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ladykailitha · 8 months

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No chapter today because even though yesterday netted over 1000 words, it was 1000 over five stories and that wasn't enough for a full chapter. So today you get another AU.

Steve is the foundling child of Titania and Oberon. You know, that thing that little issue they fighting over at the beginning of "A Midsummer's Night's Dream"? They make a habit of it over the years and Steve is their latest.

And like before, Titania is gifted the baby when the mother dies in child birth, and Oberon wants him to be his servant. They set up house in Hawkins because that's where Steve was born. Father is who knows. Didn't care enough to stick around.

Steve's childhood isn't exactly idyllic, not with them still fighting over him, but it's a good life nonetheless, never really wanting for anything. And even though he's still human, hanging out with the king and queen of the faeries is going to rub off you in a lot of ways.

So once he hits puberty, it's like he was hit with the pretty stick. Everyone starts fawning over him.

He gets to high school and clocks Eddie. He walks right up to him and says, "I know what you are, who you are. And you better stay the hell away from me unless you want to die." And walks off.

Eddie is confused as hell.

Fast forward to Vecna and they defeat him. Only Titania is pissed. Because if there is anything that could entice the Queen of Faeries and that's a pretty young man. Like say...Henry Creel?

A non-munched on Eddie and the rest of the party is staring at the king and queen in shock. Because (and let's sprinkle in a little "The Sandman" in here for funsies) Titania gifted Henry control over the abandoned realm of Destruction to play in when El banished him there by accident.

Steve's pissed and picks up his nail bat. He tells them that he's human enough for the iron nails not to hurt him, but he can't say the same for them.

He takes off his shirt and sprouts wings, god damned, honest to God, faerie wings. He walks over to Eddie presses a kiss on his lips and says, "I hope you forgive me." And he leaps into battle with them.

The party is confused as hell. Well almost everyone. Eddie and Robin are cursing up a storm.

The party has no idea who the two new problems are.

"Oberon and Titania," Eddie breathes. "That son of bitch."

Dustin is "What!"

Everyone else is "Who?"

And so he explains "A Midsummer's Nights Dream" to them and they all get it now.

"Faeries don't exist!" Mike sneers.

"Yes they do!" Robin says. "My great, great, great grandmother was a faerie!"

Eddie face palms. "Let me guess, a lot of bird and flower names in your family?"

She nods excitedly.

"How did you find out about Steve? Because you weren't surprised when he faeried out," Eddie says.

"Russian truth serum," she says proudly. "Not so great on humans, works surprisingly well on the fae. Who knew?"

There is a lot of yelling at that, but Eddie shuts them up. "And you're okay with that?"

She shrugs and holds up her hands. "Apparently me being gay wasn't the biggest reveal on the floor of the bathroom."

The party erupts again.

Eddie looks over their shoulders to see that Steve is struggling against his foster parents.

"Robin, I need you to boost me," he says seriously.

"Oh hell no!" she screams at him. "I know who you are, and they will kill you."

He thumbs over his shoulder at Steve. "You want him to fight them by himself?"

Robin sighs. "No."

He backs up to run, but she stops him.

"Take off your boots!"

Eddie frowns. "Why?"

"You're not going to need them," she replies, "and I'm not touching those muddy monstrosities."

Eddie throws his hands in the air and immediately starts yanking at his laces. He pulls them off and thrusts them at Dustin. He takes Steve's ax from him.

"Is this cold iron?" Eddie asks.

"It's steel," Dustin says.

Eddie purses his lips. "Is. This. Cold. Iron?"

Dustin shrugs. "As close as you can get in this day and age, I guess."

Eddie nods. He's muttering to himself about how long it's been since he's done this and how the wood of the ax handle should protect him.

Nancy rushes forward and places her hand on his chest. "Just what are you planning?"

Eddie pushes her off him. "Helping Steve."

He looks to Robin and she nods. He takes off his leather jacket and hands it to Nancy. Then he runs at Robin. He leaps on her interlaced hands and she boosts him into the air.

He whirls and spins in mid-air, sprouting blood red wings. His hands and feet, taint black. Horns unfurl from the top of his head.

"Whoa!" Lucas says. "Is Eddie a faerie, too?"

