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weasleyreidstyles · 3 months

Text

Serendipity

chapter fourteen

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. all characters are aged up to be over 18.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

warning(s): slightly suggestive, canonical violence, heavy mentions of blood/injuries, angst with some fluff at the end

series masterlist; previous part; next part

Hermione Granger was coined the smartest witch of her age for many reasons. Although brave and courageous at heart, she was wise and ambitious to the very marrow of her bones. It's how she noticed your changing affections for Mattheo Riddle, perhaps even before you did.

It started no earlier than October, when you no longer complained about your desk partner in Ancient Runes; when you'd meet up with her after the tutor sessions with bright eyes and a genuine smile, which she had not seen since the weeks leading up to the Department of Mysteries battle last summer. She knew what Riddle was like, but seeing the spark reignite in your soul began to change her perspective of him. Maybe he was inherently good after all.

When Harry told her and Ron what he had discovered about the two of you, she wasn't even a little surprised, but she was surprised that Ginny, too, was not in the least bit affected by the revelation. She watched in forlorn silence as Harry singlehandedly cut you off from them, despite everything you had done for him; everything you'd sacrificed. She had spent many nights berating him in the common room with tears in her eyes.

You were her very first friend at Hogwarts. You'd met on platform nine and three quarters in your first year and exclaimed that you absolutely adored the celebrity on the cover of the magazine she happened to be browsing through. Hermione had thought you were a muggleborn like her and was disappointed when you said you weren't. But she was elated to hear that your mother was just like her. You spent the entire trainride chatting about muggle affairs and your favourite books, and had both gotten up to help Neville find his toad which is how you met Ron and Harry.

You were the person she turned to when Ron first took to being a horrid nuisance to her. You were the person she went to for help finding out about Nicholas Flemmel and the Philosopher's stone. You were the person who wrote double the amount of notes in second year, while she was petrified, just so that she could have knowledge of all the things she'd missed out on in her absence. You were the one to subject yourself to Bellatrix Lestrange's cruciatus curse so that someone could help Harry fight of half a dozen Death Eaters by the arch in the strange room in the Department of Mysteries.

You were her sister and her best friend.

And she felt completely undeserving of all those years of sisterhood as she watched you traipse around the castle like a ghost for days, after the argument with Ron transpired outside the Hospital Wing.

She had slapped him so hard when they'd gotten far enough away from the sounds of your heart wrenching sobs. The sound had echoed so loudly through each of their ears, and she did not care about how Ginny had gasped in shock horror at her action. Or the way Harry flinched as Ron cradled his reddening cheek. It was well and truly deserved.

She did not speak to Harry or Ron for two weeks. Now she only offered vague, one-worded answers to their incessant questions. They acted as if they had done nothing wrong. It infuriated her.

Hermione wanted to find you and apologise profusely. As did Ginny. But each time they got the nerve to find you, you were surrounded by a guard of snakes. The Slytherin boys were extremely protective of you and it seemed that Mattheo no longer cared for secrecy; openly showing that you were his for all the world to see, though subtly enough that only those with keen eyes saw. Hermione saw.

You looked happier with them than you had ever been with any of your old friends. Hermione often wondered if you were meant to find them; wondered if she, Ron and Harry had been holding you back from your true potential.

She admired you. She loved you. She had to make this right.

She cornered you after an Ancient Runes lesson. A ballsy move, considering Mattheo, Theo and Pansy formed a protective wall of imposing doom behind you, like fallen angels promising retribution. She steeled her gaze, looked between all three of them, shot the true intentions of why she was doing this to their minds – she knew they were digging through her thoughts by the pin pricks in the back of her head. But not from you, never from you, although she would never hate you if you did.

"What do you want, Granger?" It's Pansy who speaks up first, her voice dark and promising unspeakable terror, if Hermione so much as said one thing out of line. She watches as you reach for the hand that softly brushes against your own and grip it with all your might; Mattheo's hand.

"I wanted to speak to you." she says directly to you. "Alone, if possible."

She can see the way Mattheo is about to rebute this.

"If not that's completely fine." its rushed and laced with desperation and you can see the emotions clouding your ex-best friend's face. The guilt and the longing. You want to hear her out.

You squeeze Mattheo's hand once before letting go and speaking to them all, without opening your mouth.

I want to hear what she has to say. You guys go ahead, I'll find you later.

Pansy's look of uncertainty is remedied by your insistence that you'd be fine, and Theo is a little reluctant but follows behind her. Mattheo is a silent and imposing statue of simmering rage at your side. And by the uncomfortable look on Hermione's face, you know he's in her head.

If she comes back crying, believe me when I say that you will regret it Granger. And if this is a farce to satisfy Potter's cruelty, he will pay for it too.

"Harry doesn't know I'm here. Neither does Ron. Ginny should be outside, she wants to talk too. I-if that's alright?"

"It's fine." your voice is softer than she's ever heard. Like you're wholly unsure if you can trust her word. It's a foreign and devastating feeling. And she hates it.

Mattheo's hand brushes your's before he reaches up and squeezes your waist affectionately, departing after Theo and Pansy moments later.

The classroom is blissfully empty. Now it's just you and Hermione, alone. The silence is tense and awkward as you each wait for Ginny to walk through the door.

She arrives moments after Mattheo's departure, steps slow and hesitant. But as she sees the two of you she releases a heavy sigh of relief and launches herself at you.

She's hugging you so tightly. Squeezing and squeezing until your arms, which are limp at your sides, instinctively wrap around her frame. She's mumbling apologies into the neck of your blue and bronze lined robe, body racking with subtle sobs, that you mirror as you melt into her embrace. Hermione joins you both after a moment and the three of you sink to the floor, twin tears streaking down your faces, apologies and words of love and hope echoing off the walls of the classroom.

Eventually the hug ends and the three of you are sat in a small circle between the desks, voices low and quiet as you listen to what the other has to say, all the while, Mattheo is a welcome presence in your mind, offering infinite reassurances as your heart races in your chest.

Hermione tells you how Harry and Ron seem like totally different people now. How she slapped Ron and did not utter a singular word to Harry until he apologised to her.

"Look I'm sorry, alright." he said one evening in the common room as she was researching for an upcoming essay. "Please talk to me, Mione."

"I'm not the one you should be apologising to." she mutters, not taking her eye off the words on the page. Harry scoffs as he sits down. "If you're going to bad mouth my best friend then go and find Ron. I don't want to hear what you have to say."

He rolls his eyes before he stands up and walks away.

Ginny feels terrible. She hadn't known it was you and Mattheo in the corridor until she heard his distinct low and raspy voice, too late. She wasn't quick enough in deterring Harry away from the space and she regrets it immensely. And the look on your face after Ron had shouted at you plays repetitively on her mind at all hours of the day.

Guilt errodes at your souls and all three of you feel the weight of it like you're being held beneath the surface of a very deep lake.

When the two of them finish explaining themselves, you inhale harshly before letting out a calming breathe.

"I can't say that your actions didn't hurt. Because then I'd be lying." you say, voice clouded in emotion. "I have been outcasted by everyone I thought I could call a friend. Even my own housemates don't speak to me. You didn't do anything to stop that, which really hurts."

There's a lump in your throat that continues to strain with every word you utter, eyes burn with the onslaught of more salty tears.

"I know that you don't trust them. And you have every reason not to. I understand that. But they have been here for me, when the two of you weren't. They've shown me what it means to be surrounded by kindness and safety and I love them all equally, no matter what has been said and done in the past. Yes they work for you-know-who. But they had no choice. You know who their families are, hell we fought most of them in June. They've been forced into this and I just want to get them out."

Ginny reaches over to squeeze your hand. You let her.

"I-" she pauses and looks at Hermione, who reaches over for your other hand. "We want to help you. In any way we can. We'll help you appeal to Dumbledore-"

"He already refused my plea for help." you say with a grimace.

Hermione gapes. "B-but he always says that-"

"-Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask." you say at the same time as she does. "Yes he said as much, and then followed with saying that they don't deserve to be helped."

"That's completely unfair." Ginny mutters. "If you were asking for anyone else he'd help in a heartbeat."

Hermione mumbles her agreement, face painted in complete disbelief at your revelation. She always believed that Dumbledore was a good and just man, but maybe she was wrong.

"We'll appeal to the Order." Ginny says. "Tonks' mum was in you-know-who's clutches when she went to the Order for help. And now she's effectively protected for life."

It's a good idea. It may work. But you have your doubts. The current members of the Order held their own prejudices, much like Voldemort's Death Eaters did.

"Tell your friends about the idea. Tell them that we'll try." Hermione says earnestly. "Nothing will ever justify our behaviour towards you, but let us make it right. Please. It's the least we can do for how badly we treated you."

What are they saying right now? Mattheo asks you, voice painted with curiousity.

They're going to help me keep you all safe.

And how, pray tell, will they achieve that? Mattheo sounds like he adamantly does not believe your words.

They have a way but I'm honestly not getting my hopes up until its more of a solid plan.

Okay, I trust you. How do you feel, love? His voice is a soft caress to all the corners of your mind. It's like he can feel the anxiety rolling off of you in waves.

I've got mixed feelings. I want to believe that they truely do mean what they're saying, but actions speak louder than words.

Even though you say that, Mattheo already knows that you'll forgive them. He may not agree with it because, in his opinion, they do not deserve your forgiveness, but he understands that you'd been akin to sisters for years before his family welcomed you into their circle with open arms. Of course you'd forgive them eventually; it doesn't mean that any of your found family would, though.

Hermione and Ginny watch as your eyes glaze over. It's obvious that you're talking mind to mind with Mattheo by the way your face heats with a blush and your face is alight with a soft, yet dazzling smile.

The three of you had once gossiped, in the cosy confines of the younger girl's bedroom, that Ginny's oldest twin brother was the perfect guy for you, but judging by your expression, they knew it then and there......Mattheo Riddle was your soulmate and you were completely and irrevocably in love with him.

An hour later, the three of you were sat under the shade of a willow tree that overlooked one of the beaches separating the Black Lake from the main courtyard.

It was as if there was never a blip in your friendship. Like old times. It felt normal. But there was an underlying feeling that everything was different at the same time. And the three of you had wordlessly accepted that fact.

"He needs to get rid of that stupid book." Hermione mutters dismally as you watch Harry and Ron stroll by, not sparing any of you a glance as they stare down at the battered Potions book in the former's hand.

"Still jealous that he's gotten better at potions than you? You're not top of the class anymore." You tease and she throws you a playful glare.

"Nevermind that. It's insidious." she says. "Just the other day he was asking if I'd heard of some kind of spell that was, quote on quote: 'for enemies'. It's completely ridiculous."

"I can't say that I disagree with you Mione." Ginny says grimly. "I overheard him telling Ron that he really wanted to test it out."

She shivers as if a blanket of cold was just thrust upon her. You're left bewildered. Harry seemed like a wholly different person and you didn't know what to make of it.

~∞~

A week later, you'd come to terms with the new state of your friendship with Hermione and Ginny; your Slytherin friends were weary at first when you told them of their plan to involve the Order, but it was Theo and Blaise who agreed tentatively to hear them out.

You tried to build a bridge between your two opposing groups, and it worked somewhat: Hermione had bonded well with Theo and Ginny found a kinship in Pansy's fierce spirit as well as Enzo's witty humour. Even Luna, who had accompanied Ginny one day to see you, had found solace in Blaise's quiet and calm nature.

Draco was the most alert by your insistence of them all speaking – he was weary that Hermione did not like nor trust him and she was uneasy around the boy who had called her unsavoury names for years. But even Hermione could see how worn down and tired Draco looked, and cut him some slack.

