Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were afraid he would come to you in your dreams, where he has the upper hand, and weaken your resolve with sexy dream magic.

Because let’s face it, you’re a pretty easy target.

You know you wouldn’t be able to resist him for very long. That doesn’t mean you’re happy about it. Because you don’t want to just forgive him. He doesn’t deserve that yet.

And you weren’t lying when you said you can’t trust him.

To his credit, Morpheus seems to understand this. He doesn’t take advantage of your weak resolve.

He doesn’t come to you in your dreams.

Instead, he decides to annoy you in real life.

You’re at a book signing downtown. Your book, that is. You finished the manuscript ahead of schedule. To be honest, you weren’t looking forward to any public events, as you’re not exactly proud of the drivel you wrote, but Gus insisted you do the whole nine-yards. He had noticed that you have actual fans that would show up to something like this.

And they have. In droves. The small independent bookshop has never seen this many “spirituality” aficionados before. Most of them are here to meet the online persona of “Lady Morpheus”, but you don’t mind if they also buy the book.

Still, you’re a little overwhelmed by the attention, especially since you’re now sporting a significant baby bump which everyone wants to touch. Luckily, you’re sitting behind a wide table that discourages people from approaching.

Many of them seem to think motherhood has made you even more attuned to the astral plane. You hear the words “moon goddess” and “home births” a lot. A couple of soccer moms gush at you about the “wonders” of giving birth in a bathtub and you try not to make a face, because bathtubs have not been a fun time in your recent, otherworldly experience.

But you push aside your cynicism and smile blandly and mysteriously at every single paying customer and ask them what they want you to write in their book.

Your fingers cramp after a while. The faces blur together. The dedications all sound the same. Your temples are throbbing, but you barrel on, ignoring the first pangs of migraine nausea.

Your head is hunched over the blank page.

“Who should I dedicate this to?”

“Lord Morpheus, if it’s not too presumptuous.”

The fog inside your head dissipates at the sound of his deep voice.

It’s like someone opened a window and you’re breathing in the delicious fresh air.

Damn it.

You look up to find him standing there in his winter coat, dark fringe falling in his eyes. Eyeliner intact. You hate how much his stupid presence instantly soothes you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask quietly. There’s a line of people behind him.

He picks up a copy of your book. His long fingers flip through the pages. You can’t help staring at them.

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Now I have.”

You clench your jaw. “That’s nice, but I have other readers to get to, so if you’re not buying a copy –”

He looks up at you. “Lucienne has already secured a copy for my library, but I would like to purchase it, either way. Your book was surprisingly profound.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Surprisingly profound? You do have a way with compliments.”

Dream’s lips twitch. “You know what I meant. You set out to write something perfunctory…but it ended up being far more interesting.”

You look down at the blank page, trying hard not to blush.

He’s watching you intently.

You turn your face up with a fake smile. “Well, thank you. It’s always great to hear from fans.”

You wanted it to sound dismissive and insulting, but instead it sounds like teasing. Morpheus mirrors your smile. He looks a little too satisfied. Like he got you to flirt.

It’s not flirting, you think angrily . It’s the opposite of flirting.

You hand him back the book with your dedication.

“Don’t forget to pay at checkout,” you add breezily, trying to project indifference.

Morpheus bows his head formally and walks away, but you catch him smiling again as he reads the dedication in the book.

Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have written anything.

To Lord Morpheus,

Kindly piss off,

Lady Morpheus

He doesn’t take the hint. He doesn’t piss off.

In fact, he seems to be everywhere. If you’re walking down the street, he’ll be walking across from you.

You often spot his messy thatch of hair weaving through the crowds. Given his altogether grungy look and his too intense stare, people often give him a wide berth.

He never crosses the street to intercept you. He just…ambles along. Following you, but not doing it too closely.

You know he doesn’t exactly enjoy mingling with the masses. So he must be worried about the babies. That’s what it is. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, so you don’t start thinking of his gestures as romantic, because ew.

You almost walk into a signpost one time because you’re too busy watching him get attacked by a small dog.

Morpheus stops and stares at you from across the street. He’s more concerned about the signpost than the little Dachshund who’s yapping at his knee while the owner tries and fails to rein him in.

You do a “thumbs up” to indicate you’re fine. Then you point at his feet. The little dog has begun worrying the hem of his coat with his teeth.

Morpheus looks down with a mild frown. He’s clearly not used to tiny animals slobbering all over his clothes. He bends down and places his hand awkwardly on the dog’s head. The poor Dachshund falls on his side, unconscious.

The owner shrieks in distress. “You killed him!”

You can’t hear what Morpheus is saying to the man, but he’s doing a funny pantomime with his hands to indicate that he’s merely put the dog to sleep. That doesn’t make the owner feel any better.

So Morpheus decides the best course of action is to run. Well, he doesn’t run run. He just starts walking away fast, ignoring the dog owner’s angry cries.

You laugh hysterically for a full minute, holding onto your belly. You can feel the twins kicking.

Sometimes, he does get closer. For instance, he’ll walk into the same shop as you. Often with disastrous results.

He’s browsing the supermarket shelves near you one time, trying to look inconspicuous, even though he’s been staring at the same assortment of avocado face masks for the past ten minutes.

One of the stock personnel - an unsuspecting soul - comes up to him to ask him if he needs help.

Morpheus, apparently, doesn’t know how to say “no, thank you, I’m just browsing” to a retail worker, so the lady takes his awkwardness as an invitation to help a straight man who is lost in the skincare section.

She asks him what kind of mask his “girlfriend” prefers. Morpheus looks a little peaky. He tries to say he doesn’t have a girlfriend, per se, but he gives it away when he stares at you from across the aisles, as if you might help him get out of this conversation somehow.

The stock lady follows his gaze.

“Oh!” She beams at him. “This brand is pregnancy-safe, if that’s your concern.”

Then, because Morpheus still doesn’t stop her, she launches into a spiel about pregnancy care and the kind of products she used while she was pregnant with her baby boy and she doesn’t stop at skin; she mentions hair and diet and essential oils and asks him if he’s ever considered herbal medicine.