Robin shakes her head. "No. No one knows for sure what he is. Sometimes he's on the side of the king and queen, sometimes he's not. Right now and for the last few centuries decidedly, not."

"So who is he?" Will asks in awe as he watches Eddie make turns and weaves as he joins the fight against Oberon and Titania.

"He has many names," Robin says solemnly. "Hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow, or more commonly? Puck."

Dustin's eyes go wide and his mouth drops.

"You guys are so fucking lucky that he likes you," Robin says bitterly.

Dustin can only agree.

Steve and Eddie win and everyone is back at the Wheeler basement and they all have questions. Lots and lots.

The first thing anyone says is Eddie. "You being a foundling of the fae makes all of Steve in high school make so much sense."

Steve looks down and blushes.

"How so?" Max asks.

Eddie starts counting off on his fingers, "The douchebag persona, the house parties usually at someone else's house, and if they were at his house, Tommy would buy the weed, the everyone fawning over you, and that hell of a warning, it was all so that I wouldn't come over to your house, wasn't it?"

"What now?" Mike asks.

Steve clears his throat. "He's right. If Pu-I mean Eddie came over to my house, he would immediately know who my parents were, and they would be able to sense who Eddie was. And since Eddie was going through high school I wasn't about to narc on him and get him killed."

"Oh my god, I dated a fucking faerie!" Nancy cries.

And the room goes silent. Will looks at his shoes and Jonathan glares at her.

She stops for a second. "Oh god! Not like that. Although maybe a little like that considering Steve kissed Eddie, but I meant a literal faerie."

Steve shrugs. "I like either."

Jonathan frowns. "Wait, how did Nancy escape the faerieness? Because seriously, compared to that--" he waves at Steve, "I'm nothing."

Steve shrugs again. "Grief. Or trauma. I'm only a human raised by faeries, I'm not really one myself. Yeah, I've got the wings and the glamour of a faerie but I'm not one."

"Is there an Eddie Munson?" Dustin asks.

Eddie half shrugs. "Yeah, him and his father are out boosting cars in Texas."

Erica eyes him skeptically. "And the guy you've been saying is your uncle, what is he?"

"A lonely man who wanted kids of his own," Eddie says softly, "who knew that if Eddie stayed in his father's care would turn out just like him. So I pretended to be Eddie for him. I made sure there was always enough food to go on the table and roof over our heads. If he got low on money, a shift at the plant would open up for him to take or the reversing of a bank error."

Everyone fell silent.

And that's all I have for the moment, this is just me info dumping. But maybe some day I'll expand on this.

Tagging because for some reason not a lot of people saw this yesterday.

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @renaissan-vvitch @goodolefashionedloverboi @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @a-little-unsteddie @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @itsall-taken @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @bookbinderbitch @littlewildflowerkitten @vecnuthy @redfreckledwolf @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #the sandman #a little bit #midsummer's night's dream AU #titania #oberon #faeries #fae folk

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fauxraven · 1 year

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Age of the Wandering Fae [I]

pairing: Dream of the Endless x Nuala of the Faerie

summary: A thousand times of choosing others and the one time she chooses herself.

warnings: spoilers for the comics, only canon-compliant through the beginning of The Kindly Ones, Nuala is underrated.

word count: 5k+

dedicated to @nualaofthefaerie

Enter the Dream, weary traveller

There is a diamond teardrop resting upon her heart.

It shimmers against a sea of new galaxies and supernovas long since imploded.

There is a sapphire teardrop in her eyes.

It glistens like a pebble under the glare of a dying sun. Insignificant, in the infinite scheme of everlasting everything.

There is a ruby teardrop in the throne room. It drops like a dead planet, tumbling off the endless ocean of galaxies shimmering in his eyes.

The ruby bounces off the floors, falls out of her chest, skips across the fabric of the worlds and shatters at her feet.

Her brother had called it World’s End.

This is infinitely worse.

The heavy words linger inside what is left of a heart that’s been trampled time and time again. For the last time.

‘’What?’’ When she finds her voice, the word is small, inconsequential, to her likeness.

‘’Is there anything you wish to take away with you, Nuala?’’ He repeats, as if she could ever forget, ever dismiss the sound of his voice.

She shakes her head feebly.

‘’Very well. I would like to formally thank you for your service, these last three years. Give me your pendant.’’