After another drooling day of school, you were lying in Mattheo's bed, clad in nothing but one of his dark tshirts as you lied against his chest, breathing in his alluring scent of cedar, musk and smoke. After completing your homework together, the two of you had nothing better to do than laze about, sharing languid kisses and slow, soft sex.

You were talking quietly to one another, sweet giggles and deep chuckles passing between you as you bathed in the serenity of each others' presence. Mattheo's hand was tracing circles against the back of your thighs, causing you to shift away with a breathy laugh.

"That tickles. Stop it." you say, mirth shining in your eyes as you playfully glare at him as his fingers dance across your soft, sensitive skin.

"Or what?" he challenges with a smirk that has you sitting up against his stomach, the ridges of his abs brushing sensually against your aching core.

Safe to say, your clothes ended up on the floor once more and the room was once again filled with your combined sensual moans and whines.

Later, you're cuddled against him again, tired and spent as you allow sleep to overtake you. But it never comes. Enzo and Ginny burst through the door in a panicked flurry.

"Ever heard of knocking, Berkshire?" Mattheo snaps, but at the look of alarm painting his friend's face, he sits up in rapt attention.

"What is it, Enzo?" he asks, using one hand to pull the duvet over your bodies to shield you from their averting gazes.

"It's Harry and- and Malfoy." Ginny says, breathlessly as if they'd run here. "They're dueling in one of the second floor bathrooms."

That statement has the two of you scrambling for your clothes as Enzo and Ginny leave to wait outside the door.

Uniforms shoved back on in a hurry, rumpled and creased from your earlier activities, the two of you follow behind the panicking pair as they lead you to Moaning Myrtle's floor. You hear the duel before you see it. Draco and Harry are throwing insults and curses back and forth in rapid fire blows. You would be mesmerised by the feeling of all the power that sings to you, if you weren't so worried and horror stricken at what you'd stumbled into.

Upon entering the scene you can't help but gape at the destruction. The porcelain sinks lining the marbled walls are cracked and broken, crumbling to the floor; pipes bursting with a never ending onslaught of spraying water that washes across the floor like tempered glass.

Your arrival distracts Draco momentarily as he turns towards the four of you, weariness clouding his light grey eyes. It's all the time he needs for Harry to surprise all of you with his menacing words as he casts the final spell, signifying the end of the harrowing duel.

"Sectum-sempra!" he shouts and Draco releases a pained yelp before falling to the floor as Ginny gasps in horror. Blood soaks the water around him, spreading out like slick oil against it as he writhes in pain. Slashes of blood saturate his white shirt, as if a knife had been hacked against his skin.

The room is a flurry of activity as Ginny starts shouting at Harry as Enzo and Mattheo pull out their wands defensively. But you pay them no mind, immediately going to Draco's side, trying your best to comfort him as you rip open his shirt to see the damage that Harry had caused.

His torso is caked in blood, gashes of skin torn open by the force of the spell. He's lying in a pool of it, the volume increasing with each passing second. Draco was dying. Slowly and painfully.

Moaning Myrtle appeared from the pipes screaming "MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!" repeatedly as you worked tirelessly, which was not helping the onslaught of overwhelming emotions that were bubbling to the surface.

It's okay. You're okay. You need to stay awake Draco. Please stay awake. You reassure him as you mumble a series of spells. He begins writhing more.

Episkey doesn't work.

Ferula fails to expell bandages large enough to cover the gaping holes in his chest.

Basic wound sealing spells are cast in vain.

You have tried everything you can think of. But nothing is working. Tears of frustration begin to slide down your cheeks.

"What's taking you so long?" Enzo shouts at you, drawing your attention away from Draco. Your breathing is panicked and uncertain and Mattheo tilts his head towards Enzo, a silent threat to watch his tone as he sees the slick flow of tears running down your face.

"I don't- nothing is working." you say breathelessly. "I don't know what to do."

Ginny looks horrified. As do Mattheo and Enzo. Harry only looks intrigued, no trace of guilt paints his face. You narrow your eyes at him.

"It's from that book, isn't it?" you accuse and he flinches at your icy tone. "The Half Blood Prince wouldn't be stupid enough to not know a counter curse. What. Is. It?"

He doesn't answer you fast enough for Mattheo's liking. Despite not understanding what you're talking about, he turns to the bespectacled boy with barely contained rage as he points his wand in the direction of the 'Chosen One'.

"Answer her, Potter!" he snarls and Harry snaps his head in Mattheo's direction, shooting him a glare until Ginny screams at him to answer you.

"Vulnera Sanentur." he says reluctantly, as if he was waiting to see how long the effects of the spell he cast would take place. As if he was waiting for Death to sink it's claws into Draco's soul.

Immediately you work on each of the gashes on Draco's torso and they begin to heal over for the most part, but he's still loosing too much blood.

"Someone needs to help me seal his wounds properly. I can't do it by myself." you say desperately and Enzo is immediately at your side, both of you mumbling the spell and casting your wands over the various wounds that litter Draco's pallid skin. Meanwhile Mattheo and Ginny stare at Harry as if he'd grown two heads, sharing a knowing look of understanding that Harry does not miss, nor does he like. He grits his teeth at his enemy and the girl he's infatuated by as Ginny, not so subtly, inches closer to Mattheo's side. Mattheo's eyes soften at the fear coating the younger girl's cerulean eyes.

No sooner than you'd entered the fray, Professor Snape comes gliding into the room, face livid, and pushes you and Enzo away from Draco's still writhing body. He performs the healing charm with practiced ease, going over each jagged cut, that you failed to heal, with graceful precision. If you weren't so overcome with emotion, you would've put the glaringly obvious pieces together.

The flow of blood eased rapidly and the wounds knotted together intricately as he repeated the spell, tenderly wiping away the blood that coated Draco's face. You knelt close to his side, reaching out to stroke his limp hand, which was alarmingly cold to the touch. You and Enzo were both covered in a mixture of blood and water which soaked through your uniforms, sticking to you like a second skin.

No sooner than he'd arrived, Professor Snape had Draco leaning against your side and was talking softly to the boy, who was barely conscious.

"You must go to the Hospital Wing. There may be some scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that. Come...."

With Enzo's help, he supported Draco across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, "And you, Potter – You will wait here for me."

Harry, at least, had the gall to look ashamed.

You're still kneeling on the floor, staring at your blood soaked hands when Mattheo appears in front of you, taking your hands in his, paying no mind to the blood soaking through his trousers.

"You did good, darling." he says softly, so only you can hear, neither pay attention to how Ginny inches closer to you two, away from Harry's wide eyes. "So good."

"If Snape didn't turn up–" you don't want to finish the sentence, don't even want to think about what could've happened.

"If he didn't end up coming, you and Enzo would have worked tirelessly to seal Draco's wounds to the best of your abilities." he reassures you, having read the emotions as clear as day on your face. "Come on, let's go and get you cleaned up, yeah?"

You allow him to pull you to your feet and you're only reminded of his presence when Harry scoffs.

"Got something to say, Potter?" he snarls as his hand rests against the small of your back, at Harry who glares at Mattheo obstinately.

"He cursed Katie Bell. We all know it. He deserved what he had coming for him. I can't believe she willingly helped him after everything he's done to us. After everything you have done."

He spoke as if you were not standing right in front of him. You barely recognise the boy who you called your best friend for nearly six years. Harry had barely finished his sentence when Mattheo had left your side and launched at him, throwing punches and blows in Harry's face. That's not to say that Harry did not return the favour. Both boys' blood mingled with the softening pink whorls in the water. You and Ginny were screaming at them to stop; they did not acknowledge your pleas. The last time they fought like this was over a year ago.

The conduit around your neck crackles with energy and you fight the urge to break it. Instead you wrap a fist around it almost instinctively and draw out power that surges through the room, separating the two from eachother with little to no effort. They're both panting and glaring at eachother as they fight against the restraint of your power.

"That's enough." you say firmly, voice loud and commanding in the silence, wholly different to its usual cadence. Ginny is staring at you in awe, as Mattheo stares with pride. Harry looks at you with uncontainable fury and fear.

Because you're glowing.

There's a faint indigo aura surrounding your body that pulses with energy as you hold the two boys away from eachother. When Mattheo stops fighting you, you let go of the hold and watch as they slump in their spots on opposite sides of the room, both sporting matching wounds of split lips and bruised eyes.

"What the fuck are you?" Harry mumbles to himself, just as Snape returns to the bathroom. The professor looks at you in barely restrained approval before instructing you, Mattheo and Ginny out of the room. You each go without hesitation, leaving Harry at the mercy of a furious Snape.

~∞~

Parting ways with Ginny at the intersection between your two common rooms, Mattheo lets you guide him towards the Ravenclaw tower, which was closer to the dungeons that were on the opposite side of the castle to where you currently were.

He follows you silently, staring at you as if he can still see the faint glow of the indigo aura that surrounded you. He didn't think you could get any more ethereal. You prove him wrong every single day.

"Do you think Draco will be okay?" you ask quietly as you reach the polished bronze Knocker that conceals the entrance to your estranged common room.

"He's strong. I know he'll be okay." Mattheo reassures you, but he chooses not to tell you that Draco's fate will be far worse if he fails to fix the wardrobe that they'd been working on for the better part of half a year. All their fates would be far worse.

You breath out a relieved sigh in response, just in time for the Eagle to blink preternaturally at the two of you. You laugh softly as Mattheo shivers at the utter human-ness of the brass eagle.

'I can break. I can be clogged. I can be attacked. I can be given. I can be kept. I can be crushed, yet I can be whole at the same time. What am I?'

It only takes you a moment to figure out the riddle and Mattheo sees the exact second that the answer fills your head, even as his stays blank with confusion.

"A heart." You say and he swears that the eagle winks as the door swings open, paving way for the sea of eyes that stare at the two of you in horror.

You realise then that your still covered, practically head to toe, in Draco's blood, skirt and knee high white socks soaked through from the water, stained a light pink. Shaking yourself out of your haze, you grip Mattheo's hand and drag him towards the staircase leading to the girls' dormitories, ignoring the eyes that are burning holes into your skin as you retreat.

You wandlessly unlock the door that leads into your dorm room and watch as Mattheo stares around in awe.

"I've never been in here before." he says quietly and you turn to him with furrowed brows.

"Yes you have. Haven't you?"

It dawns on you then, that in all the months you'd known him, you had never consciously invited him into your bedroom. It had always been his common room; his dormitory or the Room of Requirement. Never your's.

"No. I haven't." he responds, laughing at the surprise that appears on your face as he casts his surveying eyes around your room. "It's very you."

"Thankyou?" you respond questioningly which causes him to laugh more, then wince as the movement of his laughter tugs at the cut that splits his lip.

Eyes full of concern you direct him to your bed and push him down by his broad shoulders to sit, ignoring the way his brows wiggle suggestively while you find a first aid kit to remedy his injuries.

He's still smirking when you return from the bathroom, green box in hand, which you place by his side as he guides you to stand between his parted thighs. The two of you bask in the content silence as you use a damp flannel to wipe away the dried blood that has begun to crust over his soft skin, mumbled apologies escaping your lips whenever he hisses if you accidentally catch one of his cuts with the fabric.

"You could easily wish these away with a bit of magic, you know. It's a thousand times faster." he says, hands caressing the backs of yours thighs as he looks up at you, but he makes no move to stop you or push you away.

"That feels uncaring." you mumble in response as you use a bit of rubbing alcohol against the cut on his lip. "Sorry." you say as he winces.