Morpheus panics. He puts a hand on her shoulder and blows sand in her face. Like the little Dachshund before, the stock lady falls down unconscious, but Morpheus manages to catch her before she collapses on the floor.

You can’t exactly speed run in your condition, but you rush over in annoyance.

“What the hell? Is this how you handle all interactions?”

Morpheus looks up at you guiltily.

“Don’t answer that,” you say pinching the bridge of your nose. “Well, can you wake her up? There are cameras everywhere. People might think you’re some kind of psychopath.”

“It’ll take a few moments,” he says, placing a hand over the older woman’s forehead.

On cue, a security guard rounds the corner. He doesn’t look pleased.

You quickly switch to “hysterical pregnant lady”.

You clutch at your belly and start blubbering, which isn’t very hard. These days you tend to get emotional over extra-soggy cereals.

“Oh my god, someone help us!” you cry out, letting the tear ducts flow. “She just collapsed right in front of us! I think it was low blood-sugar. I was just telling her about my pregnancy sores, because I’ve been getting this really awful rash all over my lower back, you know the kind where you can’t even sit down anymore, and she was telling me what ointments I could use to make the itching stop…”

You mimic turning around to lift your shirt and show him, but the security guard quickly stops you. He looks scared at the prospect of eyeing your rash. He keeps mumbling “all right, okay, I see”, trying to get you to shut up.

Finally, he tells Morpheus to escort you out.

You elbow Dream when he tries to put his arm around you. Instead, you grab his shoulder forcefully and march out of there with dignity.

You wipe your tears with professional dexterity as you approach the exit.

“What? I’m no amateur,” you say, noticing his prolonged stare.

There’s something curious about his expression. He looks halfway impressed.

You let go of his arm.

“You can’t just put everyone to sleep at the slightest inconvenience, you know. Next time, I won’t jump in to help.”

Morpheus nods solemnly. “Next time, I’ll make sure there are no witnesses.”

You can’t help a snort. You’re not sure how to feel about this side of him. The funny side. The thing is, when Morpheus makes a joke, he also sounds like he means it. It’s kind of unsettling, yet entertaining.

“Weirdo,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“Takes one to know one, the saying goes,” he replies, head bowed, hands shoved in his pockets. He sneaks a fond glance at you and you suppress a smile as you walk away.

You’re watching Totally Spies! on your phone in the waiting room at the doctor’s and thinking about how you probably won’t be able to fit into one of those cute halter-top-skirt combos the girls wear after you give birth, when you happen to look up from your phone and see Morpheus reading a newspaper in a nearby chair.

You nearly jump out of your skin. You have to grip the armrest.

Last time you looked up, that was an older woman reading a newspaper. Now it’s Goth Boy extraordinaire.

You should be used to it by now – him popping up everywhere – but it can still unnerve you, especially when he gives you no warning.

“Jesus, how long have you been sitting there?” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down.

Morpheus lowers the newspaper awkwardly, making it obvious he was not really reading it. “I was hoping you would notice.”

“What are you doing here?”

He tilts his head. “You have an appointment. I decided to wait with you. I was not sure if you’d want me to.”

“So…you decided to give me a small heart attack instead?”

Morpheus’ brow furrows. “I did not mean to startle you. I would have probably stayed silent if you hadn’t noticed me.”

“Like a polite stalker?”

His lips twitch. “Something like that.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, but you can’t go in with me. They’ll be calling my name soon and I cannot explain you to my doctor. Like, please don’t make me do that.”

Morpheus seems strangely unbothered. “Of course. I would not venture that far.”

You don’t know whether to credit his restraint or not. He probably has some supernatural reach inside the OB-GYN’s office if you’re there.

One of the nurses steps into the waiting room and tells you they’re ready for you. Her eyes shift in slight confusion to the man with the dark shock of hair.

You hoist yourself up. You see movement from the corner of your eye. Morpheus has gotten up too with the intention of helping. It’s sweet and annoying. You wave him off.

“I got it. I’m not physically impaired yet. Here.” You hand him your phone. “It’ll keep you busy.”

Maybe if he watches a Canadian animated show about high-school spies he won’t eavesdrop so much.

Morpheus huffs. “I know how to keep myself entertained. I have all the stories ever told by humanity at my disposal –”

“Bet you haven’t seen Totally Spies.”

His mouth puckers. You’ve got him there.

“Be prepared to have opinions on it when I come back,” you mutter tongue-in-cheek.

The Lord of Dreaming looks slightly alarmed at the prospect, but he doesn’t argue with you.

Half an hour later, you come out to find him sitting there, glued to your phone. His brow is wrinkled. He doesn’t even notice you’re standing in front of him.

You have to snap your fingers.

“I gather you’re enjoying the show?”

Dream looks up at you with a troubled expression. “I find the premise quite strange. That older British gentleman keeps teleporting those high school girls straight into his office. He does that a lot. They’re practically at his beck and call.”

You snatch your phone from him. “Sound familiar?”

Morpheus makes a face. “Well…I am not doing that to underage girls.”

“Eww, it’s not like that. Jerry is a sweetheart and a father figure. Plus, the girls like working for him.” You pause. “That came out wrong. What I mean is, they enjoy the missions. They get to solve mysteries, use cool gadgets, wear awesome outfits –”

“Speaking of garments, I watched all 156 episodes just now, and there are at least three where Alex, Sam, and Clover arrive in the older man’s office wearing the equivalent of bathing suits –”

“Hold up, you watched all 6 seasons in half an hour?”

Morpheus shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I absorb stories very quickly. Anything that humanity dreams up, I consume.”

“No kidding…I wish I had that power. My watch queue is endless.”

You say it without thinking.

An awkward silence settles between the two of you.

You could have had this power, once.

You clear your throat. “Well, thanks for ruining Totally Spies for me.”

“Anytime.” His lips flicker. “Are the twins–”

“They’re fine. Growing very normal, considering…well.”

