera broke the silence with a question, “Where is your prettier half?”

Her gaze briefly flicked towards Ser Ricard Thorne, who stood stoically beside the doors, his stern expression unwavering as he observed the interaction. Typically the twins were stationed together outside the Council Chambers, each flanking a side of the entrance, their presence almost symmetrical, reflecting one another. But today, the usual balance was disrupted, emphasizing Ser Ricard’s distinct features–dark eyes and hair, a thick, neatly trimmed beard, and brows bushy and furrowed together in seriousness.

Something flickered across Ser Arryk’s face, a slight hardening of his blue eyes betraying a change in his demeanor. After a brief pause, his voice emerged cold and terse, “Gone, Princess.”

Daenera’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Gone?”

Her gaze dropped momentarily to where Ser Arryk’s hand clutched the pommel of his sword, his grip so tight that the skin over his knuckles was stretched taut and pale. Raising her eyes to meet his again, she observed him closely, noting the rigid set of his features and the tense muscles of his face. The muscle in his jaw twitched visibly as he gritted his teeth in anger. It took her a moment to understand the shift, then realized that it was betrayal that flickered in his eyes.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, it seemed, had parted ways with his brother and, by extension, his duties in the Kingsguard. The tightness of Ser Arryk’s expression and the betrayal in his gaze led her to surmise that Erryk had not just left his post but had chosen to align himself with her mother–declaring Rhaenyra Targaryen as his rightful queen. At least one of the twins had kept his honor intact.

“Ah,” Daenera remarked, a faint, knowing smile playing at her lips, “the prettier and better half, it would seem. Your brother seems to be the only one whose honor remains. You should have gone with him.”

Ser Arryk’s gaze fixed on her, cold and unforgiving. “I swore an oath to protect and defend the royal family. I have worn this cloak since I was eight and ten, Princess, and have served the King since that day. I will continue to serve the King now…” A brief flicker of agony crossed his features, deeping the furrows in his brow as he continued in a muted tone, “My brother has lost his way… And we both suffer for it.”

The pain was evident in his expression revealed the conflict within him–a man torn between his duty to the crown and the love he held for his brother. His commitment to his oath remained unwavering, that was why he stood here after all, yet the personal cost of such fidelity was clearly etched across his face.

There was a time when Daenera might have felt sympathy for Ser Arryk, but those reserves of compassion had long since been depleted. Now, all that remained was a familiar kindling of anger–a seed of cruelty that had taken root within her, growing stronger as she endured and endured.

“Hmm… It seems your brother has his honor, and you have yours,” Daenera mused softly, her voice laced with irony. “A shame yours makes you a traitor.”

“My brother is the one who abandoned his honor with his vows, not I,” Ser Arryk retorted, his voice as firm as the stone floors underfoot. His armor whispered with the soft sound of moment as he took a deliberate step back, distancing himself. “You may wait here a while, the Council is not soon to conclude.”

Resuming his original stance, Ser Arryk became once again the sentinel outside the Council doors–an imperfect mirror in the absence of his twin, his face no longer reflected at the other side of the doors.

With a quiet sigh, Daenera resigned herself to waiting outside the Council doors. She stood there, her gaze fixed intently on the wooden barrier that separated her from the chambers she sought to enter. Around her, the castle life murmured on; the air was filled with the low buzz of conversations as nobles chatted along the path of the Grand Stairwell behind her, and the soft scurrying sounds of the servants bustling about their duties echoed subtly in the background.

As the first hour passed, Daenera had become intimately familiar with every curve and groove of the Council Chamber doors. She noted each detail: the deep grooves of the elaborate carvings, where dark wood swirled into lighter shades, etched by gilded edges that caught the light from the windows and the nearby torches. How many secrets had those doors held from the realm? How many dirty deeds did they protect now? And how long was she going to stand there, willing them open?

As another half hour slowly dragged by, discomfort began to grow at the base of her spine. Her lower back ached, muscles stiffening due to the prolonged standing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the discomfort in her weary muscles. As she moved, she felt her hips creak, protesting the movement. And as time wore on, this discomfort spread to her knees and feet. Each throb seemed to anchor her more firmly to the spot. The heavy sensation in her stomach grew into a tangible knot of tension as she stared at the doors.