"It's alright, love." he mumbles, leaning his head into your stomach once you finished. "Potter can really throw a punch."

Your laughter comes out as a scoff. "Maybe. But you should've seen the state you left him in."

He smirks against the damp fabric of your shirt and you swat at his curly head when you practically feel his ego inflating.

"I did give him a good beating, didn't I?"

"You're so vexingly arrogant." you say with a soft laugh that has him leaning out of your stomach to stare at you again, a mischievous glint reflecting in his honey brown eyes.

"It's one of the many attributes of mine that you fell for though, isn't it Princess." he says with so much self assurance that you just have to roll your eyes, but it's difficult to hide your smile.

"Shut up." you reply as his arms reach up to wrap around your middle, bringing you into his embrace, but he cringes away at the feel of your still wet clothes.

"Let's get you out of these yeah? You're practically shivering." he says as he untucks your shirt from your skirt, affection and...and love overtaking his soft eyes as he stares up at you, quietly stripping you of your ruined clothes that he throws into a pile at the foot of your bed.

~∞~

"Thank you, Théo." you say quietly, almost in a whisper, after you're both fresh and clean from a shower, all wounds healed over with a bit of his magic.

"What for?" he asks you, just as softly, hand reaching up to brush a loose wisp of hair that had fallen into your face.

You don't answer him, not verbally at least, instead pressing a slow kiss to his mouth that he happily reciprocates, leaning in until he's hovering over you, trapping your body below his.

For protecting me. For defending me. For giving Ginny stability, despite how you feel towards her. I saw the way she gravitated towards you. Just...thank you. Your words have his mouth working harder against your's, causing a moan to escape you as his tongue licks against the seam of your lips, which part eagerly for him.

Always, sweet girl. I will always defend you and those of your friends who are worthy of defending. He replies before detaching his lips from your's, with retraint.

"Weasley could have easily let Enzo find us himself, could've even encouraged Potter to continue their duel. But she didn't; she watched a boy almost die, watched her friend heal the same boy who terrorised you all for years. She could've easily gone to Harry's defence, but she didn't. She looked to us for direction. Not him. That says a lot." he said aloud with a sigh, strands of his curly hair falling over his forehead, causing his eyes to twitch in irritation.

You used the tips of your fingers to coil the stubborn curls away from his face as he speaks, a new sense of admiration, trust and calm washing over you as you stare at your lover.

"It may take time for me to trust her, Granger too," he continues. "But I see how much she looks up to you, trusts you and vice versa. I can learn to forgive them for their wrongdoings. For you, my love."

"Thank you, Théo." you repeat as you bury your face into his shirtless chest, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

He smiles as he presses a kiss to your temple, unaware that today's events would spiral into something unfathomable that Mattheo Riddle should've seen coming from miles away.

~∞~

did i mention how much i love soft!matty😫😫 (in every chapter since they got together 😵‍💫😵‍💫)

i had to end it with some fluff because i'm sure you can guess what's gonna happen in the next few chapters lol

also thought id let you know that meadow's siphon powers are now fully manifested, she just has to learn how to control it (which we see briefly in this chapter)

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(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag)

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#mattheo riddle x reader #serendipity series #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle #harry potter #pansy parkinson #ron weasley #theodore nott x reader #blaise zabini #enzo berkshire #ginny weasley x reader #harry potter x reader #hermione granger #draco malfoy #angst #flangst

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halfvalid · 7 months

Text

kitten

ABOUT

alternate title: the pet name 'kitten' is gross when used by men but it's cute when a woman nami says it

rating: general audiences

characters: live action!nami | fem!reader | live action!roronoa zoro

pairing: live action!nami x fem!reader

word count: 4.4k

description: nami is aware you've got a crush on one of the straw hats, and she's determined to find out who—but she's completely oblivious to the fact that you actually like her.

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, confessions, no use of “y/n”, pet name "kitten", banter, absolutely tooth rotting amounts of fluff, a little bit of (affectionate) zoro slander

author’s note: i interrupt your regularly scheduled zoro fic posts to provide you with a sapphic nami oneshot instead because she is my wife and i love her dearly.

zoro accidentally popped up a bit too much in this because he's always on my mind. my apologies <3

You’d always liked astronomy. The current-world navigation had nothing to do with the stars, really; at least not when it came to the Grand Line. Unnatural magnetic fields and the odd weather was reason enough for that—but celestial navigation wasn’t even often used in any of the four quadrants. Too finicky, people would say; you know the practice had stopped being in use in the Marines years ago.

Nami knew it all, though. She was the only one of the Straw Hats who could read the stars, the sky spreading out as a map that only her eyes could read.

Your interest in it had always been more… artistic. While Nami babbled on about angles and reference points and sextants, you liked to talk about the planets and heavenly bodies blanketing the sky. It was dusk, and the sun was kissing the horizon good night, dull hues of pink and orange spreading alongside the sea with a golden shimmer as it tucked safely away.

You’d been lying out on the main deck for a good few hours, stretched like a cat along a hammock you’d strung up forever ago, when you heard footsteps.

“There you are, kitten,” Nami said with a laugh, and you sat up to appraise her. The evening glow cast fire to her orange hair, a blazing halo surrounding her head and painting her skin over in gold dust. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Hi,” you said with a soft smile. “What for?”

“Well, for one, you missed supper.” Nami gingerly took a seat on the side of your hammock, the canvas cloth rocking from side to side with the motion. “Avoiding your crush again?”

You let out a sigh, half-exasperated as your bottom lip sucked in between your teeth. You nibbled at the flesh there, not responding. Nami had figured out a few weeks ago that you had a crush on one of the other Straw Hats, and she brought it up every so often, although all it did was cause a crease in your brow bone and a flicker of annoyance on your face.

“What, am I not supposed to bring that up?” Nami teased. The light shone in her crystal blue eyes, clear like the sky during midday, not a cloud in sight. “You still haven’t told me who it is.”

“Because you’ll pull something if I do!” you protested. “Don’t try to deny it, you conniving little witch.”

Nami gasped in mock-offense, a hand plastered to her chest. “And destroy your dignity like that? I would never.”

“I don’t trust you,” you answered, and Nami clicked her tongue. “What did Sanji make?”

“Fish. Soup. Rice.”

“You’re so undescriptive,” you said with a wrinkle of your nose. Nami just laughed.

“Not everyone can be as artistic as you, kitten. Come on, everyone left the kitchen already. You don’t have to worry about running into your mystery man.” She winked at the last sentence, and your breath caught. Nami seemed to notice, because she laughed, stepping up from the hammock and grabbing your hand to help you off. “You’re hilarious.”

“I didn’t say anything!” you protested. Nami just gave you a look, and you rolled your eyes, but let her drag you along the ship until you reached the kitchen. “You’re so mean to me,” you said, slumping into the nearest chair available.

“Mhm. Here.” Nami started serving up a plate, loading it full of food before passing it over to you. It was quickly joined by a bowl of soup. “Eat. We’re docking tomorrow, so you should get your energy up. We’re going shopping.”

“Shopping for what?” you asked, bringing the bowl of soup to your lips. Seaweed. “If you say rope and boat parts I’m going to scream.” As much as you liked the pirate life, there was only so much of the technicalities you could take. You weren’t very much a practical soul, lumped in very much with Luffy when it came to your general attitude of your job description. Pirating consisted of adventure and art, in your opinion.

“Rope and boat parts,” Nami said with a straight face. She’d always been the exact opposite, all focused on maps and making sure everything was running smoothly. “Well, only partly. I’ve been sent to go clothes shopping too. And to pick up a few other supplies.” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re coming with me, right? Well, unless you want to join your…”

“Shut up,” you said, making a face at her as you set your bowl down. Nami just laughed.

“Just putting it out there, kitten. I’m sure you might be more interested in going with Usopp to talk to the stevedores. Or Zoro to the local tavern. Or Sanji for the—”

“Nope, nope, and nope. I’m going with you,” you said firmly. There was a whisper of a smile at your lips, but Nami didn’t seem to notice it. “And I still don’t get why I’m a kitten.”

“Because,” Nami answered, propping her elbows on the table as she gazed over at you. “I’m the cat burglar. You’re the kitten.”

“Why isn’t Luffy the kitten?”

“Luffy’s the captain, and I don’t like him as much.” Nami straightened, starting to clean up around the kitchen and load the abandoned dishes from when everyone else had eaten into the sink. You smiled at that. “You don’t like him, do you? I feel like you could do so much better.”

“My lips are sealed,” you answered. Nami gave you a sidelong look.

“That better not be a yes.”

You just shrugged, raising the bowl of soup again and finishing the rest of it before turning to the rice and fish. “Let’s not talk about it. What about you? Any romantic prospects—”

Nami turned so abruptly you almost choked while eating. “I just barely started learning how to make friends. Maybe we wait a few months before we get to that,” she said. You coughed, palm pressed to your lips as you cleared out your airways.

“Okay. Aggressive.”

Nami scowled. “That was not aggressive.”

You pulled a face. “Kinda sounds like you have something to hide, Nami,” you teased, and although you didn’t actually expect her to react, she did. To your surprise, Nami turned away again, the very edges of her face pinkening. You stared at her, heartbeat slowing to a steady thud in your chest. There was a faint taste of panic at the back of your throat, slightly sour and acidic like blood or rust. “Um, what was that?”

“What was what?” Nami asked evenly. Too evenly. You gaped at her back, organs wobbling precariously inside of your chest.

“That—thing.”

“Kitten, if you want me to understand what you’re talking about, you’re going to have to be a little clearer than that,” Nami said smoothly. “Now it’s getting dark. You should get to bed. Last chance to shove yourself with your crewmate of choice.”

“I’m still going with you,” you said stubbornly, shoveling the last of your rice in your mouth before slipping off your chair. You moved around the table, setting your bowl and chopsticks into the sink. “You want me to do them?” you asked, nodding at the dirty dishes that’d piled up. Nami shook her head.

“Go sleep,” she said gently. “I’ll get you in the morning.”

You watched her for a moment, lips twisting before you finally relented. “Night, Nami,” you said, and she turned away. You were safe there for a moment, admiring how the soft backlit glow from the windows etched shadows along her face. She really was beautiful, and your heart thudded fast in your chest.

Nami was the strongest person you knew. The smartest person you knew. The Straw Hats wouldn’t be the same without her, and sometimes you found it funny how she seemed so convinced you had a crush on one of the other members of the crew when it was so obvious that she was your north star.

Ah, well. She’d just have to keep on guessing.

Nami woke you at the crack of dawn, where the hazy rays of the sun just started rising up from the sea shore. You’d traveled to shore while asleep, and everyone was already up and running.

“Luffy left already,” Nami was saying, tying a bandana around her head as you gathered up the rest of the supplies you needed. “And we’ll probably spend the whole day out, so we can get lunch in the village.” She eyed you. “I packed breakfast. Come on.”

You followed her off the ship, savoring the early morning wind along the harbor. The dock men were all already hard at work, milling around the dozens of boats with tools and equipment propped on their shoulders. “Where to first?” you asked.

“Boat parts,” she said, casting you a sympathetic smile. “Some rope, extra sails, some other stuff. After that I’m thinking groceries—I put Sanji in charge of bulk stock this time, so just stuff like soap and necessities—and then clothes.” She grinned. “And some fun stuff.”

“Sounds good to me,” you said. Nami did most of the talking, but you were content to watch her barter, leaning back on your heels as she argued with sellers and eventually left with a satisfied smirk on your face. She hired some of the dock men to carry the ropes and items to the Going Merry, looking her arm in yours and going off to your next stop.