‘’What?’’

This is not real. This can’t be real. This is a dream. A nightmare. She knows he’s just remade the Corinthian; she knows he would not—could not… let her go?

‘’Your pendant.’’

A slender finger touches her heart. The diamond teardrop sparkles, a pure white light emanating from within. The pale hand falls away with her hope.

‘’There,’’ he says, dark starry eyes sweeping over her own. ‘’For your loyal service. A gift. If in need, hold the stone with both hands and call me. I will come to you. You may have one boon.’’

Oh.

‘’You desire more than that?’’

No.

No, thank you, sire. Very kind of you, sire.

The diamond teardrop tumbles down a steep hill and joins the ruby at the bottom of a winding staircase.

At the very top of those stairs, lays the universe, in all its infinite glory.

At the bottom, lies her crumpled heart, a brother that has never deserved her and a dream lord who has never wanted her.

A dream lord who lets her go, the same way she came into his possession.

A dream lord who, just like everyone else in her life, will not fight for her.

Somewhere deep within the Garden of Forking Ways, Destiny of the Endless startles. A shackled hand flips through an ancient book of endless tales—flips and flips until his fingers smart, and then stops.

This is the moment that changes everything.

For the first time in the history of Time, Nuala of the Faerie decides to fight for herself.

‘’That’s all?’’

‘’You desire more then?’’

‘’Screw you.’’

She can barely see Dream’s eyes beneath the heavy bangs shielding his deathly glare, but the single star twinkles, twinkles against her odds.

Beside her, an unworthy brother stifles a laugh.

‘’Nuala, you jest! How I’ve missed this. But do leave some for—‘’

‘’No,’’ her voice has never been this stern, this cutting. Her cold eyes briefly find his dilated pupils. ‘’You left me here. No, you traded me. Offered me up like I was some sort of jewel. Less than—a… nothing. I was nothing to you. I always have been. Screw you.’’ A daring faerie finger jabs the Dream Lord in the chest. ‘’And screw you.’’

‘’You forget yourself, Nuala.’’

‘’I don’t even know who I am,’’ she replies quietly. And then the rest of the world falls away and Cluracan’s lulling voice disappears. In this new sheltered universe, there remains two people, huddled under the blazing light of a thousand stars. She isn’t even half of them. ‘’I warned you. I kept telling you but you wouldn’t listen. Was this really worth it? Was she worth it?’’

She recalls weeks of endless rain and aimless walks under his bedchambers, hoping to catch even the slightest glimpse of him. Tucked in a corner of the Dreaming, standing in all his ethereal glory on the highest balcony of the dream world, brooding as he's always been, she’d still spent hours watching him.

But in mourning, he’d seldom looked at her even though she’d only ever had eyes for him.

She’d visited the witch’s quarters many times after that, before they were erased, just so she could feel even briefly what it meant to be loved by him.

And he was sending her away.

She was tired of being ignored, she was tired of constantly fighting for someone who had no wish to fight for her. The worst of the worst: he had no malicious intent; he was simply doing this because it was all the same to him.

She wished it were all the same to her.

‘’You are out of line.’’

‘’I am not anything. To anyone.’’

She is testing him, she realises that, but she also longs for freedom, and she learns that she cannot have both. It had never been him and freedom.

Him or freedom. Always.

She thinks it’s funny; how she doesn’t realize it until after the words have left her mind but before they’re out of her mouth.

She wants freedom.

She wants to be liked, to know love. To be worthy.

She should have written that letter. It would have hurt less.

‘’I’m not leaving with you, Cluracan,’’ she says, still hanging on to Dream’s eyes. ‘’But I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted and watch you destroy yourself.’’

She is crying now. The diamonds tumble and tumble across the rolling expanse of a hill, steeper still.

‘’I can’t do it. I won’t. I won’t do it—not when I’ve spent every day of the past three years completely in love with you.’’

The final diamond falls, plucked from her heaving bosom.

It shatters on the cold floors of the throne room, its deafening crack resounding in the empty room long after she’s vanished into the ether.

⬗ ⬗ ⬗

Cluracan is looking for his sister.

Titania, Queen of the Faerie, is scourging the planes for her loyal servant.

The Faerie Folk of all worlds are calling out to their kin.