He bows his head. “Yes.”

You eye him warily. “Tell me the truth. Can you, like, sense if the babies are okay? Inside me?”

Morpheus glances sideways. “To a certain extent.”

“And…you’d tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?”

He does you the courtesy of meeting your eye this time. “I will not let anything happen to you or them.”

“That’s not what I asked, though, is it?”

Morpheus got up. “I would tell you. If anything was wrong. But I would also…”

“Yes?”

Someone calls out your name.

The nurse steps into the waiting room, holding out the scarf you’d left in the doctor’s office.

When you turn back around, Morpheus is gone. He just disappeared. Pouf.

You curse under your breath. Evasive little bastard.

The next time he shows up is not a good time. In fact, it’s the worst possible time.

It’s been relatively civil between the two of you. He hasn’t breached any boundaries. He hasn’t tampered with your dreams. He’s just been…around, like a friendly ghost with a tragic past in a Hallmark Christmas special.

And it’s been fine, for the most part.

But now, well – now, you’ve entered the worst stage of your pregnancy.

The horny stage.

The few books you consulted had filled you in on this. Oh God, filled you in? You really have to avoid innuendos. Anyway, lots of pregnant women get randy during these months, because hormones - lots and lots of hormones.

But you seem to be a special case, because you’re carrying Endless babies, which means that your lust feels…endless? Well, it feels pretty bad.

You’ve tried masturbating, but bypassing your girth has become difficult, and when you do manage it, it’s like scratching an itch with a feather. It just seems to make it worse.

You pace your bedroom in agony, feeling like you’re about to burst. Like you’re one of those beaver-made dams that is just one storm away from collapsing.

God, is it possible you’re going into premature labor?

No. You don’t feel any contractions. There’s no actual pain.

It’s more like a gnawing absence.

Your craving for the mediocre penis is embarrassing. You wish it was anything else.

At one point, you stop in front of the mirror and you glare at your belly.

“Why are you guys doing this? What do you want from me??”

Are your babies going to be huge pervs? Is that it?

“I know Mommy has been kind of a slut in the past,” you say, poking your stomach, “but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being tortured like this.” You clear your throat. “Well, maybe I used to enjoy being tortured like this, but it’s really no fun now!”

The twins gleefully kick their little feet against your stomach, ignoring your distress.

In a desperate attempt to get cool, you run a lukewarm bath and you lie in it until your skin prunes. It just makes you hornier.

And then you think about Morpheus. You think about asking for help. No , not like that . Just…some kind of remedy or potion. He can be a soothing presence, when he makes the effort.

You should’ve known better than to think about him in this bathtub.

Suddenly, the bathtub is floating, which bathtubs usually don’t do. Gently churning on a strange, vast ocean of stars…

Maybe you fell asleep. You’re not sure.

Dream’s dark-rimmed eyes blink at you from the stars. He’s asking you a question. But the words don’t really register. Your whole skin vibrates at the sound of his voice.

You close your eyes. Just focusing on the sound of his voice. It warms you from the inside.

But then it fucking booms in your ears.

Morpheus is asking you something. Demanding, in fact.

Rattling the bathtub, like an asshole.

You open your eyes. “What?”

His giant face looms above you. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You squint. “Jesus, could you please shrink?” You grip the rim. “I think I’m gonna be sea-sick.”

His voice is urgent in your ear. “Tell me what you need.”

You groan, putting your head in your hands. “I need you to make me less horny.”

You find yourself back in your bedroom, sitting haphazardly on the edge of your bed in an overlarge T-shirt with the slogan Pizza Slut on the front, still wet from the tub.

The atmosphere is decidedly unsexy as Morpheus stands across the room. His eyes are on the floor.

He’s probably still thinking about your request. I need you to make me less horny.

You heave a sigh. “Look, this doesn’t have to be awkward. You could give me a potion, or some kind of elixir.”

Morpheus winces. He’s still not looking at you. “I could try, but it might…”

He doesn’t have to finish. You instantly realize the problem.

“It might mess with the twins,” you mutter. “Damn it.”

Dream glances up at you for a moment. Then down again. He’s got this strange, evasive look about him. Like there’s something he’d like to say but doesn’t know how. Or if he should.

You glare at him. “Obviously , having sex with each other would be a terrible idea.”

He nods quickly. A little too quickly.

“Of course,” he says in his cool baritone. “But there’s another way you could... expend the excess energy.”

“I’m listening.”

Morpheus looks up at you finally. “You could hit me.”

“What?”

“You could hit me.”

“No, I heard you the first time. But…what?”

“It would help with your…frustrations,” he elaborates. “Violence is another form of release. Sex and violence often go hand in hand in human culture.”

“Thanks for the anthropology lesson, but in that case I could just hit a punching bag. Why does it have to be you?”

Morpheus is undaunted by your sarcasm. “The more meaningful the violence, the better, I have found. You have good reasons for wanting to hurt me. Thus, hurting me might give you a sense of release.”

You raise your eyebrow at him. Are you sure we’re not talking about your release? you think, but do not say. You remember the first time you slapped him. He liked it. It seemed to combine two of his favorite things: punishment and physical intimacy.

And he yearns to be punished by you.

Part of you knows you should resist the temptation of releasing your rage on him, because it feels like a trap. Because the moment you touch him, it might turn into something else.

But another part of you really needs this. And the asshole knows it.

He takes it a step further by kneeling in front of you.

Actually kneeling.

You gulp.

“You could start with my face,” he says, all soft and innocent, looking up at you through dark eyelashes. You almost want to laugh.

But what you really want to do is slap him.

The temptation is too strong.

You inhale. “Tell me when it gets too much.”

His eyes darken with purpose. “It won’t.”

Cocky bastard.

You’d like to wipe that eager expression from his face. You raise your palm and slap him across the cheek. Hard and fast.

It makes his head turn slightly.

The silence afterwards is deafening. And thick with something unnameable.