“You know, you’re basically stealing from them like this,” you told her, a smile evident in your voice. “Forty-five thousand berry to thirty thousand. That’s actually terrifying.”

“I said take it or leave it and he took it.” Nami shrugged, but you could see a beam of pride shine through her face. “But enough of that. The market’s up ahead.”

The entire village seemed to have been brought out, because true to Nami’s words, there was a fair going on. Stalls boasting all kinds of wares lined the streets, and you peeked through all of them, even at Nami’s urges to hurry up and focus only on your shopping list. She watched you with a soft smile on her lips, the expressions interlaced with ones of exasperation.

“I should’ve just picked a random man and carted you off with him,” she said with a click of her tongue as you spent far too much time glancing through a stand of knick-knacks and jewelry. “Currently either Zoro or Sanji are my top contenders.”

You barely suppressed a snort, fingers carefully combing through a bowl of baubles. There were various items inside, from earrings missing a sister to pins and little statuettes. “How come?”

“Usopp has Kaya, so I would hope you don’t like him,” Nami said. You raised an eyebrow, glancing up to meet her gaze.

“Kaya’s all the way back in Syrup Village, Nami. She can’t do anything, and who knows when we’ll return there?”

Nami gave you a horrified look. “Kitten, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

You just laughed, dropping your gaze again and picking at the bowl. There was a dull gleam of something at the bottom; it wasn’t gold or brass like anything else there, and was instead a shining, milky white. You dug through the pile, trying to get to it. “You’re such a romantic.”

“Does that mean it is Usopp?”

“I do not confirm nor deny a thing,” you said, finally plucking out what had captured your attention. It was a necklace, the pendant a glittering star on a gold chain. “And I want reasoning.”

“You’re not buying that,” Nami said, gaze flickering down to it before meeting your eyes again. “Zoro because he’s conventionally attractive and Sanji because he can cook.”

You scoffed, studying the necklace. “Those are terrible reasons.”

“I can’t think of any good ones,” Nami protested. “The only thing I can think of are reasons you wouldn’t like any of them. Because they’re all kind of losers and you could do much, much better.” She tilted her head imperceptibly upwards, and you saw a little glimmer in her eye, a reaction that bore uncanny similarity to the one she’d worn the day before. You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“You think Zoro’s conventionally attractive?” You turned towards the stand seller, motioning at the necklace. “How much?”

“You’re not buying that,” Nami repeated, shooting you a look. “It’s a waste of perfectly good berry.”

“It’s five hundred at most,” you scoffed, fishing a wad of bills out from your pocket. Nami sighed, but she didn’t argue. “Barely anything. Do you think Zoro’s conventionally attractive?”

Nami looked distracted. “Hm?”

“You said Zoro was conventionally attractive,” you repeated, voice firmer this time. You tried to suppress the little tremble in your cadence as you passed the money to the seller. He counted it and gave you a firm nod. Carefully, you dropped the necklace in your pocket. “Do you think he is?”

“Well—from an objective standpoint—”

You pushed past the swarm of patrons milling around the stands, Nami having to quicken her pace to keep up with you. “Attraction isn’t objective.”

“Kitten.” Nami grabbed your wrist, forcing you to slow down, and you flinched. She tugged you in the direction of another stand, probably something off her list. “Why do you care so much? Am I right? Is he the one you like?”

You wiggled your wrist out of Nami’s grip. “I don’t care, I’m just curious. Because you’ve been blushing for the past half hour and you mentioned Zoro was conventionally attractive. And if you say he’s conventionally attractive that means you think he’s conventionally attractive. So assumedly you are blushing because of—”

It clearly took Nami a moment to unscramble your honestly entirely nonsensical words. “Kitten, I’m trying to figure out whether or not you have a crush on Zoro. You’re not supposed to be trying to figure out if I do. And I have not been blushing.”

You relented, but still couldn’t suppress the pout that threatened your mouth. Your teeth pressed against the flesh of your lower lip, running alongside the skin but not fully biting. “You said Zoro was conven—”

“If I have to hear you say the words conventionally attractive one more time, I swear I will lock you in the hold,” Nami said sharply, and you had to choke back your laugh. “And the reason I said that is because every single time we go out, at least five people turn to stare at his stupid face. Do you not remember that time on Mirror Ball Island? We practically had to fight women off of him.”

“Okay, fine,” you said, a glimpse at her features seemed to support her words. She was as guarded as ever, and clearly irritated, though her vexation didn’t seem as bad as the annoyances she’d hold over the rest of the crew. They never did, really; Luffy always liked to say that you were Nami’s favorite. “I’m hungry. Can we eat?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I neither confirm nor deny anything,” you repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past week. “Restaurant. Please.”

Nami didn’t look away from you, but relented, and the two of you went to the nearest restaurant to have lunch. You were mainly silent during the meal, replaying the conversation from before over and over again in your head. There was a buzz of uncertainty in the pit of your stomach, one that you entirely disliked.

Before you’d been fine with keeping quiet about your crush—you never felt too threatened or upset, under the impression that your feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated and that Nami wouldn’t fall for anyone in the near future anyway. And you didn’t mind her guessing between your four male comrades to find the one who’d stolen your heart.

But the reactions and the blushes were a development. And you were starting to think that Nami herself had a mystery beau.

Nami talked about work during the meal, going down her grocery list and checking off the things she’d gotten. You watched her as she glared down at her notebook, pencil caught between two fingers as she scribbled down notes to herself. “You’re not eating,” you said gently.

“Sorry. Distracted,” Nami answered. She shot you a smile, but it quickly fell as she turned back to her notebook. “What about Sanji?”

You suppressed a sigh. “Are you still on about this?”

“Yes,” Nami insisted. She finally shut her notebook, slipping it into the bag hanging off her waist and picking up her chopsticks to return to her soup noodles. “You’d never go hungry with him around, at least.”

“I think you need to raise your standards. I already don’t go hungry with him around, I don’t need to date him for that.”

Nami clicked her tongue, but it was good-natured. “You’re making this so hard for me.”

“I don’t want to talk about myself anymore,” you insisted, setting down your chopsticks. You’d basically finished your bowl already; there were only the final remnants of broth and rice noodles at the bottom, the soup seasoning darker in color; more pungent.

You fiddled with your hands, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach that persisted even as you thought back to what Nami had said about Zoro. Her reasoning had been sound enough, but you still felt vaguely sick, that bitter taste of sour iron at the back of your throat again.

“Are you okay?” Nami’s eyes met yours, and you flinched away. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “I think I’m going to head back to the ship and take a nap. I’m kind of tired.” Before Nami could say anything, you got up, chair scraping along the restaurant floor. “See you later?”

“What? Kitten, wait—” Nami called, but you just swallowed, glancing over your shoulder to shoot her an apologetic look.

The Going Merry was a breath of fresh air as you stepped foot back onto her deck. There were some dockmen milling about, setting material along the deck as Usopp directed them as to where everything went.

You brushed past them to veer towards your hammock, slipping onto it and kicking your legs up along the cloth without pause. Your eyes closed, and you let the sun melt down on your face, the tension in your chest easing as you embraced the beam of the sky.

You stayed there for a while, knowing you were safe as Nami wouldn’t come find you until she’d finished with all her actual tasks. Although this was occasionally irritating if you were in real desire for attention, you appreciated the responsible side of her now. You didn’t have to confront her for a few hours yet, so you spent the time on your hammock, watching the clouds drifting in the sky and picking out the dull stars that shimmered as the sky got darker.

It was just before suppertime when you remembered the necklace you’d bought. Stars were just beginning to materialize, dark blues and purples replacing the cerulean hues that previously blanketed the Earth. You fished the star necklace out of your pocket, peering at the pendant again. It was made of some sort of shimmering stone you didn’t recognize—perhaps opal—that made it glow like an actual star, iridescent when light hit it.

“Hey, kitten.”

You looked up, watching as Nami made her way across the ship deck to where you lay. She looked tired, but still bore a soft smile on her face as she met your gaze. “Hi,” you said, tucking the necklace back into your pocket. Behind her you could see the last of the hired work carrying barrels down to the hold. “Get everything done?”

“Mhm,” Nami said. “Wanna talk about earlier?”

“Not really,” you muttered, the sharp tang of rust dancing at the back of your tongue again. “Sorry about storming out. I felt unwell.”

Nami studied you carefully, arms folding unconsciously over her chest. “I can stop bothering you about your crush, if you want,” she said finally, a gust of a sigh leaving her lips. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, getting up and climbing your legs over the edge so you were sitting on the hammock. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Nami, I swear.”

“You walked out in the middle of a meal, kitten,” Nami said, and you could hear her voice starting to get upset, even as she tried to level her tone. “Clearly I did. Was it because I kept trying to figure it out? Was I right with Zoro? What—”

“It’s not because of that,” you interrupted, trying to keep your voice gentle even as your chest squeezed inward. You were powerless to your muscles; to your heart as it did a pathetic little thump-thump thing inside of you.

“Then why?” Nami leaned forward on her heels, and the setting sun caught her eyes, kaleidoscope blue glittering a thousand different shades like the opal of your necklace. “Just tell me, kitten. So I won’t do it again.”

“It was because of you,” you mumbled, shying away from her gaze. Nami sighed.

“Yes, we established that I did something to upset you already. I’m trying to find out what—”

“You called Zoro attractive and I was jealous,” you blurted, before you could even think to stop the words from falling out of your mouth. Nami froze, and you lifted your eyes up hesitantly to see her reaction.

Her shoulders were all tense, face guarded, eyes blank from their usual expression. “Oh,” she said evenly. There was an ugly purse tightening at her lips, and she fought to keep them in an even line. “So it is Zoro, then. Thank you for telling me.”

She turned away then, her movements abrupt as she started walking. A pulse of panic captured your heart, and you called desperately out to her, volume far too loud in the late hour. You didn’t find yourself caring. “I wasn’t jealous of you!” you cried, and Nami’s entire body went still.

She turned back towards you, so slowly that you found yourself capturing your breath in your throat waiting for her.

“I wasn’t jealous of you,” you repeated once her eyes met yours. “I was jealous of Zoro. Of you thinking he was attractive.” Your fingers fumbled together, trying to find something to occupy themselves with as you choked out the final sentence. “My mystery man is you, Nami. I like you.”

It took a long while for Nami to respond, and the Going Merry rocked as you waited, a soft sway of delay and building panic. There was a shimmer of something in Nami’s eyes, and her lips tugged downwards.

Her voice was hollow when she spoke. “What?”

“I don’t like Zoro or Usopp or Sanji or Luffy, Nami,” you said, hands tightening around each other with every word spilt out from between your lips. “I like you. I like you when you call me kitten. I like you when you complain about me buying things but let me do it anyway. I like you even when you’re teasing me about my crush.” Your voice dropped to a low mumble. “And I was jealous because you thought Zoro was attractive.”

“Oh, kitten,” Nami said, and you glanced up to see her right in front of you, bent over to meet your level sitting down. She reached for your hands, and you let her take them, exhaling as her tender grasp clasped around your palms.

“Nami,” you whispered, horrified to hear how wet your voice sounded. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Nami, you may be the ship’s navigator, but you’re my north star. I like you.”

Kitten, I do not think Zoro is attractive,” Nami said, and you had to choke back startled laughter at that being what she was focusing on. “That is the least of your worries.”