The restlessness that began as a mere prickle in her fingertips grew into a tingling urge to move, to pace, to do anything but standidly. Boredom, too, crept into her consciousness, an unwelcome yet persistent guest that muddled her thoughts as she began to ponder how she could get into the Council Chambers. She contemplated a sudden outburst, a loud demand to open the doors and allow her entry. However, she quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would likely prompt Ser Oliver–who was casually leaning against the wall, idly picking at the calluses on his palm–to intervene. Similarly, any attempt to force her way through would be thwarted by Ser Arryk Cargyll, and not his twin, Ser Ricard Thorne, who would surely step in before she could even reach the door, resulting in her being forcibly removed and locked away somewhere.

Her thoughts then ventured towards a more theatrical solution: scaling the exterior walls to access the chamber through the balcony. Yet, the risk of plummeting to her death loomed far too great for it to be an option. The desperation of it was almost laughable. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to scale the walls if she managed to find a long, sturdy plank of wood. She could then make a bridge from one balcony to another. This too, while less perilous than scaling the walls, presented it’s own challenges. Where would she even find such a plank? How would she transport it unnoticed? And even if she could manage these feats, the ever-watchful eyes of Mertha followed her closely, making such a plan practically impossible.

Each plan Daenera considered quickly unraveled under scrutiny, revealing its inherent flaws. Thus, she found herself resigned to standing and waiting, outwardly exuding an air of patience while a current of impatience prickled beneath her skin.

After what seemed like ages, the doors to the Council Chambers finally swung open, releasing the members of the Council one by one. Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, emerged first, his gaze briefly meeting Daenera’s. His eyes, weary yet acknowledging, offered her a respectful nod as he passed. Following him was Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, who seemed to dismiss her presence entirely with a curt shake of his head, as if she were merely an inconvenient part of the scenery.

Grand Maester Orwyle came next, the distinctive clinking of his maester’s chains announcing his approach before he even appeared. As he walked past Daenera, his eyes gave her a quick once-over–a fleeting glance that carried a hint of curiosity before he too moved on, absorbed in his own thoughts

Daenera stepped forward, ignoring the displeasured sputter of Mertha who reached out for her in a futile attempt to restrain her. Now that the doors were open, Daenera refused to be held back. Standing poised at the threshold, her eyes immediately found Otto Hightower, whose gaze was as cold and discernible as ever. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This council meeting has adjourned,” Otto declared with a sense of finality, closing the leather-bound book with a definitive snap. He straightened to his full height, the sigil of The Hand of the King pinned prominently to his chest, marking his authority in the King’s absence. Notably, the King’s chair remained empty–Aegon was absent from this meeting. The absence of even a goblet of wine on the table hinted that he had never attended at all.

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her voice steady as she stood her ground. She could feel his gaze on her–chilling like a cold draft along her spine, a sensation that brushed against her skin almost like a caress, one she adamantly refused to acknowledge further. He moved through the shadows, his attention sharp and invasive–pressed against her like a blade at her neck. Yet, Daenera refused to meet his one-eyed gaze, focusing her attention on the Lord Hand.

Otto regarded her with a weary scrutiny. “What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set.”

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not,” Daenera retorted, her resolve steely as she crossed the threshold and ascended the steps leading to the Council Chambers. With measured strides, she climbed to the level where the chamber’s table stood, positioning herself to confront those who remained. There was a challenge in her words, pointed and jeering–a promise.

The Queen Mother, who had been standing by the balcony, turned to face Daenera, her expression marked by a deep frown. One hand absentmindedly traced her lips, betraying her concern. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the round shudders creating circular patches of light onto the floor, where dust motes danced in the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows and balcony doors. Despite the abundance of light, the peripheries of the room remained dim, shadows lingering among the columns, adding a somber tone to the setting. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

The long table dominated the center of the room, bathed in light that framed the King’s chair, which itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, ornately carved and edged with silver and gold. Above the door to the balcony, a seven-pointed star was prominently mounted–a symbol courtesy of the Hightowers, no doubt intended as a reminder for the Council and the King of the higher power that would judge them upon their deaths. Yet, the presence of this symbol did little to deter the actions that had let to usurpation and kinslaying.