The Dream King sits upon his throne, thinking.

Around him, all is utterly still.

The Dreaming is quiet, save for a few whispers and the occasional side-eye glance of a beady eye. Nothing has changed much.

In fact, nothing has changed at all.

Nuala of the Faerie-Folk has come. Nuala of the Faerie-Folk has gone. Everything that’s happened in between is nothing more than a fuzzy dream.

With a weary gaze, he glances at the growing pile of books gathering dust by a leg of his throne.

The Corinthian, in three old novellas, and two new tomes.

Mazikeen of the Lilim—her volume is thinner than the others, her dream web having only been activated some time during the weeks that followed Morningstar’s vacancy; thin, but incredibly insightful, for a demon at least.

The One Who Broke His Heart. Naturally, it isn’t what the title says but the matter is currently open to interpretation. Unfortunately, he knows that refraining from speaking her name will do him no good—she is only the latest in a long everlasting series—but he needs to feel the heartbreak, to mourn for a while if not forever.

His trusted librarian finds him neck deep in the thoughts of others. She carries a hefty pile of leather-bound volumes.

‘’My lord?’’

‘’Lucienne,’’ he sits up, surveying his friend with grave eyes. ‘’Is something the matter?’’

‘’I can’t be sure. These are all the books that Nuala has read, and those she planned to read. Where shall I put them?’’

The Dream King finds himself frowning. ‘’Whatever for?’’

Lucienne’s bespectacled eyes give a single blink. ‘’The search, sir.’’

He says nothing.

‘’Or—not? Forgive me, I was under the impression that we all missed her dearly. The Committee—‘’

‘’What committee?’’

‘’Well, not a committee per se but a few of the Dreamfolk have arranged to look in their own time. We all just assumed that’s what you’d want… be doing.’’

‘’Nuala has made her choice. She has left the Palace and the Dreaming. Willingly. The best way to care for her is to simply leave her be.’’

‘’But if even the fae cannot find her on this plane, surely—‘’

‘’That will be all. Thank you, Lucienne.’’

Lucienne bows and retreats to the library, leaving only her books behind.

The Dream Lord stares at the second pile for a long moment, long after the Whimsical Wind has settled in the Dreaming, long after the Gatekeepers have clocked out and the Palace remains silent still.

Nuala’s books are different, because he hasn’t read any of Nuala’s books for the simple reason that he has no idea what Nuala likes to read.

He doesn’t know anything about her.

He knows that she is faerie-folk. A fool’s sister.

He knows that she cleans the wide window panes of his throne room with a renewed dedication at least four times a day.

He knows that she tends to Fiddler’s Green sometimes and all that lay in his dominion.

He knows that she thinks she loves him. He knows that she is gone now.

But he doesn’t know where.

In the weeks that she has been gone, he’s chastised himself for not paying attention. For turning a blind eye to her feelings. He would not have returned them, but he would have been kind, understanding. After all, he was no stranger to heartbreak.

For an Endless, a supposedly omniscient being, he tended to miss the sign of the times.

Every. Single. Time.

The first book he thumbs through is nothing extraordinary. It’s a women’s magazine, with a few dog-eared pages on trendy hairstyles and photo shoots of film-stars who would not outlive the decade.

The second and third books are slightly more interesting. The Man who was Thursday, The Napoleon of Notting Hill, The Collected Works and Essays of Chesterton… most likely commissioned by Fiddler’s Green himself. She liked to read to him in the quiet hours of the morning—another thing he did not know.

Next come the classics: Jane Eyre, followed by its modern take Rebecca, the first edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream which he’d commissioned, Orlando…

He flicks through these volumes like he’s read them a thousand times over. He probably has.

In the 2028 Edition of Moll Flanders, he stops.

On page 95, a feebly curled penmanship has carved a note below a bright fuchsia section.

Pretty.

Really love?

He understands what she means; he finds it strange, surely, but he understands nonetheless. He wants to give her the answer.

No. No, he does not love her. He lusts after her.

He feels sorry that she cannot tell the difference.

The last book is not a book at all.

It’s a collection of excerpts from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, tiny pieces of paper stapled together without a hardcover.

Inside, he finds a world of notes.

He remembers thinking that Lucienne could not know, lest she be furious and calls off the search. He doesn’t remember much of anything else after he reads through the faerie’s thoughts.