“But—you seemed so annoyed when you thought it was Zoro—don’t you like—”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Nami said, a soft laugh leaving her lips. They were trembling. Her entire body was trembling, even her hands as she cocooned yours in them. “I was annoyed because I thought you liked Zoro. Because—I like you too.”

You swallowed, surprise forcing your jaw to fall slack as you met her gaze. “Really?” you whispered. Nami nodded; she coaxed soft circles into the skin of your hands, a supportive smile edging up her lips.

“I really thought you liked someone else, kitten, I would’ve said something before if—” Nami let out another gentle laugh. “If I knew. It wasn’t until you told me about the crush did I realize. I got a little… too overprotective, and then… well, it wasn’t very platonic at that point.” She ducked her head, hiding her smile, but you slipped one of your hands out of her grasp to push it back up. “God, you’re too good for any of them.”

“I don’t want to talk about how the rest of them suck,” you murmured. “I want to talk about how amazing you are. Oh—and—” You dug your hand in your pocket, pulling out the necklace. “This reminded me of you. I got it for you.”

“Kitten,” Nami breathed, as you unclasped the necklace and carefully put it on her. It swung around her neck before you adjusted it, golden yellow bright against the white of her pale skin. The opal glittered, catching the moonlight that’d steadily glowed brighter from behind you. “Thank you. It’s still a waste of money though.”

“Not for you,” you said, grabbing her hands to squeeze her fingers. “Never for you.” You took in a nervous breath, your chest tightening inside—but it wasn’t all bitter and sour, nothing like the taste of panic.

Nami met you in the middle when you finally leaned up to kiss her, your hand slipping up the side of her face, fingers curling in her orange hair. She smiled when she kissed, soft and carefree for once, that serious facade she always took on melting away in the moment. She kissed softly; tenderly; like the moon shining gentle waves on the East Blue below or the sun in the hazy morning sky casting light across the world.

There were footsteps approaching from behind Nami. You opened your eyes, tilting your gaze up to see Zoro staring down at you both. Nami broke apart from you, glancing over her shoulder. None of you said anything.

“Okay,” Zoro decided, and then walked off. You barely managed to stifle your giggles until he was out of earshot.

“God, he’s such a loser,” Nami said, and then kissed you again.

#opla nami #one piece live action #one piece netflix #opla #cat burglar nami x reader #opla nami x reader #reader insert #x reader #nami x reader #nami x you #opla fanfiction #opla fanfic #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #kiki writes!

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the-darklings · 1 year

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?”

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well.

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly.

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome.

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead.

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right.

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check.

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context.

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines.

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in.

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out.

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.”

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking.

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

A thousand reflections stare back at you.

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch.

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace.

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you.

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope.

A beautiful dream.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face.

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds.

It’s answer enough.

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat.

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock.

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing.

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?”

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it.

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently.

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow.

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look.

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns.

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean.

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them.

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest.

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction.

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you.

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable.

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread.

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades.

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this.

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones.

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you.

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves.

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now.

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green.

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds.

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up.

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm.

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now.

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach.

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it.

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition.

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns.

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop.

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either.

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood.

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny.

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye.

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily.

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close.

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed.

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire.

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now.

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing.

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been.

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement.

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both.

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume…

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need.

You had foolishly believed you were friends.

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice.

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun.

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence.

“Fun.”

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired.

It makes it worse. So much worse.

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto.

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing.

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of.

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching.

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.”

No one laughs. No one responds.

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia.

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first.

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned.

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another.

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body.

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there.

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing.

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak.

“No.”

You turn to go.

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw.

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood.

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly.

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you.

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice.

Fine. You’ll find another way.

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach.

And then, impossibly, you see him.

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you.

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion.

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears.

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief.

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course.

A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you.

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last.

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you.

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly.

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents.

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk.

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you.

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there.

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you.

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence.

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood.

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey.

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his.

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in.

Motion.

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar.

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension.

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.”

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe.

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction.

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her.

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase.

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm. Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest.

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable.

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step.

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed.

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light.

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from.

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life.

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also.

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear.

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything.

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle.

“What are you doing?”

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely.

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone.

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening.

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again.

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep.

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now.

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him.

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad.

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you.

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass.

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere.

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life.

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless.

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained.

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream.

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet.

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains.

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse.

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.”

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth:

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light.

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need.

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests.

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils.

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream.

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?”

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply.

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions.

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away.

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent.

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase.

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm.

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept.

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.”

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched.

But not this time.

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words.

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out.

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape.

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair.

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to.

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is.

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.”

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway.

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another.

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures.

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits.

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show.

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet.

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here.

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word.

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor.

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused.

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true.

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin.

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes.

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly.

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps.

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point.

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it.

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity.

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping.

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths.

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier.

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact.

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you.

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation.

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon.

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness.

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed.

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand.

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you.

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand.

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile.

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you.

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure.

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare.

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke.

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze.

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment.

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly.

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger.

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous.

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely.

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly.

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it.

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists.

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair.

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it.

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it.

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you.

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him.

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows.

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment.

“Yes,” Dream replies.

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him.

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety.

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse.

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale.

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease.

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you.

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference.

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face.

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

#the sandman #dream of the endless #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman netflix #sandman imagine #morpheus imagines #morpheus x fem!reader #dream x fem!reader #sandman fic #fanfiction #sandman netflix #sandman neil gaiman #morpheus fic #dream fic #tom sturridge #fic: today i bury you in me

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softlyspector · 1 year

Text

Midnight Blue

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: You and Marc say goodbye.

Tales Untold; Part VIII (end) - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings (this chapter): angst and fluff, mental health issues, mentions of past death, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: We are finally at the end! Everyone say goodbye to these two! Thank you for reading and thank you for giving this series as much love as you have. Comments and reblogs are so appreciated! If there are any additional warnings that need added, please let me know.

VIII.

Tales Untold, Chicago 6:56 PM

The radio is on in the back of Tales Untold.

The volume is low, but the sound still travels throughout the shop.

Late summer sun paints the hardwood floor with tiny spots of color. Deep mauves and cobalts mix with cherry red from the stained glass you and Steven had steadily replaced the clear glass with in the shop’s front door. It reminds Marc of the first day he came into Tales Untold, the air teeming with the flight of dust motes and golden light.

He can hear you singing along to the old country song on the radio as you putter around at the back desk, organizing the things the last customer had come in with.

The song is a crooning love song, sweet as candy. It’s the kind of song that wraps around his heart and squeezes, that pulls up nostalgic feelings like teeth from the lining of his stomach.

It sounds beautiful, especially when it mixes with your voice. The sound rolls around in your mouth, the adjustment of your normal cadence to fit the tune of the song.

Marc smiles as he listens, drags the paintbrush in his hand around the border of your mural, careful not to disturb the little design. You’ll do most of the detail work later, taking the paint in around the edges of the design.

You will, or Steven.

He and Jake had proved too heavy handed to be trusted with anything other than the broadest strokes.

Your voice drifts closer, your footsteps creaking along the old wooden floors. You aren’t a particularly good singer, but Marc would gladly listen to you butcher lyrics and notes for the rest of his life.

“Steven’s better at painting than you,” you tease when you reach him.

Marc doesn’t turn, rolling his eyes. “I can stop, y’know, and let you do it yourself, sweetheart.”

You lean against the bookshelf next to him, a smile on your face. The sun slants over your eyes, and you have to squint to look at him. Your whole face crinkles up with the effort. You’re wearing that stupid vintage Cubs shirt he gave you, the one with his good memories. You wear it all the time now, like you’re trying to prove a point to him.

“No, I like watching you, Spector.”

He doesn’t so much as breathe when you wrap your arm around his middle and slide smoothly between him and the wall. “You do?” He asks, just to hear you say you like watching him again.

“Mhm,” you tip your chin up. You’re so pressed so close to him, your nose brushes his, and you go a little cross eyed trying to glance down at his lips. “You look so stern when you’re concentrating on something.”

Marc frowns at you and you laugh. “Scratch that, you always look stern, honey.”

He follows the tilt of your head when you move, careful to watch every slow movement you make. “When you’re finished with the border, we’ll be done,” you whisper, bumping your nose against his. “Can you believe it took us a whole summer? To finish all our little projects?”

A spear of anxiety that doesn’t fit with the moment, that is not necessary, beats through him. “Yep,” he agrees lightly. “Now you can tell me to get lost.”

“You are just not funny,” you accuse as you tug free from his arms and pull him back from the wall so you can both look at it.

The wall is a deep blue. Midnight blue, Marc thinks your friend at the hardware store called it, patterned over it are tight constellations of stars. The stars are clustered towards one side of the wall, nearest the hanging crescent moon in the corner, while an orange and red sun sits directly opposite, long threads of burnt orange and yellow reaching out to them.

The border is nearly finished, decorated with phases of the moon in a pretty gold and white.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? I think it fits the shop better.”

Marc nods. It does fit you better, that was for certain. The blue is calming, softens the interior shop, and is leagues better than the blank wall that had been beneath the wallpaper. The orange of the sun is an ode to your mother, for the orange wallpaper you ripped down.

He squeezes you tighter to his side, paintbrush still loosely held in his other hand. Steven is better at painting, he agrees with you on that, but Marc enjoys it. He especially likes it if you sit with him while he works.

And most times, you did. You sat side by side and worked on the mural slowly, the warmth of you pressing into his side when you leaned into each other.

Your flower boxes had long ago been painted, the flowers Marc salvaged when he broke down the old ones repotted in their new homes. He repointed the brickwork, finally fixed your rusted bell, and made you a new sign.

The neon was a good choice. It's definitely been helping draw new customers into the shop.

“Marc?”

He glances over at you and finds you frowning at him. Before you can say anything he turns to lie the paintbrush down so he can pull you fully into his arms.

“What?” He asks, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

The motion of it is soothing, and you never tell him to stop. It seems to calm you as much as him.

“Summer’s almost over,” you say carefully. “I’ve - I’ve tried to ask Steven about it but…don’t you have to be getting back to London? He doesn’t really seem like he wants to talk about it either” You slide one hand across his shoulder blades, the press of you soft against him. He closes his eyes when you drag your hand up the back of his neck and through his hair.

You muss his curls gently until they loosen around your fingers. A hum vibrates in your mouth and you don’t have to say it for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

Pretty.

He can almost hear your thoughts.

Let your curls out more, Marc.

Marc nods. “Yeah,” he opens his eyes, “I’ve been thinking about that.”

You swallow and nod back, patiently waiting for him to explain. “I…we gotta go back. To London. At least for a little while. Loose ends to tie up, that kinda thing.”

“Alright,” you murmur. “Well, I guess I already knew that. I guess I’m just wondering what’ll happen with us.” You fidget, a strange nervousness pooling between you.

Marc stiffens, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you shift in his arms again like you’re worried about what his answer might be “Do you want to do long distance or are we going to call this a fun summer fling?”

“A fling?” He blinks at you, tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, like you might disappear right before his eyes. “Do you want this to be a fling?”

He can’t really imagine it’s that, not after everything.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t want that. But the end is upon us, honey. Time marches on either way.”

Something about the way you say it makes him anxious, like you expect it to fall apart.

Marc swallows, “No. I don’t want it to be over. It doesn’t gotta be.”

For just a second, you look surprised. “Okay. We’ll figure it out,” you smile. “Like always.”