Daenera deliberately ignored Aemond as he emerged from the shadows. Though she avoided looking directly at him, she acutely felt his presence, much like one senses a looming shadow. Her chest tightened.

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera asserted, fixing her gaze on Otto Hightower, whose cold eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing through them. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there are none so accursed as the kinslayer.”

She sensed the shift in the air, as tangible as the scent of rain carried on the breeze just before a storm–it was thick and heavy and solemn, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she felt his gaze intensify. Calmly, she folded her hand in front of her, her thumb absently brushing over the bandaged wounds on her palm, a subtle gesture that belied the tension she felt under his scrutiny. “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts…”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly as she pondered aloud, “The realm will think you cruel.”

Alicent’s voice snapped through the air, tinged with a harsh edge as she addressed Daenera. “You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday.”

“You cannot,” Daenera stated, her voice carrying a simple, unwavering challenge, undisturbed by the threat. “It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave.”

The lines of Otto Hightower’s forehead deepened as the usual stern expression carved itself more firmly into his features. With a begrudging silence, the Lord Hand sank into his chair at the right-hand side of where the King’s empty seat loomed. “What is it you want?”

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice laden with exasperation. She strode away from the balcony, her green skirts whispering across the stone floor with a soft rustle. Approaching the King’s chair, she clutched the top of it, as though to steady herself as her gaze settled more firmly on her father.

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera stated firmly, her request clear and unwavering.

Alicent huffed in disbelief–the sound bordering on a scoff–as her head shook. “Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.”

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera countered sharply, her voice tinged with cold resolve. The weight of her words settled heavily in her stomach. The images of her fallen men–Joyce, Sithric, Kevan, Darvin, and Edam–hung limply in her memory, their lifeless bodies haunting the presence in the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Now, only Fenrick, Eddin, and Patrick remained.

If the threats to their lives persisted as a means to control her actions, she would have to resign herself to the likelihood of their deaths. And if they were to die anyway, she might as well consider them as such.

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera asserted, her tone resolute. She sensed his movement–like the ripples made when moving through water–felt the shift of his presence as he stepped into the light. From the periphery of her vision, she saw him take the position to the left of his mother, opposite the Lord Hand, his hand resting atop the back of a chair, clenched tightly. His stare sharpened, felt like a blade’s caress–threatening yet intimate in a way that made her skin tingle and her heart twist. She despised the sensation–wished that his presence didn’t have an effect on her. “Should you decide not to release my men, then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

Her heart pounded, the thick silence engulfing the room feeling nearly suffocating as she faced them. The Lord Hand appeared visibly annoyed, his brows knitted together in contemplation, his eyes sharp with cold calculation. Beside him, the Queen Mother’s expression was one of exasperated disbelief, her fingers twitching nervously. Though Daenera avoided looking directly at Aemond, his presence was palpable, pressing against her senses.

The threat seemed to thrive in the silence only to be cut short by Aemond’s low, gentle murmur. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā.”

You are my wife.

Their eyes locked, and in his gaze, she saw the same gentleness and terrible sharpness of the dragonglass that had once cut into her palm–a distant, now painful memory. Her look was steely, her heart bludgeoning itself against the composed, icy facade he presented–was it even a facade? She could no longer be sure. The sting of betrayal was acute, and she felt the prickle of tears burn behind her eyes.

“I’ve had your consent.” The sharp etch of his lips remained curved, but there was cruel gentleness to it, his voice low and soft. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Daenera’s heart constricted painfully, as if a dagger twisted between her ribs, accompanied by the haunting sensation of his lips betraying her once more–she could almost feel his breath ghost against the exposed flesh of her neck, even at this distance.

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, his focus solely on her.

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daemera retorted sharply, her voice laced with venom. She pressed her thumb against the stitched wound on her hand, the familiar pain anchoring her–a preferable agony to the chaotic beating of her heart. She pressed harder into the wound, the one that had traced the damned scar halfway through, each wound a vow. The memory of that night haunted her; two fools, mistaken in their love, unwilling to admit that that was what it was, sealing their fate with vows neither of them understood, oblivious to the consequences they wrought and the doom for which they were heading. If they had known the destruction their love would bring, would they have ever uttered those vows? Would they still find themselves standing amid the ruins of what they had once cherished?