There are many-a-quote, by many authors, that he has remembered along the years. Words are dreams that remain long after the rest of the world has awoken.

For under a quote by Plath, lays a single word, a word that has never had much meaning to him to begin with. A word that could make or destroy him.

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

The tiny penmanship writes a single, hesitant word in the margin.

Dream?

Never, in his life, has he been more insulted. Never in his life has he been more understood.

Another similar instance draws his attention.

The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence. I knew perfectly well the cars were making a noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a noise, and the river was making a noise, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for the good it did me.

Nuala?

Thessaly tried.

But Nuala of the faerie breaks him.

⬗ ⬗ ⬗

The Twilight Realm pales in comparison to the world she’s made of it.

Memories become stories become something else entirely, and Nuala has perfectly conveyed her memories through the glamour of her quarters.

He’d gifted her the piece of land the day he’d realised she could not leave. He’d crafted a small patch of greenery, but she’d cultivated the earth herself, coaxed the fauna into establishing residence and planted a lush garden in a greenhouse the shape of a heart. It was perfect. Beautiful. Peaceful. One of the most breathtaking places in the Dreaming. And he had no use for it.

Memories become stories. And he remembers a story about a lonely King on a throne of stars. A trusted librarian and the comforting hand of a friend on a cold shoulder.

What shall we do with her rooms, my lord?

The king’s pain, felt through the pelting rain: Erase them.

‘’Boss!’’

He’s never whipped around so fast in his entire existence.

He deflates; it is only Mervyn Pumpkinhead trampling on violet flowers.

‘’You are hurting them.’’

‘’Uh?’’

‘’The lilies.’’

As if on cue, a thousand petals unfurl and two thousand cries break free.

Merv clamps his ears shut—he doesn’t have any but the sentiment is certainly there—and sidesteps the clinging stems, desperately hanging on to his knees.

‘’That’s whack! Where’s all that energy when we need something done around this place?’’

The wailing only intensifies. They miss her, nearly as much as they all do.

‘’Enough.’’

The deep baritone is enough to send shivers down their stems; the flowers still, fussing quietly as they turn away from the Dream Lord to seek more sunlight.

To Merv, he offers his undivided attention.

‘’You requested an audience.’’

‘’I did? Oh, yeah, yeah, I definitely needed to talk to you, uh… where did I put the…’’

‘’Mervyn. State your business and what is has to do with me.’’

‘’I ain’t got any business with ya, honest. Uh, why do I keep losing everything, beats me. If these winged rats nicked it I’m gonna find tweezers and—there it is!’’

The gloved fingers of a dream find a box of night itself. The box is in the shape of a tiny rectangle that fits perfectly in Mervyn’s scarecrow hands. On the side he’s presented the king, a silver thread curls in on itself, spelling the letter M.

Wholly unimpressed, the king’s cool gaze sweeps over the object.

‘’What is this?’’

‘’A box? A gift, I guess. The kid’s been working on it since you lost the last one. Not sure how it works ya know—pixie dust or whatever.’’

‘’A gift?’’ Echoes the Dream King, midnight brow furrowing. ‘’Her kind are not known for their generosity.’’

In his experience, faeries’ gifts always came with strings attached. Conditions, prices, eternal damnation.

And yet out of all the faerie’s gifts, Nuala had turned out to be the most deceiving.

‘’I shall accept it.’’

The case falls open through no fault of his own—or Merv’s. It simply reacts to a series of words; a thought, long before it’s even been articulated.

And inside the box lays Nuala’s parting gift, a single gemstone encased in a gold pendant.

A ruby worthy of dreams.

⬗ ⬗ ⬗

On the day that marks the first year without her, the Dreaming rejects every dreamer from every realm known to man.

Its heart shifts—Fiddler’s Green, then the shores of Dream Country and a thousand grains of golden sands. From the Library of Dreams to the House of Secrets and the Cave of the First Woman; the heart of the Dreaming shifts and shifts, blurs and flies by in an ocean of light and unabridged colours. Its inhabitants grow restless as a flurry of landscapes keep disappearing, reappearing, vanishing and melting altogether in an endless loop. And still—no dreamers in sight.

He is indifferent to it all.