You start to pull away but Marc keeps you anchored against him, fingers locked tight into the fabric of your shirt now. His thumbs divot into your hips as he searches your eyes. “There’s nothin’ to figure out. I’m telling you, I want this. I want you. And you’re here.”

“Marc,” you say softly. “I always knew you’d have to leave again. I can’t expect you to pull up your whole life-,”

“Trust me, baby, we aren’t pulling anything up.” Marc cradles you close. “There’s…nothing there anymore.”

You press a worried hand to his face. “You really wanna be in Chicago again? Here of all places?”

For a moment, Marc considers lying to you. He considers telling you it’s all fine, that nothing hurts like that anymore.

He’s been honest with you so far, and things are fine, so he says, “I wanna be where you are. That’s it.” His voice is vulnerable to his own ears. “I don’t care where it is.”

You bite your lip, a troubled look still lodged in your eyes. “What about work-,”

He scoffs, “Baby, we’ve been here for months. There isn’t some job I gotta go back to.”

“You’ll have to explain that to me someday,” you say, cupping his jaw. “What it is you actually do.” Marc leans into your touch. He likes the way your fingers feel on his skin, how soft the pads of your fingers are.

He nods, though he’s not sure how he’ll explain any of that to you. “One day. Just…all you gotta know now is that it’s okay. There’s nothing in London anymore.”

“Does Steven really wanna live in Chicago?” You ask, incredulous. “What about Jake?”

Marc rolls his eyes. “Me and Steven already agree. And Jake thinks he’s a New Yorker, so-”

You snort and then laugh, burying your face against his neck. “Jake is a New Yorker. You should hear him talk about the-,”

“No, I don’t need to hear him talk about the fuckin’ Mets again,” Marc interrupts against your cheek when he turns his face against yours. Your breath fans warm over his skin, and the familiar scent of lavender envelopes him. “And we-,” he emphasizes, squeezing your waist. “-are Cubs fans.”

“Yes, we are,” you agree, pulling back to kiss his cheek and then the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I’ve got all this merch now, and I’ve been to two Cubs games. I can’t say that about the Mets-,”

“It’s only a matter of time before Jake gets you a Mets jersey,” Marc gripes. “And I need ya to promise me you’ll burn it when he does.”

“Asshole,” Jake mutters suddenly from the front window, not looking at you. “Always trying to make me the bad guy.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, “No. I won’t be doing that. Jake’s very sensitive. He would never forgive me for something like that.”

Jake grumbles something low under his breath, clearly embarrassed. “You’re right,” Marc says, just to irritate Jake. “He is sensitive. Very sensitive.”

You cock a brow at him, “He’s listening isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t tease him,” you reprimand.

Jake’s spine straightens with your words, a smug smile pulling over his face. “Protective of me, huh? See, pendejo, I’m more important.”

Marc rolls his eyes again, “He teases me all the time.”

“You need to be teased,” you say softly. “You don’t smile nearly enough.”

Marc thinks you smile enough for the both of them, so he just kisses you.

Somehow you’ve stopped talking about it, about how he’s going to leave, if only for a little while.

He reaches up to cup your face between his palms, strokes his thumbs along the curve of your cheeks, and only pulls back long enough to say, “There’s nothin’ left in London and I wanna be here.”

It goes unspoken between you that he wants to be with you, that they all do.

The radio plays another love song.

Tales Untold, Chicago 4:35 PM

It’s mid September and you have a slight cold.

Your nose is stuffed, and Marc thinks you look cute, rolled up in the duvet and with only your eyes and nose poking out from between the mountains of fabric.

You had wanted him to go stay with his dad, so he didn’t get sick. Instead he’d gone to get you medicine, some little treats. Sprite and crackers to settle your stomach, and ingredients for soup.

He’s going to make you matzo ball soup, because you’d told him how much you loved it the first time he brought his dad’s leftovers to you. You’d said it was the perfect soup, perfect for winter and when you were sick.

You groan at him to go home as he sets out the ingredients.

Instead of doing what you ask or starting on the soup, he toes his shoes off by the door and crosses the room to tug the duvet back.

“Marc,” you croak weakly when he nudges you over and crawls into bed with you. “You’re gonna get sick too. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Nah,” he whispers against the back of your neck, arms circling your waist, “I won’t. I promise.” Your body is hot with fever against his, even though you shiver like you’re cold.

The bed smells like lavender and clean cotton and sweat.

“I told you to go home so you don’t get sick too,” you grumble again into the duvet he tucks carefully back around your shoulders.

“Well, then I did exactly what you asked me to,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands slowly over your shivering body. You’re burning up, but until the fever breaks there’s nothing much he can do to help you. “I’m at home. This is home.” You don’t comment on that, and Marc grins when you huff in annoyance. “Wanted to tell you we got our plane ticket back to London.”

You’re quiet for a long time, and Marc wonders what exactly goes through your head. He can feel you tensing, swallowing back the tears that rise up the back of your throat in an effort to keep quiet and hide it from him.

Marc wishes you would let it out, that you would talk to him about it instead of being supportive without considering your own feelings. He wishes you could talk about it.

But you don’t.

He knows you’re trying to save him from any more guilt, but he also knows your fear, even if you don’t say it. You’re worried he’ll get back to London and remember all the reasons he has to stay away from Chicago, like he might realize you weren’t worth it.

It’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t know how to talk you away from that ledge. He’s not sure how to reassure you that he’ll come back. Even though Chicago is a place of heartache, it’s his hometown, it’s where you are and where so much love and happiness is.

Marc doesn’t say anything, just squeezes you tightly, palms fitted across your belly. “Oh,” you murmur eventually. “That’s good. You have a lot of things you need to sort out.”

“I will come back.” He nuzzles between your shoulder blades. “You know I will. Maybe you can come visit London while we’re there.”

“Really?” You perk up at that. “I’ve never been.”

“If you want,” he presses his cheek to the top of your spine. “You can help with the flat.”

You fold your hand over his, working your fingers between his. “Steven would be angry with me for dismantling his home,” you chuckle lightly.

“You know Steven thinks of here as home now too, right?”

You don’t answer again, your breathing slow and even, carefully controlled. “It is,” Marc says, when you don’t answer. “You can ask him yourself. He’ll tell you. Here is home for us.”

“It’s…but it’s going to be different,” you say lowly. “Of course, you have a place here with me,” you squeeze his hand tightly, reassuringly. “But you’ve been here for a reason. What if everything changes when it becomes permanent? I don’t want you to uproot yourself and then - this is just different, Marc. This is permanent. Maybe it won’t be fun anymore or maybe it…I mean there’s nowhere to go if-,”

Marc drops a kiss to your temple when he leans up above you on one elbow to glance at your face. “I don’t wanna go anywhere. Tell me you know that,” he pleads as you turn onto your back. “Tell me you know what you mean to us.”

Your lips quirk in a small smile, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Your fingers are gentle when you push them into his side. “Of course.”

“You know here is home now.”

“I know here is home now,” you repeat. “For you.”

He leans down to kiss you, even though you laugh and try to push him away. “Where’s home for you?” He asks, mouth brushing yours.

Your hand fits against his chest. “Here.”

A cemetery, Chicago 3:16 PM

The light wavers yellow and warm through branches laden with burnt orange and scarlet leaves, the colors rapidly browning. Marc walks alone between graves, careful not to step anywhere he shouldn’t.

His mind is quiet and though you had offered to come with him, he’d adamantly refused.

You’ve done enough for him over the last few months, and this was something he wants to do by himself. This is something he has to do alone.

He can’t remember the last time he visited his brother’s grave. It’s been years, maybe decades.

He’s never seen his mother’s, not once, though he knows they’re buried quite close together. There’s a plot for his father, and one for Marc too.

Marc, in all his brushes with death, never thought of what would become of his body. Probably because he was so far away from home he’d never considered being buried in the family plot.

The air smells like fall, like fallen leaves and decay. But the day is nice, the sky a clean robin’s egg blue, and the scent of sunshine and the dregs of summer lingers in the air too.

It’s still warm, but the air has lost its heat. Summer has faded so quickly, Marc feels like he’s lost time. He blinked and the days were gone.

But he remembers all of it. Every second with you, in your shop, with his father, in that house that still haunted his dreams. He remembers every second with you, every moment in your apartment and in the shop. He remembers every brushstroke made, every valiantly repointed line in the brick wall, every single drive to the hardware store, every laugh, every dinner cooked together, and every piano note played.

For once, time escaping him doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

He stops in the shade of a tree, leaves spinning down gently in the sun.

It’s an incredibly beautiful day.

Marc is still glad you didn’t come with him, but he does wish he’d gotten to spend today outside with you. You love the sun, and Marc likes to look at you in the sun.

He doesn’t look at his mother’s grave, not yet. He looks only at his little brother, who he’ll never feel like he didn’t fail in some way.

Marc apologizes for not visiting, for taking so long to visit since the last time. Feeling just a little bit stupid, he tells Randall about you. But the cemetery is empty and so he tries not to feel too bad about it. He likes talking about you, in any case. You’re easy to talk about, easy to like.

He says the Kaddish and then crouches to lie two stones at the base of the headstone, one for himself and one from you.

He stays there for a long time, hand braced on the edge of the smooth rock, head bowed. “Sorry,” he says gently, because there’s no one there to hear him, and no one there to tell him not to. “I’m sorry, and I always will be.”

Saying it wasn’t his fault would never make the guilt quite go away.

When he stands, he has to take a moment to swipe the tears away from his face, before he can face his mother.

Even in death she intimidates him.

Like he could still be punished for doing nothing wrong, even now.

A cold chill sweeps down his spine when he finally turns to her grave.

He swallows hard, and thinks of you, how last Saturday you’d gone to the synagogue with his father when Marc hadn’t felt able to. You had come home smiling, with treats picked up from a Jewish bakery you’d gotten and hidden away from him the day before.

Marc thinks of all your small kindnesses, all of the thoughtfulness you applied to everything you did. The way you embraced him and Steven and Jake, and made an effort with his father even though you had no real reason to. You’d had no reason to go with his father, especially without Marc, but still you did.

You listened to all Steven’s long winded stories about Egyptology, and you indulged Jake in his flirting and silent need for acceptance.

There weren’t a lot of people, at least not that Marc could think of, that would do that.

You love him, he thinks he knows that, even if you don’t say it.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just stares down at her headstone and wonders where to start, if he has enough courage to.

A breeze sinks through the cemetery, ruffles the curls at the base of his neck. It reminds him of the way your fingers always tangle there.

“I forgive you,” he says, voice nearly inaudible, almost giving out. He should be stronger than this, louder than this, but it would have to do. “Maybe you don’t deserve it, but I do. I deserve to forgive you and move on. I hope…that you found peace.”

Marc’s hands are in fists, blunt nails cutting into the flesh of his palms.

He closes his eyes and says the Kaddish again before bending to leave a single stone.

Marc turns and walks back through the cemetery.

He doesn’t look back once.

His heart stutters in his chest all the way back to Tales Untold, panic building in the back of his throat. Like his mother would, even now, be able to know he spoke out of turn, would be able to hurt him again.

But you’re waiting for him, lodged firmly on the front step even with the chill seeping into the afternoon air. You tug him into you when you yank the door of your borrowed truck, not even waiting for him to climb out, and the feeling dissipates.

The knot along Marc’s spine loosens, the panic that homes inside his chest eases.

He clutches you tight to his chest and lets out a long breath.

“You did it, hermano.”

“Well done, Marc.”

You pull back and tilt your head. “I’m okay,” he says. “It was fine.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Chicago O’Hare International Airport 2:35 PM

It’s early October, and the first really chilly day has settled over the city.