The boy she had once loved seemed to have vanished into the sea along with her brother, only his body had returned, cold and cruel–a specter in the form of a living man. How strange it was to be haunted by someone who still drew breath, and stranger still, to be tormented by the fragments of a shattered heart–there should be nothing remaining, just emptiness, but there wasn’t. It would have been simpler to feel nothing at all. Yet, since indifference was an impossibility, she grasped at the hatred she knew intimately, the only sentiment that felt unequivocally real.

With her gaze locked on his, Daenera’s voice was icy, her words slicing through the air as she suppressed the quiver threatening to betray her emotions, “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

The edges of his mouth tightened, as she noted the flash of anger in his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. With her chin lifted, Daenera delivered her words like a dagger, aimed straight for his core, twisting with a calculated cruelty. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Aemond moved towards her, his movements predatory. With lithe fingers, he seized her wrist with his fingers, raising her hand between them for emphasis. His grasp was firm, his hold assertive, but not bruising–the touch startled her, her heart shuddering in her chest. He hissed, inches from her face, his anger palpable. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys?”

As Daenera fought to steady her heartbeat, he pressed on, his voice a menacing murmur, so awfully soft, “Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?” He paused, his breath mingling with hers, his demand for acknowledgement sharp and clear, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, shooting him a scathing look. Her skin still burned where his fingers had clutched her. “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

His fury enveloped him like flames, the unmistakable scent of dragon–smoke and fire–clinging to him. She sensed his desperate need to possess her, to mark her as his own with ferocious intensity, regardless of her own desires. But she knew too well that her resistance gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his vulnerabilities. Holding his fierce gaze a moment longer, she steeled herself against the tide of his rage before finally turning her attention to the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother, steadfast in her defiance.

Daenera watched as Alicent gripped the back of the king’s chair tightly, eyes wide with fury and fear, voice filled with shocked reproach, “Aemond…”

From the periphery, Daenera observed Aemond grit his teeth, his features tightening in visible frustration. For a fleeting moment, he averted his gaze, his expression wounded–the mask then settled upon his features, smoothing out the vulnerability into something more steely. He took a deliberate step back, his eye settling upon Daenera with a cold, detached intensity, the space between them expanding yet she felt his presence lingering like a ghost in the shattered hallways of her heart.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Alicent pressed, her voice climbing as she rounded the table, her skirts whispering urgently across the stone floor. She reached Aemond and grasped his arms, seeking the truth in a plea that vibrated with desperation. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond remained silent, the truth suspended between them like the dust motes caught in the beams of light.

Alicent’s voice pitched higher, almost shrill with despair, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

“Alicent,” Otto chided with a restrained firmness, though his admonishment seemed to evaporate in the heated air, unnoticed as Alicent clasped Aemond’s arms, her grip seeming to tighten with a mother’s urgency. Her voice rose, edged with a trembling fierceness, “Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to? She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond’s voice broke through, commanding and sharp as he pulled away from her grasp, the sound of her nails dragging against his doublet audible in the tense silence. He fixed a stern gaze upon her, his annoyance palpable. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent interjected insistently, her voice laced with desperation. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded with unwavering firmness, his presence imposing even as he remained seated. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the aged leather of his ledger, which was stuffed with haphazardly arranged parchments. A weary resignation permeated his voice as he continued, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent’s voice echoed sharply, eyes aflame with a mother’s fierce protectiveness and brimming with disbelief. She turned towards her father, her head shaking as if to dispel his words.

Otto’s voice was steady and dismissive of his daughter’s distress, “The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture. Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” his eyes settled reproachfully on Aemond, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent charged, her voice thick with emotion as she advanced towards the table, pressing a hand against her abdomen as if to quell her inner turmoil. She met her father’s gaze with a blend of disbelief and quiet desperation, silently imploring him to reconsider his decision, but Otto Hightower was not moved by his daughter's plea.

“The wedding is set.”

Alicent shook her head in dismay, turning her gaze out the windows as she stepped away from the table, wrapping her arms around herself. Otto then fixed his eyes on Aemond, “How long have you kept this from us?”