In his idle alcove above the worlds, the Dream Lord sulks.

It is his saddest anniversary yet.

It has been less than a turn of the Earth, but he feels her loss as though she has been gone for aeons. As do they all.

His subjects are not happy; he knows this. They haven’t rebelled, because they aren’t unhappy enough to attempt the unforgivable, but oddly enough, he wants them to. He wants them to take up arms and request audience—No! No more audiences, he can’t bear any more. He wants them to be angry enough to shake some sense into him; to force him to go after her, find her, convince her, bring her home. But they don’t. Because they care about her but just as all things—love dies out. Everything ends and time heals even the deepest wounds.

He has always been impervious to Time.

Ancient eyes trail over the silver trees below. The window is dirty, fogged over with aeons of neglect and frosty winds whipping over the glass, succeeding pelting rain and sparkling rainbows.

The change in his humour has done nothing for the Dreaming.

The winds come and go, briefly clearing the skies for five glorious burning suns, and then finally bursting into fat droplets of bloody monsoons.

Undecided is the weather, a pattern it’s inherited from its creator.

The rainbow appears again, a quick flicker of warmth in the winter landscape. He feels the warmth from within. It takes the shape of a ruby, gleaming against his dark robes. It hums a soothing lullaby that only he can hear in moments of doubts. It stills his nerves and fills his heart with joy.

He does not remember when it started.

He does not remember many things about her at all.

But he remembers the feeling bubbling in his chest. A passion of some sort; probably anger, quite possibly anguish, had overwhelmed him. He remembers the new new Corinthian and a mishap that oddly resembled the old old article. He remembers the rage, the darkness, the light. The shimmering light of a thousand suns, hot as an iron in the palm of his hand, burning through his anthropomorphic personification, through the heart of an Endless and obliterating his burgeoning ire right in the bud.

The Corinthian had first learned about clemency that day; he applied it himself many times since then.

It had happened again. Once in the library, when he’d caught one of Mervyn’s unsavoury spiels. The Pumpkinhead was sent on his way, unharmed.

It wasn’t until a most incredulous episode that he'd acknowledged the truth.

A black bird in the shape of a blonde-haired little girl had trespassed on the dreams of a fat burly god.

The god looked upon the freckled little girl with glowing eyes, distributing candy like curses on Walpurgis Night.

She held out a red plastic bag, marked with the generic brand of a human supermarket and the burly god grinned and let a handful of sweets fall into the bag.

The girl suddenly reached up and pulled his white beard.

‘’Trick or treat or trick, Mr. Claus?’’

‘’That is enough.’’

The bearded god stilled, spun and found the shadowed figure of a brooding Endless.

‘’Untamo?’’

But Untamo was not looking at him. The gaze of the God of Sleep was cast past him, upon the fiddling little girl.

‘’What is your business here?’’

‘’Just—wanted to meet him.’’ The Cuckoo shrugged, clinging to her plastic bag.

‘‘He ought not to be disturbed before the season.’’

‘’But-but it’s All Hallows’ Eve! Barbie has always loved All Hallows’ Eve!’’

‘’Barbara is no longer part of you. Per your choosing.’’

‘’You’re not fair! You’re the meanest meanie, mister!’’

‘’Untamo?’’ Interrupted the bearded god who’s only ever a god once a year, as he scratched his bearded chin. ‘’I feel I should not be here.’’

‘’Indeed you should not; off you go, Pukki.’’

The bearded man disappeared; the house of gingerbread remained, and the Cuckoo and the Dream Lord, making good of the scenery. They fell inside the house somehow, shielded from the frost by thin windows and a crackling fire. The Cuckoo sipped on a hot chocolate mug, lounging in a sofa by the Christmas tree, watching the Dream Lord as he surveyed the fire burning up in the hearth, hands firmly clasped on the armrest of a wooden chair.

‘’You have chosen to remain a child.’’ He observed after a quiet moment, eyes still trained on the burning wood.

‘’I wanted to see Santa,’’ she argued. ‘’I don’t always look like this.’’

‘’And yet you have the mannerism of a child.’’

She took a gulp of her lukewarm drink.

‘’You vowed never to return.’’

‘’I haven’t! This isn’t the Dreaming, silly! You’ve closed off your realm to the humans. Better off, methinks.’’