Morpheus turns his head back to you. His face is perfectly blank, his lips only slightly parted. He betrays nothing as he waits for the second hit.

You slap him again. Just as hard. Then again, before you lose your nerve. A fourth slap comes on the heels of the third. A fifth. A sixth. You stop counting after that.

Your palms are burning. His face is a blur now, being turned left and right with the motion of your hand. His sharp cheekbones dig into your flesh. You hit his mouth too, those full lips that look like dying rosebuds, and you relish in the warmth of it, the hot breath hitting the back of your knuckles, like receiving a bloody kiss.

The more you slap someone, the harder it gets to stop. You’re caught up in the thrill of it. You feel a spike of adrenaline each time he looks at you like that, like he wants more, like it will never be enough, even though his cheeks are flaming red from your blows.

Your breath comes out in angry puffs. You can barely feel your palms anymore, but your whole body is on fire. You can tell he is equally aroused. All it takes is for your hand to linger once. You suddenly feel the impress of his lips against your wrist, moving up your arm, hot and demanding.

From that point on, you’re lost. You grab his face, lifting his head up, meaning to stop him, but instead, you crush your lips hungrily against his. And he – he inhales you. Or it feels like that, anyway, as he groans against your lips and grips the side of your jaw, not letting you come up for air.

The baby bump is a bit of a problem in the midst of your sweaty groping and make-out session. Morpheus has torn the “Pizza Slut” T-Shirt off you with a little too much enthusiasm and he’s now trying to grip all of you to him, but you’re like a blubbery seal, encased in protective pregnancy fat. And your big belly means you have to get creative in terms of positions.

You find his little growl of frustration kind of funny as he tries to maneuver you under him so that he can finally – well – fuck you. It doesn’t sound very nice when you say it like that, but given the current situation, you’ve both dispensed with romance. It’s just a matter of practicality now. How to get him inside you.

After a few bumps and scrapes – “ow, that’s my toe!” - you find yourself kneeling on the carpet because the bed is too tiny and hot. Your knees and elbows scrape against the scratchy fabric. You kind of itch everywhere. Morpheus is somewhere behind you but you can’t crane your neck to look. You’re about to wonder what he is doing when you feel his fingers opening your thighs up further and you sort of seize a little because his thumb brushes against your clit. You’re so wet it’s not even funny. If he makes any smug comments about that, well, you’re going to have to swallow your pride.

But the only thing he says is, “Tell me when it gets too much.”

Throwing your words back at you. The insufferable git.

You’re about to tell him to fuck off, but the words die on your lips as well as any other coherent thought. Because his earlier touches did not prepare you for the sudden, almost brutal way he drives into you, and it is brutal not because he is rough exactly, but because – because – the moment he bottoms out, the moment you feel all of him inside you is like a terrible jolt, like a key sliding into a lock, and there is suddenly this wonderful euphoric relief, as if you’re finally – ugh, how obnoxious – home.

As if all this time you’d been dying of thirst, living on small sips of water, and now you fell headfirst into an endless pool. And endless is the right word, because the Endless magic inside you -inside your twins- feels fed and nourished.

It’s frankly really embarrassing, but you’re almost crying.

No, you’re actually sobbing as he runs his hand coolly down your spine and his fingers knot in your hair. He tugs on it in time with his thrusts, gripping more hair each time, letting it slide between his fingers, then taking it back in his fist. There is something both messy and graceful about his movements as his other hand sinks between your thighs and joins his cock, palming your cunt sloppily, on purpose, as if he were carried away by the moment, but you know he’s actually being very precise, he’s trying to extract something from you and you give it to him with a wail and scream as you gush around his cock and you flood your thighs and the carpet beneath you.

You sob even harder when you feel him bend down and put his mouth on your cunt, drinking from the pool.

You’re still embarrassed afterwards, even though he made some pretty choice sounds when he came inside you.

But you still feel like you were the more vulnerable one. So you hide your face from him as you both lie on the carpet.

Morpheus tries to turn your cheek towards him, but you shake your head.

“Let it be known that you tricked me,” you mutter grumpily. “You took advantage of a pregnant woman.”

His lips twitch. “Apologies. I did not hear you protest at any point.”

“That’s because of the hormones.”

“Ah.”

“So,” you begin, sneaking a glance at him, “ever had sex with a pregnant woman before?”

Morpheus makes a face. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’m me? You should be used to it by now.”

He gives a sigh. “...no, I can’t say I’ve done this before.”

You snort. “Clearly. I think at one point you were ready to give me a C-section just to get past the belly.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Nu-uh. Also, on a scale from 1 to 10, how gross is pregnancy sex? And be honest.”

Morpheus frowns. “It wasn’t at all...gross. It was natural.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay sure. Next you’ll be telling me all mothers are beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” he says fiercely. Almost upset.

“And gross.” You rub your belly. “Two things can be true at the same time.”

Morpheus looks at the movement of your hands. “Could I…?”

You nod your head. His cool hand comes to rest on the swell of your belly and you feel that wonderful jolt of recognition again. Your skin practically vibrates at his delicate touch. He gently strokes the bump. You feel it pulsing and kicking. The twins are certainly very happy.

Morpheus’ face is slack and a little awed.

You soak it up for a few more minutes before you decide to bite the bullet.

“All right...you’ve never done this before, but you have had other children, haven’t you?”

Dream’s hand stills on your belly. “Where is this coming from?”

“The Fates. They said I should ‘beware the father’. I think – I think they meant you.”

His face darkens. It only grows more beautiful in anger and sorrow.

“Did they.”

It’s not a question. In his voice you can hear the threat. He is going to have words with them for this.

But you are not going to be turned away this time. “They mentioned Orpheus to me.”

Morpheus removes his hand from you.

The warmth is fading, like dying embers in the snow.

“I looked up the many stories and myths connected to him,” you continue, determined to go down with this ship. “But I couldn’t find a reference to you.”

He is still looking at you, but his eyes are far away, looking inward, into a place hidden from sight.

You swallow. “Is he – is he your son?”