The skies are slate gray and the clouds hang low in the sky. It��s only slightly oppressive, like the whole cloudbank might come crashing down at any moment.

The terminal is busy, and Marc takes a moment to find a little pocket of peace away from the rush people, the loud noise that is any airport.

“Are you sure you have everything?”

You’re looking at him with big, anxious eyes. “If I don’t,” he says gently. “I’ll be back in a couple months anyways.”

Marc knows you’re trying not to let him see just how upset you are. You haven’t cried in front of him, but he’s heard you try to hide the sniffles from behind the bathroom door more than once. “Yeah,” you rasp. “Of course. I know that. If you left anything I’ll keep it for you until you can come back and-”

“Baby,” he interrupts softly, tucking his passport and boarding pass into his back pocket before tugging you into him. “I’m coming back.”

“Y’don’t know that for sure,” you say suddenly, your breath hitching. “Everything you are now is in London-,”

He shakes his head, pulls back and cradles your jaw between his palms. You’ve given him so much comfort over the past few months, now is the time for him to offer it back to you. “It’s here now, everything I am. It’s with you. I’m coming back. I’m coming home.”

“I just,” you swallow and blink slowly at him. “I just don’t wanna be without you. I don’t want to be alone.”

Marc is sure that the feeling that cracks through his chest is his heart breaking.

“Hey, no-,”

“I just don’t wanna lose you,” you say softly. “I’ve come to rely on you a lot now too. I mean, who else is going to help me unclog the kitchen sink and unpot those stupid flowers for the millionth time? Who’s gonna build me stuff? And what about Steven and Jake? Who am I gonna make stained glass with and who’s going to teach me how to finally drive a manual car-,”

He feels a slight smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “And I wanna…I like having you around. I like all three of you and I like hanging out with your dad. And I like that you live with me and you show me parts of Chicago I never thought to go to and-,”

“Hey,” he interrupts more firmly this time. “We will do all those things. Us.”

“You-,”

“Me,” he emphasizes. “I’ll do all that stuff. Because I’ll be back. We will. Steven and Jake will drag our asses back, if not.” He means to make you grin back at him, but your eyes just go glassy again. “Hey,” he pulls you in. “C’mon, baby. We’ll call you every day. You aren’t losing anything. I promise.”

“Really?” You tug on his shirt. “For real, you promise?”

“I swear.”

“Promise, Marc,” you say into his shoulder when he tucks you into him. The heat of you seeps into him, along with all the things he’ll miss about you. He’s the one leaving, but that doesn’t make it easy on him. Maybe you’d realize everything he wasn’t the second he stepped away. But he has to try, he wants to make things work with you and that starts with going back to London to sort his shit out. “Promises are important.”

“I promise,” he says. “I promise, sweetheart.”

You give him a watery smile at the intense strain in his voice. “I believe you. I just don’t want to have to let you go.”

“Not letting anything go. You’re not letting anything go and neither am I. I’m not going anywhere.” You try to glance away, but he doesn’t let you, just like you never let him give up or look away. “I’ll be back by the new year. No longer than that. Hopefully sooner.”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Honey, you’re gonna miss your flight if you don’t go. Security might be-,”

“Fuck security. There are always other flights. I need to know that you know this is happening. I am coming back.”

“I know, Marc-,”

“You don’t though,” he says, adamant about it and not sure how to explain. “You don’t know what I’ve been through with you. You don’t know how much you’ve…how much you mean to me. I never woulda made it through this summer without you.”

There’s a long pause between you. Your eyes are wide as they search his. Marc doesn’t glance away, determined for you to see before he leaves.

You cover his hands with your own where it lays against your cheek. “Marc,” you lean in to kiss him. “I got you. I love you too.”

He doesn’t manage a response, just tightens his arms around you. “Yeah.”

“You need to go,” you whisper. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Marc tugs you with him, and you follow with a smile until the security area comes into view. “Bye, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing you one last time.

You nod, and smile. “Bye, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

“Right,” he confirms. “Soon. And we’ll call everyday.”

“Of course you will, you promised,” you remind him. “Promised me, Spector.”

You release him gently, and back away a few steps. “I did. We will,” he says, just to keep standing there for a couple more seconds.

You wave and then make a gentle shooing motion. “Get going.”

Marc turns and goes before he can change his mind, before he can anchor himself to you and ignore every responsibility he’s ever had.

He gets in line and valiantly tries not to look back at you, but he can’t quite manage it. When he finally chances a glance back, he expects you to have disappeared like a mirage, like everything that happened and everything he gained had been one long dream. But when he turns you’re still there, watching him.

Marc can tell you’re crying a little, but you smile and wave each time he glances back.

Finally, you disappear from view and the story of you rounds itself out in Marc’s heart.

He will come back, and you will still be there waiting.

He will come home, because that’s who you are.

Once again, thank you so much for reading and for coming on this journey with me. You don't know how much it means that this particular story has gotten so much love from all of you. I wish I were better at explaining, just know that I love and adore all of you. Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart.

I'm going to miss this little world a lot.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction

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sarahsartistportfolio · 1 month

Text

Knight X Princess AU with Albedo

wc: 3,926

Ok so many many months ago I had made this post and the lovely @witch-hazels-musings decided to pick it up and turn it into a series. Back then I had little interest in actually writing fanfic but now I'm dipping my toes in it. And I have the inspiration for knight Albedo so I tried to write. And it ended up pretty long lol

Um there are some author's notes at the end. And Hazel if you end up reading this, your writing is truly such an inspiration. You completely have my blessing if you wanna use anything I wrote here in your own knight series❤

Once upon a time, you’re the youngest princess of Mondstadt.

At the tender age of seven a strange woman approaches your father with a proposal. You watch secretly behind the grey stone wall as this foreign woman talks to your father, the king. The woman’s hands are resting on the shoulders of a child beside her, a little golden-haired boy about your age. You're too young to make out any sense of the conversation they're having. And it isn't until your older brother spots you, and rushes you away that that little boy looks behind him to catch a glimpse of you.

This mysterious woman not only convinced your father to take this young boy in but also that he will be your future personal knight.

Your father stands behind tiny you as he introduces you.

“ Y/N, this is Kreideprinz, he’ll be training with the knights of Favonius. You’ll be spending a lot of time together when you're older.”

Albedo’s piercing icey blue eyes seem to look right through. He barely moves, only taking a low formal bow with “Princess.” as his introduction.

You extend a curtsy back towards him(or at least try to, your sister has been desperately teaching you how to perform one right)

Your gruff father’s voice cuts through

“His mentor told me he’s developed a skill for the arts at such a young age. Just like you Y/N.”

This moment marks the start of a fond habit the two of you will share in the many years to come. Given parchment and colorful pastels by your father you and Albedo draw together out in the open courtyard. And although he doesn't say much and you’re a bit too nervous to say anything towards him, you make a small attempt.

“Kreidepr-”

“Albedo.” he cuts you off with an unchanging neutral expression.

“Please call me Albedo, your highness.”

From that moment forward you two become a familiar presence in each other’s lives. When you weren’t being taught your sixth lesson by your governess and when he was done with training with the order of the knights, you two played together. He would show off his newly learned sword stance or a raw material he was gifted by his teacher in his alchemy lesson. You quickly learned he was a curious child. Not afraid to pick up the creepiest of bugs or tornest of plants.(You even watched him eat a spider much to your shock.) He would tell you random facts about the stars, the weather or flowers that grew on the castle’s grounds. You rarely saw him smile, his expression always remaining so indifferent. It was like he hadn’t learned how to smile yet.

Meanwhile you shared with Albedo the juicy gossip you overheard from the visiting diplomats or a map you stole from your father’s collection of newly discovered lands from outside your kingdom. You two developed a love of drawing together whenever you both could escape the pressures of the adults. It's peaceful, drawing together on a large piece of paper. Of what you hoped your futures to look like, what countries you’d like to visit, what new foods you’d like to try.

When you’re about 15 years old it's when he officially becomes your guard. You’ve noticed as you’ve grown older Albedo seems to keep his distance from people. Except you, as he’s quite forced to be your shadow. It really feels like nothing has changed at all except now he wears the royal uniform and he’s the first face you see when you wake up and the last before you retire for bed.

You don't quite understand his love for science but you indulge in his hobby nonetheless. You listen to him ramble about experiments and data that just go right over your head. But you really do try to pay attention! Because you consider him your friend now. Plus his voice is so calming, you could listen to him talk about anything for hours.

On the occasions you are able to, if you find a rare preserved bug or rock said to have fallen from the sky, you gift it to Albedo. (Even if on occasion he says a bit sheepishly “I already have one of these in my collection” he still accepts it from you regardless).

You’re the first one he shares that he’s been gifted a vision. He tells you way too calmly for having been blessed with such a powerful item but you get excited for him.

A few more years pass and Albedo could actually count on one hand how many times he’s actually had to defend you. He’s grateful really, that’s it's been so little, that his job is relatively boring. He’s thankful that so far your life has been safe.

He does remember although, the first time he ever saw you truly fearful. A few years back when you two were still teenagers. A siege from a neighboring kingdom, one who wanted more power, marched right up to the city’s gates. You and your siblings were barricaded in an enforced room deep within the castle. “If the enemy starts to breach the outer room of these walls, I want you to take my sister and run, escape from here through the underground passage.” Your older brother had told Albedo secretly earlier.

Albedo had never seen you genuinely afraid before that day. As the sounds of screams and combat can be heard from within this room's thick walls. Your clammy and tight grip on his hand never leaves him as your other hand clenched at the fabric of your dress.

The sound of cannon fire shaking the walls has made you jump in surprise and even has shaken Albedo’s usual calm demeanor.

“We’ll be alright.” He reassures you although his slightly nervous tone betrays his words. He squeezes your hand “I promise we’ll survive this.”

And it's through your closest friend’s unwavering certainty that you find it in yourself to give him a weak smile and nod.

And as if the gods hold true to Albedo’s word, the battle never reaches inside the castle. Your loyal army causes the enemy to retreat. Its safe again at last. But when your siblings start to exit the room, You find yourself breaking down. You were trying desperately to hold it together in front of your family but now just in the presence of Albedo tears being to fall. He stops and moves right in front of you, his hand now resting on your shoulder as he tries to brush the tears from your cheeks. A rare look of concern and worry on his face as he quietly calls your name.

“I’m sorry.” you sniffle and try to regain some composure in your voice. “I’m sorry. Look at me crying while everyone else is relieved. I should be stronger than this. A royal should be stronger than this.”

As he glances back at the doorway waiting til it's just the two of you left in this room, he embraces you, in this brief quiet moment he holds you close.

Yes so far you’ve been kept safe. Even skillfully dogaging a marriage proposal or two.

That is…until the curse catches up to you.

You see there’s been a long past down story that your family will one day suffer from a curse. But that’s all this is right? A story? A story of some ancestor of yours angring a deity or magical creature and getting cursed that one day your royal bloodline will die out. But that’s just a fairy tale right?

It starts with your father the king. But he’s already old and frail so his death, while heartbreaking, is not all too unexpected. Albedo is still there at your side as you lie a flower down on your father’s tomb.

Now your oldest brother inherits the throne. You’re happy to see him in power, your family has been very close. He’s only about seven years older than you and healthy for his age.

So two months after his coronation, when he falls ill. It's a shock to you and your two other siblings. The royal doctor has no answer, you call for healers outside your borders, offering huge payments in return. But within a week, your dear brother is gone.