‘’The Dreaming isn’t locked. Admission is simply… pending.’’

‘’Waiting for your little lady love, perhaps?’’

The Cuckoo remained insightful, even from the body of a child. An insightful and evil spirit that had only ever longed for freedom, for recognition. A mirror of her. It’s only the little things that remind him of her.

‘’She is not my love.’’

‘’Who’s the child now?’’

And then, he spoke the words that had weighed him down for a year.

‘’I am looking for a faerie. Do you know where she might be?’’

‘’Why should I?’’

‘’You have left the Dreaming. You have carved a path of your own, severing your physical as well as spiritual form from the place in which you were born. You know how she feels.’’

‘’No one really knows how she feels. I’ve never been slighted like an old sock before.’’

His jaw ticked.

‘’But my question was really: why should I tell you?’’

He leaned forward, eyes shining with renewed interest. ‘’You know, then?’’

‘’The Cuckoo knows things. Things that were told to her. Whispered by the wind and… other things. I might tell you, for a price.’’

He didn’t hesitate. ‘’Name it.’’

The Cuckoo grinned. ‘’Martin Tenbones.’’

And so, he granted the Cuckoo one final boon.

She did not know—not entirely. She redirected him to a hobgoblin huddled under a mossy bridge in a humid part of Ireland, buzzing with tourists.

Many riddles and a clipped lock of Endless hair later, and he’d found himself on a wooden deck at the end of the world. An enchanting creature beckoned him closer with a crooked finger peeking through a sturdy nest of wet rope. He set her free in exchange for knowledge.

His road was paved with many more such instances, but none of them led anywhere. None of them led to her.

They’d all seen her in passing, a mere peek from a tiny hole in an old brick wall, but none of them knew where she was, how she was faring. If she was happy and thriving or just as miserable as him.

The ruby was his only constant companion, trailing like a burst of light in a sea of darkness.

And that is when he finally understood. In his search for her, of all things.

Distress was something the Dream Lord knew by heart, and she’d offered him a way out. She’d offered him a piece of her soul, perhaps without even meaning to. Without consent nor want—only with love.

In the here and now that separates the Waking from the locked gates of the Dreamworld, he glances out a window and holds the ruby to his chest. It hums in his hold, whispering soothing nothings to him.

He lets his eyes drift shut. And tries, one last time.

‘’You called to me?’’

He remembers saying those very words once, in a different setting, more monotone, more assured, but he had not felt this relieved.

He turns to her, sees her, and breathes in. She stands in his chambers, a year later, summoned out of desperation and longing. His own desperation and longing.

‘’Nuala.’’ The way he says her name nearly breaks the whole of the Dreamworld. Outside, whipping winds blow through the trees, slacking against the window. He takes a moment to observe her. He’s been looking for her in the dreams of others; never to find her. But she is here now and he can see her and realise that she looks different. Prettier. ‘’You’ve changed your hair.’’

‘’It’s called a haircut, you should try it sometime.’’ She shrugs. ‘’I don’t use the glamour anymore if that’s your question.’’

‘’It wasn’t. I am pleased to see you.’’

‘’You have summoned me.’’

She stands too far away. Out of reach. The closest he’s been to her in a year.

‘’So I have,’’ Her brown hair barely brushes her shoulders in shining locks of varying lengths. She is dressed in a simple cotton shirt and silk shorts, of the latest human fashion. Sleepwear, he notes with a melancholy grin. ‘’Much has happened in your absence and I merely wished to—‘’

‘’What do you want?’’

He blinks, stopping just shy of her. He lowers his treacherous hand—yet another thing that has escaped his notice—and stares at her.

You, a voice whispers in the back of the ruby.

‘’I do not understand.’’

‘’The ruby,’’ she reaches up and rests a small hand over his aching heart, drawing a sigh from his chest. ‘’It grants you one boon. In return for the kindness you have offered me. I shall grant this boon now.’’

In the quietness of his chambers, he frowns. ‘’I do not want a boon. I want you, Nuala.’’

He searches her dark gaze with his own. He had never realised just how dark her eyes were.

‘’Is this your wish, Dream Lord? For me to come back to the palace?’’

‘’It is.’’ he squeezes her hand over his heart. ‘’More than anything, it is.’’