Morpheus gives the smallest nod. “He was.”

Was.

Foolishly, you reach out for his hand. “I’m sorry. You must still mourn him -”

Dream yanks his hand away. A cold, ugly laugh tumbles from his lips like poison. It prickles your skin.

“You have no idea how he died.”

You frown. “He was...torn apart by the followers of Dionysus, wasn’t he?”

His smile is strange, almost cruel. “That was not his true end.”

You cradle your belly, sensing danger. “Then what was it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“I don’t want you to know.”

“Why not?”

His eyes focus on you again. They are immeasurably sad. “Because once you do, you will never forget it.”

“I want to know. I need to know.”

“It is too awful -”

“So what if it is? It’s a part of you. I am carrying your children. I have a right to know. Do you think I’m that easily scared?”

He shakes his head. “You could never look at me again -”

“You’re the one who ran from me, Morpheus,” you protest. “You’re the one who cast me out. Without giving me a chance to know and decide for myself if you are unlovable.”

Dream lowers his head in shame. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Don’t you see? You will lose me if you don’t let me in.” You lift his chin. “If you show me what happened and I turn away, then I am not worthy of your love either.”

He wants to contradict you, but you place your fingers over his lips. “Please. You said you trust me now. So prove it. Show me everything. The good and the bad.”

Warring thoughts flit across his face. You’re asking him to take a huge risk.

But you have taken so many risks for him.

He nods, although it makes his heart heavy. “Very well.”

He takes your hand and places it over his heart. And then, he blows sand in your eyes and you fall asleep.

You wake inside a dream. You know it’s a dream because you’ve become accustomed to the difference between worlds.

Besides, this isn’t your small apartment anymore.

You’re standing in the grand foyer of what looks like a country manor. The house is cavernous and intimidating. You don’t like the dark wooden paneling and the elaborate arches and cornices. You shudder at the stuffed owls in glass cases. The sound of quiet ticking coming from the musty grandfather clocks unsettles you, as do the dusty, creaking cabinets. This house feels more like a stately museum than a residence. A haunted museum, if one were to be precise.

Why would Morpheus have brought you here?

You can smell dream magic in the air. It’s swirling all around you. A strand of it, however, tugs on your wrist, almost as if to guide you.

You let it lead you forward as you pass down a corridor and into a parlor.

Even though this is a dream, you hope you’re not going to run into any butler or housekeeper, seeing as you’re still naked and very pregnant.

The more you explore the house, however, the worse you feel. A chill seeps into your bones with each step, as if you’d been out in the rain for too long. You find an old housecoat draped across the back of a chair and you shrug it on, thinking to ward off the cold, but it doesn’t improve things much.

There is a deep sense of longing and loneliness in every object, in every shadow. Almost as if the house were asking you to stay, at least for a while.

At length, you reach the end of a corridor and find yourself in front of a half-open door that buzzes with magic. It leads down a flight of stone steps into some kind of basement.

The horrible dread inside of you only intensifies, but you know you are close to something. Something that you’re supposed to see.

You climb down slowly.

At first, the giant ornate glass orb makes you wonder if you’ve stumbled upon the laboratory of some kind of mad scientist, or if this is the meeting place for an obscure cult.

But as you draw closer, you notice, much to your horror, that there’s someone inside the glass contraption. A stick-thin figure whose shock of dark hair is unmistakable.

You gasp out loud.

The Lord of Dreaming stares back at you through thick glass.

He sits cross-legged in the middle of the sphere, naked and alone. Everything about him is sharp and angular – not a shred of excess fat – only hard muscles and painfully gaunt cheeks.

His beauty is striking, otherworldly, and terrifying.

You rush towards him.

There are strange runes and symbols drawn around his glass cage that you smudge with your foot.

You touch the glass with concern. “Morpheus. What the hell is this?”

“This... was my prison and home for nearly a century.”

His voice is a silky, feeble rasp.

You gape at him. “A century. As in...a hundred years?”

He nods. “Thereabouts.”

Death had mentioned something about him being imprisoned once, but you had pictured something much more abstract.

“You...no, I’m sorry. You sat here, in this cage, for a hundred years? Who did this to you?”

“It does not matter anymore. He was a proud and foolish man. And he had lackeys and money to spare.”

“And he kept you here all this time? You were never let out?”

Morpheus looks down. His skin is almost translucent. There are violet circles under his eyes.

“Never. I sat and brooded and waited.”

You shake your head. “But...but what about your servants? Why didn’t they come to rescue you?”

A small flinch makes his shoulders twitch. “They tried. One of them died in the effort.”

“Oh...that’s awful. Your siblings then. They could have intervened -”

“I did not ask my siblings for help.”

“So? You don’t have to ask them. That’s what family does.”

Dream gives you a bitter smile. “In this family, you must ask.”

You realize you’re angry. You’re angry on his behalf but also at him. “That’s bullshit. Someone should have come for you. And you should’ve asked for help.”

He nods wearily. “Death said the same thing. She said I should’ve asked her to come...but you see, the small-minded man who trapped me in this cage was looking for her. He wanted to bring back his son from the dead.”

You put two and two together. “You...wanted to protect her. In case she got captured too.”

Morpheus shrugs. “Or perhaps I was too proud. She mentioned that too. I suppose I wanted to devise my own escape. I couldn’t fathom the idea that some witless mortals could best me. I thought I could do it on my own.”

You heave a sigh. “And you kept thinking that for a hundred years?”

He looks blankly at you. The patience of immortal beings is nothing you can understand.

Still, his stubbornness couldn’t have made this hell any easier.

“I can’t imagine being trapped for such a long time. I’m so sorry.”

You reach out and touch the glass again. His fingers lift and tap against yours briefly.

“I wish I’d known you were here…” you go on. Your brow darkens. “I would’ve killed these assholes.”

His mouth sketches a small smile. “Then I am glad you did not know. I wouldn’t have wanted you to come across them or their ilk.”