Albedo watches as you try to put on a strong facade for your sister and brother. But he can see the trembling in your hands. This isn’t normal, this shouldn’t be happening. Let alone to someone as undeserving as you.

Now Albedo is no doctor but there must be something he can do, some way he can help. He scours the castle library for every book on rare illnesses and even dips into your family’s genealogy. When nothing there serves his pursuit he ventures out into the city, even to the outskirts of Mondstadt for any scrap of information that could help him.

And within this short time Albedo is searching, your older sister takes the throne and a month later she is dead.

Albedo watches as you attempt to reassure your last remaining family member. “It's the curse isn’t it?” your brother replies with paranoia.

But it can’t be. Albedo tries to convince himself. He has studied magic extensively, curses aren’t unheard of but. To think this tragedy would touch you? The only person in his life he considers a friend?

Albedo is a man of science, of tangible proof that you can hold in your hand. A curse that was placed on your family for some unknown reason, generations ago by most likely some being or person that’s long since passed? He thinks back to when he was 15, glancing to his side as he kneels before the king to take his vow, to see you trying to hold back a gleeful smile as you watch him take his oath to serve by your side till his last dying breath.

A curse? He will not just bend it but break it completely.

He neglects you a bit again during this time. So into his research as he has been many times in the past. He reassures you this time it's to help you. Your brother only makes it two weeks before he’s caught a fever. Albedo closes his book, leaves his lab, and returns to your side as you say your last goodbyes to your brother.

The young man feels as if the world is crumbling beneath his very feet with how fast both of your lives have changed in such a short amount of time. He wants to return to those carefree days of when you two drew together out in the courtyard, not to now where he has to watch the joy leave your eyes, not one where he has to watch you bury your family, where he’ll have to watch you be-

No no no he can’t think like that. Not now. Not when there’s still time to change the future. But he just can’t bring himself to leave your side right now. Not now when your skin is growing pale, you're losing your appetite and your eyes grow tired. You two are friends. He understands this, you taught him what friendship is, what it looks like, feels like. But recently with this suffering that has fallen to you, he can’t feel but feel a new emotion, one he can’t comprehend. Recently he’s had such a strong desire to embrace you more often. Hold your hand. And when you're standing too close caressing his cheek, kiss you. But is this love? Could something that’s not even human grasp such a raw emotion?

“Albedo…” you weakly beckon him closer, offering a piece of charcoal in your hand. He knows why you're doing this. But it won't be the last time, he swears to himself.

“Remember when we were kids,” you start with your horse voice “I drew us climbing to the top of Dragonspire, that’s what I saw in our future.” you smile nostalgically as you brush off loose charcoal off your paper.

“We can still do that.” He says unwaveringly. “When your strength returns to you I’ll take you up there. As I’ve done myself many times in the past.” His vibrant blue eyes hold a conviction that you admire so much about him. It's surely one of the reasons you’ve fallen in love with him. All you can do is smile a bit pitfully back at him “Keep your promise.”

Once you become bedridden he can not will his legs to leave your side. Only once the inconvenient pain of hunger or sleep pulls him away from your side. Although he can not bear to be in the room with you as you dictate your will and last testament to your royal advisor.

The next morning as he just barely got enough sleep, as he’s making his way to your bedroom he hears faint crying and fear just takes hold of his heart. His trembling knees almost give out at the sight of you lifeless on the bed, your attendants weeping besides you. His mouth dry, eyes wide with dread.

“She’s alive but she’s asleep…” the priest standing over your bedside says. “Nothing we do will wake her.”

Albedo stays by your side attentively the next few days. It's true nothing he does or gives to your body will wake you. There’s only the steady rise and fall of your chest and quiet breathing. The image of the princess’s most loyal guard resting at his knees beside your bed with his hand in yours, this image is forever stuck with the servants and remaining court who catch a glimpse of it behind your door.

“Are you sure about this Albedo?” Jean questions him with concern as she hands him his last supply bag. Albedo sits on top a sturdy horse, at the city’s gate, early in the morning when the sky is still a mix of orange and purple. The sun illuminating the back of the castle, casting a large shadow over the city. It could be the last time he ever sees his home, the last time he ever sees you. “Absolutely.” he answers the grand master.

This is not an aimless journey for Albedo. He has leads, names, places of interest that have ties to your family’s name. In the beginning he felt immensely guilty. You could have passed away one, two days after he left Mondstadt. He doesn't know how long he’ll be away from your side. He could return to a kingdom in disarray, a power vacuum left by your passing, he could return to see your name on the family tomb. He travels farther and farther. Past the neighboring kingdom Liyue. On a boat to Inazuma, where he watches the leaves fall and snow dust the ground. He’s quiet during this time and single track minded. He rarely interacts with the people living in the lands. Except for when he overhears your name or family's name spoken in a conversation. Then he stops said person and with an impassive expression demands they tell him more.

On a boat to Sumeru is where his next hunch takes him. As he counts the consolations in the night sky on the rocking ship, he finds his mind drifting back to you. When he sees a woman with your same hair color out of the corner of his eye, he thinks of you. When he sits at his campfire late at night, bathed in an orange glow and sketches, he thinks of you drawing at his side. When, with just the little tools and materials he carries on him, he’s able to transform one element to the next, he thinks of your face of innocent amazement as you applaud him for what he believes is a simple feat. Archons he misses the sound of your voice.

With nothing to show for his efforts in Sumeru he treks through the sweltering hot desert for Fontaine. Catching a small boat to the port he recalls a memory from your shared childhood. He remembers as children you two would talk about traveling to vast unknown lands when you were older. Now he has slain so many alien beasts, came face to face with ancient deities that have been around since the stars formed, he’s walked through lands that didn't even feel real, like he was walking through a dream. There’s now a deep white scar from his wrist to his elbow. He wonders if, no when, you see it will you scold him for being so reckless. He imagines you tenderly tracing the raised skin as you tell him to “please don't be so reckless for my sake”. He smiles. The only time he smiles is when he thinks of home or you.

He silently promises you that he’ll recount every adventure and monster slain to you when you’re awake.

By the time he reaches Snezhnaya the usual snow has melted, breathing spring into the once fridgen landscape. Outworldly Albedo looks defeated. His eyes are so tired. And he just misses you so much. He never thought his pursuit to awaken you from your endless sleep would take him so far from the city of freedom. He used to think himself so smart and capable. But even in Snezhnaya every written or spoken word of your family’s curse brings him no closer to the truth. No matter what god he begs to or monster he strikes down he still gets no answers. He recalls the court alchemist telling him “You’re a curious student Albedo. Your perseverance for the truth will lead you far in life.”

But now as Albedo sits at the far end of a dimly lit tavern, he feels like such a disappointment to you, to the one his heart yearns for. He should have told you he loved you. He should have told you so many months back. But at that time he was still coming to terms with what “love” really felt like.

If Albedo wasn’t so lost in thought he would have picked up how the tavern’s bard is singing an all too familiar song. Lyrics about a mysterious and silent knight who is on a quest to bring his beloved lover back to life. But Albedo’s mind is ruminating about the past.

It's only after the music has stopped and the boisterous tavern has quieted down does Albedo take his leave. Although once outside to the oddly soundless streets he hears a voice.

“You should return home loyal knight.” It's the bard that was singing inside the tavern. His dress and accent oddly Mondstadtan. “This act of love is enough to save her. I felt your devotion long before you arrived here.”

Yes…maybe it is time to return home.

His journey back home is heavy. As the spring turns into the hot and humid days of summer. But he is returning home empty handed. No real world proof that this curse is even real. I have failed the only person who has mattered to me the most. At this point Albedo desires nothing more than to let his dreary eyes close as he rests at your side, so he can at least tell you he loves you in your dream.

He’s grateful to see that Mondstadt still looks the same. The castle still stands in the distance. And as he nears the city he overhears the townsfolk speak of you as if you’re still asleep. So all my effort?...All my research?...What good was the pursuit of knowledge if it could not return to him the one he holds dear to his heart.

At least he can see you one last time.

As he arrives inside the castle's walls he sees a cluster of favonius knights huddled together, discussing something with vigor. And when a familiar face notices Albedo’s tired and weary figure, they spirit over to him.

The pure astonishment on his colleague's face is the only thing Albedo’s mind registers as the person word dumps onto him.

All Albedo catches through his hazy thoughts are

“It's you! You’ve really returned Kreideprinz.-”

“We thought you were-”

“-amazing! Just an hour ago-”

“-she asked for you. First word she said-”

And that’s all Albedo can hear as his feet move on their own to your room. Where all the castle’s attendants are congregating outside your bedroom door, weeping joyfully and thanking Barbados.

He pushes his way past the crowd and despite his disheveled appearance he’s recognized and allowed to enter.

He feels like he just stepped into a dream. A beautiful, idealized dream. There you, awake, standing, walking. Talking to one of your ladies before your eyes meet his. So much time has passed. What if you don't recognize him? What if you don’t remember him at all? His own voice caught in his throat as he watches you bring your hand over your mouth. And with pure disbelief in your voice “Albedo?” and that’s all he needed.

It's as if he’s moving through the haze of a romanticized storybook page, he runs toward you and takes you into his arms. He holds you like you might slip through his fingers at any moment. It's a dream, it must be. Maybe some ghastly creature killed him some time ago and this is celestia. He would happily embrace it.

“Albedo.” you call his name through a broken sob. It's tender, and it's all he wants to hear for the rest of his life, as hot tears roll down his cheek and disappear into your hair.

And for you? It's like walking straight into heaven, back into your knight’s arms. You’ve missed the touch of his blonde hair and the smell of his clothes. You dreamt about him, over and over again. Even through the endless darkness of your nightmare. Your heart clung to every precious memory with Albedo as if absolutely refusing to forget him.

He lets out a deep sigh as you can hear the smile in his quiet voice “This is a dream, I’m dreaming.” it’s whispered against your neck.

You let out a laugh and not even angels above could compare to the sound.

“I’m real Albedo. I’m right here.” You run your fingers through the loose strands of his hair. “I’m right here.” You prop your chin on his shoulder so he can hear you clearly. “And I love you.”

Ah you beat him to it

All throughout his life you’ve been a consist. You’ve remained by his side even when he’s pushed others away or neglected them.

Under normal circumstances Albedo would never be this brash but with your warm body under his fingertips he can’t think rationally anymore.

His lips find yours, and it's all passion and yearning. And a little clumsy, as it's both of your’s first kiss.

“I love you.” He can finally tell you as you are awake to repeat it back.

…..

Now, up on top Dragonspire peak, there lies a piece of paper, held down by four rocks on each corner. On the paper is a child’s drawing, depicting a girl wearing a crown and a boy wearing the royal guard seal. They are holding hands, standing triumphantly on top a mountain.

….

Oh and now instead of Mondstadtians telling stories of your family’s curse. Every mother tucking their children into bed, every old storyteller over a bonfire, is now recounting the story of a devoted silent knight, braving the seven corners of Teyvat, all to save his true love.

A/N: So when thinking of what situation to throw knight Albedo and princess reader in, I thought of childhood friends to lovers because it felt so natural. I don’t know, I could totally see Albedo falling for his childhood friend where one day when he’s older he just realizes “oh my god its you. Its always been you.” Thoma would make a great childhood friends to lovers now that I think about it lol. Also thinking about what foil to pit him against. I was thinking ok he’s a scientist. Let me pit him against something he can’t understand, something that can’t be solved with equations or facts, but only by the arbitrary logic of some ancient deity that casted a curse on you. And as a lover of Grimms and Anderson’s fairy tales this was fun to write.

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