She averts her gaze for a moment. ‘’Anything else.’’

‘’Pardon?’’

‘’Choose anything else and I shall grant it.’’

He blinks again. She finds it fascinating, the way his starry eyes twinkle with confusion, the way he looks at her now, as if seeing her for the first time. It breaks her heart.

‘’I do not want for anything else.’’

‘’Choose.’’

‘’I won’t choose.’’

‘’Then I’ll choose for you,’’ she breathes over his lips. ‘’I believe in free will, do not make me a hypocrite, Dream Lord.’’

‘’I was under the impression this was what you wanted. Forgive me.’’

‘’No. I can’t. I haven’t. I stand by what I said, I deserve better.’’

‘’You do. You deserve the world.’’

‘’Then let me have it. Coming back to resume my duties would only kill me again.’’

He smiles then, a true smile that shines through dimensions; because he’s found the flaw in her design, and she would not dare refuse him now.

‘’You misunderstand me, Nuala. I wish for you to return, yes, but you would not be resuming your duties in my kingdom.’’

‘’What then?’’

‘’You would be mine.’’

She frowns. ‘’Your servant?’’

‘’My lover,’’ he hangs on to her hand, so tiny in the palm of his. ‘’My partner. My everything, if you so wish.’’

Nuala of the Faerie has learned much in her year of self-discovery.

She’s learned that the world is so much brighter and bigger that she’d imagined. She’s learned that humans aren’t as terrible as their dreams. She’s learned that they can be kind and welcoming. She’s learned that she can be confident and beautiful in other people’s eyes with no need for deception. She’s learned that she’s free and funny and she looks pretty in the mirror and clever and like she knows what she’s doing. She’s learned that she can be enough for someone.

‘’Are you mocking me?’’

‘’I would never,’’ he replies, solemn in his claim.

‘’Why are you doing this?‘’

‘’Nuala, I would never.’’

‘’No, you would not. But Cluracan would. Has he sent you?’’

‘’Your brother worries for you; as does your queen.’’

‘’Titania is my queen no longer. But Cluracan’s sent you then?’’

He grips her hand tighter. ‘’No. No, I am here of my own volition. I have called you here to share my feelings. Because you deserve that much from me. Because I—‘’

‘’You didn’t fight for me. I fought for myself.’’

‘’You did. I am so proud of you, Nuala. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.’’

She wants to pull away. She really does but he holds her tight and his gaze holds her even tighter.

‘’I’m not alone. I have friends. And a landlord. And a dog.’’

‘’A dog? We could have a dog.’’

‘’I don’t want your dog.’’

He draws even nearer, until her breasts brush against his hard chest. He is here, real and he’s just told her he loves her, so why can’t that be enough?

‘’You could have me.’’ His lips graze the shell of her ear and trail over the pale skin of her neck, lingering on her cheek. ‘’Let me fight for you. Let me protect you. Let me love you.’’

His lips find hers; she does not fight him. She lets him love her. Again and again. And again.

She lets him in greedily, swallows his love and his sighs, scratching his scalp lightly with her free hand, wanting, needing to draw more from him. He’s a reserved being, her dream king, but he moans reverently into her mouth and she kisses him deeper.

He wants her on the bed. He wants her on his lap. He wants her on his throne. And above all he wants her in his life.

She wants him too, badly.

She licks into his mouth—he tastes like he smells, sparkling stardust and the sweet sour taste of a burning nova.

She tastes like herself. Candy floss and roses and love love love.

It’s been a year without oxygen. A year without worries. A year without her. It’s both the best and worst thing that’s happened to him.

But she has changed. She has learned to stand up for herself. She has learnt more than in a millennia.

He loves her for all that she was before; he loves her for refusing her fate, changing her odds. He loves her for who she is today and her lips and her caresses and her tongue—

‘’I adore you, Nuala. Stay here, with me.’’

She swallows his plea. She swallows his hopes and dreams and his heart. His own hand lingers over that very spot, long after she’s vanished again, leaving him alone in his empty quarters.

In the end, she chose herself.

A/N: I could not fit the smut so… part two 👀 ?

I couldn’t fit the smut so… this might just turn into a two-shot ;)

Nuala is such an interesting character, but so underrated (and for what?)

She’s kind and devoted and really just wants to be loved!

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