“But what about the Dream World?” you ask, chewing on your lower lip. “Was there no way to get back to it?”

He shakes his head. “The runes drawn around my prison are very strong. This circle could not be broken, even by me. I escaped thanks to mere chance. A small opening, really, that allowed me to use my powers. But for one hundred years, the Dreaming was dead or dying. Some people never woke from their dreams, and others never dreamed, or if they did, were in the grip of awful nightmares.”

“I guess that explains a lot about the twentieth-century,” you mutter under your breath.

“This was the worst part of my imprisonment. Many mortals suffered because of it. Because of one man’s greed and ambition.”

You mull over his words for a while.

“So…” you begin, staring down at your hands in your laps. So many things make sense now. “No wonder you have trust issues. I would too if human beings held me captive for over a century. In fact, I wouldn’t want to do anything with them anymore.”

Morpheus leans his chin against his arm. “I tried to remember that not all humans are morally and spiritually depraved. But…”

“But it was difficult, for a while, to remember?”

He gives a reluctant nod and you can see the depth of the Dreaming in his eyes, the myriad of worlds contained inside him, and how they all languished for decades in this glass tomb.

You shake your head. “It’s a wonder you gave me a chance. I’m not exactly humanity’s best export.”

Morpheus’ gaze softens. “I think that’s what I liked about you, at first. How unapologetic you were about your faults. But then...when I got to know you better, you turned out to be far more kind and good than many of your more virtuous-seeming brethren.”

You give him a small smile. “I think you’re highly overestimating my capacity for good, but thank you.”

“No. I may be wrong about many things,” he says in that frayed, otherworldly lilt. “But I am right about this.”

You suddenly want to lunge through the glass and hug him. And you realize there’s nothing stopping you, because this is a dream.

That’s what dreams are for. In dreams, distances do not really exist.

You lean forward and you imagine that your hand can go through the glass.

You reach out shyly. And for a moment, it works. Your hand goes through.

But Morpheus seizes your wrist before you can actually touch him.

His eyes have turned a lusterless black. He shakes his head. His voice is no longer soft or tender.

“No. Not yet. Not before you hear the rest. You said you wanted to know.”

The iciness in his tone cuts like a knife. But you understand what he means.

You nod and withdraw your hand. You sit down in front of the glass case and you wait. You pull the housecoat tighter around you, even though it doesn’t really protect you.

Morpheus exhales and his breath turns into a small, nebulous cloud which shifts and morphs into what looks like a man’s head.

“Yes, I once had a son called Orpheus whose song could make the very stones weep. He was born out of my love for Calliope, the muse of eloquence and poetry. He took the best of each and made it sing.”

His melodic voice and delicately-spun words weave a kind of enchantment. You push aside the petty jealousy at the mention of this other lover. You do not care in the moment. You just want to know more.

Morpheus unravels his son’s life in beautiful verse, and for a while you are lulled into the rhythm of myth: you hear again the familiar stories about Orpheus and his lyrical exploits, only now in more concrete, knowledgeable detail. Orpheus’ descent into the underworld seems, from Morpheus’ perspective, not only a romantic gesture to recover his wife, but also desire to defy his father. You get the feeling that Orpheus resented being named after his father and having to live in his shadow, having to relinquish himself to dreams which he then turned to song. And so, he tried to push the envelope further, to distinguish himself from his progenitors and surpass the power of dream. He offended the gods with his drive towards perfection. He was heedless in his preference for Apollo, for the cold light of that first sun. Like an Icarus who was convinced he would not fall.

And then Morpheus relates to you the manner of his first death, the death you were familiar with. His son was torn apart for his pride by the followers of Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry, the carnal opposite of Apollo. Yet he survived this. Or rather, all that was left of him was his head which Death preserved, at the behest of Hades, god of the underworld, who still wanted to hear Orpheus sing.

“I could not exert my will in the underworld,” he explains. “My son’s head was out of reach. It took centuries to recover it… I had to use intermediaries. My servants finally brought him to an island to worship and care for him there. When I saw him again, my son asked a favor of me.”

Morpheus pauses. His face looks like a slab of uncut marble, unyielding, lifeless. And then he tells you what his son asked. You felt it was coming, but it still makes you start.

“His torment was great,” Dream continues sedately. “He asked me to end it. So I did.”

So I did. It it the simplest and hardest thing in the world.

Morpheus had killed his son.

But you refuse to see it in such stark terms.

“You did it out of love,” you mumble haltingly.

Morpheus’ gaze is severe. “Calling it love will not absolve me. Nor do I think it was as simple as that.”

The anger in his voice is not really directed at you, and you understand. It’s the only way he can live with himself.

“You’re right,” you say, “but it’s clear you haven’t forgiven yourself. You carry this with you, and you always will. Maybe it’s not love, but it’s something.”

You know you will not be convincing him anytime soon, but your words still feel vital. Like a candle’s flame in the solid dark. Someone must recognize what he has done and why he has done it.

Morpheus furrows his brows, obstinately looking down, avoiding your gaze.

“That is why the Three tried to hide you from me. That is why they told you to beware the father. They feared I would commit patricide again.”

You shake your head. “But why – why would they think that? This is hardly the same situation.”

Morpheus lifts his head. His gaze, this time, is perfectly resolved and resolute.

“Because they know. They know that if something were to happen to you, I would kill the children to save you.”

It takes your breath away. It knocks it out of your chest. As if whatever people call a soul is suddenly outside you.

Your lips part. “You...”

“I would murder my own blood,” he says, leaving no room for ambiguity. “I would destroy the children and suffer the wrath of my mother and father if it meant you would live. And I would not regret it.”

You resist the urge to cradle your belly. You resist the urge to look away.

You hold his gaze and you let the rush of emotions flood your face.

“Now you know,” he says quietly, definitively.

Nothing about his words can be diminished. You cannot excuse it or misinterpret it. It is there, in front of you, the thing he is willing to do. The thing he is willing to be.

His love is monstrous and unthinkable. And yet you think it. You inhabit it.