Daenera’s gaze met Aemond’s, her heart pounding furiously, eyes burning with angry tears. A silent plea passed between them–a desperate urge for him to keep their secret, to preserve the last shred of sanctity their vows once held. He had shared their vows, exposing them to the harsh light of day. What they shared should have stayed veiled by the night, cherished in the quiet spaces of their hearts, untouched and pure–a fond memory eroding by the touch of cruelty. How strange it was, to have kept it in the shadows of night, where it flourished in the quiet solitude they had once shared, untainted by the daylight–it had been wondrous, almost sacred. Now exposed, it seemed grotesque, marred by layers of betrayal so deep, that bitterness seemed its only essence. What was one more scar upon their already tainted bond?

As Aemond averted his eyes, Daenera knew he would concede to the truth. She had denied him the acknowledgement he desired–had denied their vows–and so, perhaps to punish her, he answered with the truth. With a soft yet resonant voice, he betrayed her again, “Four months.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the ornamental marble spheres arrayed at the center of the table, nestled within their holder like delicate eggs. A fleeting impulse prickled at her fingertips, an urge to seize those marble balls and fling them at Aemond in a fit of rage. Yet, the logistics of moving past the expansive table and push between the chairs deterred her–she would need to lean over its broad expanse, exposing herself further, and Aemond would likely stop her before she could even graze the balls. She briefly considered removing her shoes and flinging them at him, though they seemed too insubstantial to inflict the impact she desired. Her eyes then settled on the hefty, hardwood chair before her, lamenting the lack of strength required to wield it as a weapon against the betrayal she felt.

With no means to inflict the damage she desired, she remained still.

“Four months?” Alicent repeated, spinning back to face them, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her hand brushing at her lips as though attempting to soothe herself. Her brows knitted together in a mixture of surprise and displeasure. “Since her husband’s death?”

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, giving Daenera the grace of not telling the full truth–that they had married the night her husband had died, that they had both had a hand in it.

Otto reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting between Aemond and Daenera, weighting the gravity of the situation in a prolonged, silent assessment. Daenera felt the tightening of invisible threads around her, woven by Otto’s scheming mind. These threads seemed to bind her wrists and ankles, constricting around her neck, making her into nothing more than a mere puppet. After a long pause, Otto finally broke the silence again. “This may be to our advantage.”

“How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent countered, her voice rising with incredulity. “Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now,” Otto answered, his expression stern as he regarded his daughter. “He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that.” His gaze then shifted to Aemond and Daenera, voice lowering slightly, “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, her thumb pressing into the wound on her–the one that had traced the bottom of the scar once left by the dragonglass. She contemplated exposing Aemond’s involvement in the death of her husband, even if it meant revealing her own. It was mutually assured destruction, as she had always intended–and as she had always hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Yet, here she was, considering it. But if she truly desired his death above all else, she would have driven the blade into his neck when she had the chance.

“We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay,” Otto continued, weaving his web of schemes. “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera stood her ground, her voice strong. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her eyes flicked towards Alicent, watching the scowl grow, then settled her gaze back on Otto. “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?”

Daenera’s gaze flickered to Aemond for a brief moment before returning to Otto, continuing, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his eye flashing with intensity as he retorted, his tone sharp and biting, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

“Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, eyes narrowing.

Aemond regarded her with a measure of coldness, his voice lowering, “Do you think they won’t?”

Daenera’s heart pounded in her chest, a flush of heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she fixed him with a glare. Each word he spoke seemed to bear down upon her, her resolve bending under the weight of it–like a branch bending under pressure, threatening to snap. It would have been kinder, she thought, if he had plunged the knife at his hip between her ribs rather than seek to unravel her certainties. She clung to the belief that her mother and Daemon would understand her intentions, but deep down, she knew such assurance was a fragile, fallible thing–and he knew it too.

Aemond possessed a disturbing ability for finding which thread of her’s to tug on. He pulled at these threads relentlessly, unraveling her, exposing her vulnerabilities and uncertainties without any regard for her desires. It seemed he derived a twisted form of pleasure from dissecting her composure, piece by piece, revealing her innermost fears to the world–fears he would exploit. Once the act of unraveling her had welcome, once she thought she could unravel him too. What a lie that was, and yet there was a strange intimacy in the way he sought to strike at her vulnerabilities–how he knew exactly how to unsettle her.