You exhale slowly.

He is expecting you to turn away. To reject this mad promise.

And you do. You reject the possibility of tragedy. But you do not reject him.

You sit there, breathing quietly, staring at him.

Something wild and hopeful carries you forward.

You raise yourself slightly and you reach out again. Your hand goes through the glass.

Morpheus sits very still. Your fingers ghost over the fringe falling in his eyes. You pull the locks away. You touch his cold yet feverish forehead.

“Could you give me a hand?” you ask, nodding towards the glass.

Dream hesitates. He looks at you as if he doesn’t fully understand.

“I’d do it myself,” you say, “but I don’t want to slip and crush you under baby weight.”

Your off-hand humor clashes with the sober atmosphere, yet it seems to belong here too, like all things, good or bad.

Morpheus’ eyes are wide and innocent. He takes your hand in his. He cradles it, as if it were precious. Then he takes your other hand. His long fingers wrap around your arms and gently tug. You take a step towards him and he moves aside, helping you climb inside the glass egg.

The cage is too small for two. It was too small for him to begin with, but your girth makes it near impossible. You are pressed against each other, coiled like twins in a womb. The only thing to do is to embrace, make yourselves smaller.

You wrap your arms around him. Dream buries his head in your chest.

You hold him tight, running your hand through his hair.

He doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t weep. But you feel his shoulders give in.

His body trembles under your touch.

You feel like a mother. Almost like you are taking him in the womb too. Giving him peace and safety. A momentary reprieve.

“I’m sorry,” you say at length.

His voice rasps lovingly in your ear. Whatever could you be sorry for?

As if he finds you blameless.

But there are many things you’re sorry for. Still, you settle for the thing you want to tell him first.

“I once asked you to be a human being. As if that were the standard for goodness and decency. But it’s not. I don’t need you to be human. I just need you.”

You are no Calliope. You do not have a hold over poetry or eloquence. But this bare string of words runs deeper than a declaration of love.

It’s probably inscribed somewhere in the substance of all things. The most basic impulse, desire, and feeling. I need you.

He lifts his head to look at you.

His eyes shine with unshed stars – tear-stained galaxies of worlds where people live and dream and die. He looks at you as if you were the reason for those stars and galaxies.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against yours.

The tenderness of it would make you weep.

But you both close your eyes at the same time, foregoing tears.

Savoring what remains of the dream.

Waking up is difficult. You groan like a beached whale, struggling to untangle yourself from the nets. But they’re not nets, they’re just your sweaty sheets.

You sit up with another oceanic groan. There’s a bad crick in your neck and a satisfying soreness between your legs from the night before.

Your belly feels enormous, somehow bigger than yesterday.

You stare at the sunlight pouring through the slats in your blinds.

You’re alone, but you don’t feel lonely. You are a little misty-eyed, but you don’t feel sad either.

It’s hard to say what you feel.

You both need time to process what happened in the dream.

But what you really want right now – call it a weird pregnancy craving – is to walk out in the sun. You want fresh air and sunshine. You want to feel the grass beneath your toes.

You’re suddenly filled with youthful energy. You take what is for you a quick shower, given your state. You put on a loose dress and a jacket that has been stretched proverbially thin, and you walk out of the apartment with a new spring in your step.

At least you don’t want to eat the grass, which happens most days.

You’re a little relieved you don’t feel that urge again as you sit yourself on a bench in front of the scenic park lake.

You can see ducklings following their mama duck across the water. The air is shimmery with bugs’ wings. It looks rosy-gold with the advent of spring. You sneeze. Oh right. Pollen.

You watch two old men play checkers at a table in the distance. From time to time, one of them slaps the stone slab with an angry sigh. A grandmother is tying her small nephew’s shoelaces, half-kneeling and stooping in the middle of the alley. You want to go to her, but you know you wouldn’t be of much help. The nephew eventually pushes her hands away and shows her how it’s done. The old woman coos and pretends to be impressed. Young mothers stroll past you with trams that reveal only their babies’ pink noses. One of them gives you an encouraging smile, staring at your belly. As if to say, You’re next.

You panic a little. Then you snort, picturing taking your Endless babies out for a stroll.

That would be a riot.

“May I sit next to you?”

You look up, startled. The sun is in your eyes. The young woman standing before you slowly comes into focus.

You can’t help giving her a once-over. She’s gorgeous. Probably one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever laid eyes on. Her dark skin looks and smells like freshly roasted coffee. Her cloud of curls reminds you of a crown. She’s wearing a rich turquoise dress.

You nod with a smile. “Sure. Sorry, I’ve taken up most of the bench.”

“That is all right,” she replies with a similarly friendly smile.

She takes the seat next to you. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you agree, glancing at her poised profile. She is looking at the green world like you were a moment before. Just enjoying its existence.

She glances down at your belly. “Congratulations. You must be excited.”

There’s something halting and formal about her words, but she sounds earnest.

“Um, thanks. I’m kind of overwhelmed, to be honest.”

“That is natural. When are you due? If you do not mind me asking.”

You think about it for a moment. “Technically, I’m two months away from the big event, but er…” How to explain that you can’t know for sure given that you’re going to give birth to otherworldly beings?

“You can never be sure when the Endless are involved,” she finishes for you. “I know.”

You blink and push your head back like an owl who’s woken up in the middle of the day.

“Um...sorry?”

The woman smiles. She lowers her chin. “I did not mean to alarm you. I only came to meet you. And thank you.”

“Thank me?”

She nods. “Kai’ckul has forgiven me. And it is thanks to you.”

You stare at her. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to figure it out. But she’s patient. She waits in silence for you to put two and two together.

Your eyes widen in awe. “You...you’re Nada.”

Her smile brightens. “It is good to hear that name again in the land of the living.”

You can’t believe it. You gape.

Then you take her hand in yours, as if to verify the solidity of her flesh. “Oh my God. He released you.”

“He did.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Neither could I, at first.”

You grin. “He stopped being a stupid ass, for once. I hope he apologized. And grovelled.”

Nada giggles. It is the loveliest sound in the world.

“You are funny. But yes, he did apologize.”

“And you made him sweat a little, yes?”

Nada shakes her head with a laugh. “Honestly, I was just glad to leave hell.”

“Oh, I hear that. Don’t worry. I’ll tell him he needs to apologize at least five more times. And grant you a hundred wishes. Make that infinite wishes.”

You realize you’re rambling, but your chest hurts with the sudden relief and happiness her presence has brought you.

Nada squeezes your hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You really don’t have to. I didn’t do anything.”

“But you did. I would like to buy you …a drink? I hear that’s the custom around here.”

You laugh. “All right. I’d actually love to have a non-alcoholic drink with you.”

Nada’s money turns out to be some ancient coins that would probably be worth millions in a museum, but are unfortunately not legitimate in a coffee shop, so you pay for both your teas.

“I must ask the raven for some real money,” Nada muses as you hand her a steaming mug.

“You mean Matthew? He’ll catch you up with the modern world in no time. Don’t hesitate to ask him for things. You should get whatever you want. You deserve to be pampered. You can stay at my place until you’re settled. I’ll ask Morpheus to find you a luxury suite. Oh, or maybe you’d like to travel.”

Nada gives you a beautiful smile. “Yes. I have stayed in one place long enough... I think some exploring would do me good.”

You sit down opposite her. This feels so normal and natural. Like you’re old pals. Like she hasn’t been held captive for millennia.

You shake your head in wonder. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’m so glad.”

You squeeze hands across the table.

“I am very happy too. And I am happy for you and Kai’ckul.”

“Hah. I would still be pissed at him, but you’re a bigger person than me.”

Nada cocks her head. “I suppose... I came to realize that I need to forgive him too, to be free of him.”

“That is very beautiful. But just so you know, you are absolutely entitled to be petty about this until the end of time.”

Nada giggles again. “You are delightful. Kai’ckul was right.”

“He said I’m delightful?”

“He said you made forgiving me easy. That you make everything easy.”

You blush a little. “Huh. Well, from where I’m standing, you did nothing wrong, so he should’ve had no problem forgiving you, because there is nothing to forgive. But thank you.”

Her face clouds momentarily. “Oh, but there is. I took my own life. His pain was unimaginable. And then I rejected him, even in death. That must have stung.”

You mull over her words. “You may have hurt him, but this isn’t about him. This is your life. And these are your choices. He doesn’t get to dictate that. In the words of Christina Yang, he is very dreamy. But he’s not the sun. You are.”

Nada raises both eyebrows. “That sounds very inspired.”

You nod. “It is. It’s from Grey’s Anatomy. You will probably get to it at some point. TV will seriously rot your brain.”

Nada chuckles. “Then, I am looking forward to this...TV.”

You clink tea mugs in a sisterly toast.

Your face hurts from smiling.

You spend more than four hours talking with Nada, swapping tidbits about a variety of subjects, ranging from ancient civilizations and shape-shifting (Nada can apparently turn into a gazelle at will), to modern underwear and rush hour traffic (Nada thinks “cars” look like death traps on wheels, and you do not correct her, because yeah).

You offer to hang out at your place that evening, but she politely refuses you. And you understand. The girl has just left hell. She doesn’t want to be cooped up with a pregnant lady and a rerun of Blackadder, no matter how enticing you make that sound.

But you promise to stay in touch through Matthew until Nada gets a cellphone and an internet connection.

You watch her weave through the crowds as she walks away. She looks like she’s floating, like she could lift herself up and fly. You hum a song under your breath. She comes in colors everywhere, she combs her hair, she’s like a rainbow...

You walk back towards the park. So much has changed and yet so much is the same.

The ducklings are still following their mother across the ringed surface of the lake. Old men are still playing checkers and losing. Grandmothers are still trying to tie their grand kids’ shoes. Mothers are still anxiously pushing trams. But there are a few more people now. It’s late afternoon and the park is slowly filling up.

You try to find a quiet spot to sit and reflect on what has happened.

You’re feeling kind of tired and light-headed. Meeting Nada has exhausted you, even though you’re still buzzing with euphoria.

You stumble across an empty clearing between the trees that you don’t remember ever passing before. It looks wilder than the rest of the park, and more beautiful for it.

And then you see him in the distance.

He’s standing with his back to you.

You almost want to roll your eyes. Of course he’d prepare this sort of dramatic entrance. But you can’t deny he’s done a very good thing. And that you really want to kiss him.

You don’t want it to be a “reward”, because he should have done this anyway, but maybe he deserves a quick peck.

You walk towards him with that thought in mind, already preparing a well-timed retort.

But the closer you get, the further away he seems, like a frustrating optical illusion.

In the burnished afternoon light, his dark hair looks…almost golden. You suddenly realize something is terribly wrong. The air on your skin is chill and fraught. Night is falling quickly.

The dark figure standing in the distance turns towards you.

The wrongness only amplifies. This isn’t Morpheus. It never was. You don’t understand how you could’ve made the mistake.

The tall woman standing in front of you – if she is a woman – is wearing fitted black armor, but she has bright and plump angelic features, topped by a halo of blond hair, like a reincarnation of Joan of Arc.

Something about her is deeply terrifying.

Especially since she’s beaming at you.

“Ah. Lady Morpheus. Just the soul I was looking for.”

You see dark wings sprouting behind her.

Oh shit.

You take a step back. “Um, you don’t happen to be a very dedicated Mormon, do you?”

Her lips flicker.“Funny.”

“Can I ask…who you are and what you want with me?”

The woman’s eyes darken with intent. “Oh, I thought it was obvious. Much like nature, hell abhors a vacuum.”

You’re shaking. A moment later you realize it’s not just you. The ground beneath your feet is shaking too. The earth gives a strange, almost human groan. And then you see it open like a mouth.

There’s nothing to do but fall into it.

The dark crater swallows you whole.

The last thing you see is the woman’s face, smiling angelically above you.