Daemon had been incensed when he had learned about their relationship–had warned her against it. He had known, had sensed her feelings even before she recognized or deigned to acknowledge them herself. He had feared she’d fallen in love with him–feared that she’d betray them for this newfound affection.

Her heart had betrayed them as much as it had her, and she despised herself for it.

The thought of her mother perceiving her actions as a betrayal twisted her stomach into knots. Her blood ran cold with dread at the idea that Daemon might see her as a traitor.

Daenera steeled herself against the gnawing doubt that threatened to overwhelm her–threatened to unravel her ploy. The doubt seemed to crawl down her spine like chill, burrowing beneath her skin and turning her bones to ice. Her heart thudded heavily, uneasily within her chest as she swallowed her fears, masking them beneath a veneer of confidence. She clung to the hope that they would see the truth–that she was merely a pawn in the Hightower’s game, that the marriage was nothing more than a farce, even as she smiled and played her part. They had to understand, she reassured herself, they would come to see it clearly.

With a deliberate effort, she tore her gaze away from Aemond’s.

Otto fixed her with a look that mingled appreciation with annoyance. After a moment, he declared firmly, “If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage.”

It was not a question but a statement. Daenera responded nevertheless, “Yes.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the implications. Her acquiescence to the wedding would only strengthen Otto’s narrative surrounding her presence at the celebration of her brother’s death. She knew well that word of it would soon be reaching Dragonstone, if it hadn’t already. And once they heard of her compliance in the wedding, they’d begin to doubt her loyalty. Yet, this was the sole leverage she possessed, her only means to secure the release of her men from the dark confines of the dungeons, away from the perpetual threat hanging over them like an executioner’s blade. Daenera clung to the hope that her mother and Daemon would recognize her actions for the desperate charade they were. And with her men freed, she trusted they would convey the truth.

However much this ploy may wound her–however much it may cost her, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make, and in truth, it was the only thing she could do.

The Lord Hand’s gaze hardened. “From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife.”

Alicent interjected with a voice tight with scorn, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto Hightower looked at his daughter, his expression unyielding as he dismissed her with a small, dismissive gesture. Turning his attention back to Daenera, he spoke, “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

Daenera did not need time for consideration or give the situation undue thoughts–even though one of her men was ominously unmentioned. She stepped forward decisively, gripping the back of a chair, nails tracing over the grooves carved into the wood, declaring, “The Sworn Shield. Fenrick.”

Alicent’s eyebrows lifted in reproachful surprised before her expression hardened into something scornful. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

The rest of the accusation hung quietly in the air–and under threat no less. A boy of three and ten now, with a noose tied around his neck, just waiting for you to misstep and have the stool kicked out from beneath him. The decision was out of pragmatism, not cruelty. She knew too well that Patrick’s chances of making it outside the city walls were bleak; he was more likely to be murdered and left in the gutter. Fenrick, on the other hand, had a chance of reaching Dragonstone, of escaping the city walls, despite the likelihood that the Hightowers would send men after him to ensure that he’d never leave the city gates.

“Release Fenrick.”

Responding with a slow nod, Otto straightened in his chair, “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Daenera’s voice was steady, masking the urgency she felt. “When is the wedding to be held?”

Her gaze fleetingly met Aemond’s; he lingered in the shadows of a column, his expression stoic as if hewn from the stone itself–sulking. The brief contact was enough to reignite the familiar heaviness in her chest, and she forced herself to avert her gaze.

“Seven days from now,” Otto declared, standing to signify the end of their discussion.

So, I am back! And I'm working really hard to get things down on paper. I haven't gotten as much done as I wanted because I always underestimate just how long things takes to write lol. That being said, this chapter may be shorter than expected, but I have updated chapter 84 with 6k words for a scene of Aemond with the council. Next chapter will come at the heels of this one: Alicent takes Daenera to the Sept for a 'chat' and let's just say that we get some reminiscing, some cruelty, some threats...

#a vow of blood #hotd #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic

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