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peachesofteal · 1 year

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Beltane

A Witchling world one shot.

Morpheus/reader Witchling masterlist – AO3 3.8k words Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, brief descriptions of sex, angst, sad feelings, cigar smoking, discussions of death and dying. Notes: Beltane is the modernized/bastardized/whateverized version of Bealtaine but for ease of understanding purposes I just wrote it as Beltane. Your grief threatens to extinguish your glow, and a new tradition is born in The Dreaming.

The sun was always shining here. Bright and cheery, it filtered through the cottage’s windows, beaming down onto your face every day it rose. Obnoxious. This morning was no different, and you buried your face down in your pillow to try to escape the blinding rays. Maybe if you closed your eyes, you could go back to sleep. You grumbled aloud, cursing the cottage for its stubbornness that has put you in this predicament. No matter what you tried, The Dreaming would not allow you to conjure black out curtains for your room. Let you have a king size bed? Sure. Conjure a whole, freshly tilled garden out back and seeds so you could start planting? Go for it. But black out curtains so you can sleep in? Guess not.

You shove your head back into the pillow when you hear the tapping at the glass, Matthew’s tell-tale knock forcing you up with a sigh.

“Are you working in the library today?” he asks as he settles on the kitchen table, his usual spot for his morning treat. Matthew has been reaping the benefits of having a recently deceased person living in The Dreaming. You baked, often. You made muffins, cookies, scones, anything and everything, passing the goods out to residents of The Dreaming or leaving them in the library for Lucienne and others. Matthew always got first dibs, flying down to the little cottage past Fiddler’s Green almost everything morning to say hi and get his snack.

“I am.” You put a blueberry scone on a plate in front of him, and he makes a pleased trilling sound in his beak.

“Lord Morpheus is in a foul mood.” He advises you, but you shrug. It won’t affect you. Morpheus avoids you like the plague. You tried not to take it too personally, he was a King after all, with an entire realm to look after and care for. You would sometimes probe Lucienne or Matthew about his whereabouts and they would always look at you as if you had grown three heads.

“Lord Morpheus is incredibly busy with the care of The Dreaming.”

“The boss isn’t really one for social visits.”

You had only seen him a handful of times since you came here. He would stop in the library on the days you were working, inquiring about how you were and if you were in need of anything. Sometimes, he would linger after you assured him you were okay, his voice changing from the sharp edge of a monarch to something softer as he asked you if you were ‘settling in alright’. His aloofness confused you, and it was a far cry from the level of intimacy you shared before your death. You were surprised to realize that you missed that level of affection from him, your mind sometimes wandering to the memory of him fucking you open, or his mouth lavishing your clit on the throne, his face covered in your orgasm. Let me taste your light.

You sigh. Sadly, the only thing he seemed to be interested in lately was if you were ‘well’ and settling in.

You supposed you were adjusting okay. It’s been months since you died and woke up in a bed with an anxious, starry eyed Morpheus hovering over you, holding you hand. Your fingers find the black pearl strung around your neck as you remember the hushed conversation you had, your grip on his unyielding as he assuaged your fears.

“So, am I like, a ghost or something?” “No.” He strokes a soft pattern on your skin, eyes searching yours. “Am I a dream?” his lips quirk, one corner lifting slightly into a small smile. “No, witchling. You are no dream.” “But I’m dead?”

“Your mortal life has ended. The pearl you wear keeps your mind, body and spirit preserved so that you may exist in The Dreaming, for however long you choose.”

You did choose. You were not ready to seek whatever lay beyond the end of life; that you knew for certain. Instead of going to what he called the Sunless Lands, his sister’s realm, you decided to stay in The Dreaming.

“And my magic?” “Your magic remains intact; however, it is a part of The Dreaming now, just as you are. You will find it different than you remember.”

It was different. Vastly so. You were surprisingly more powerful, your magic bending and weaving within the frame of the realm, your ability to call upon it eased, the confines of your mortal body no longer a barrier between you and your power. It was intoxicating. You hadn’t expected to retain your magic, let alone have this much unfettered access.

He trusts you. You concluded with a startling revelation one day as you bent The Dreaming so you could conjure a claw foot tub in the cottage. He could easily stop you from using magic in his realm with the snap of his fingers. But he doesn’t. The knowledge settled in your heart with a light thump, the idea that Morpheus held such confidence in you warming your cheeks with pride.

Matthew caws, snapping you out of your memory with a jump and you give him an apologetic smile as you get up to pour yourself more coffee.

“I’m sorry to hear he’s in a pissy mood. I know that probably makes your day hell.” Matthew’s head bobs, his version of a shrug.

“He’s been worse. At least it’s not raining.” You sigh. You wouldn’t hate a little rain right now. You keep having to conjure giant buckets of water to care for your garden. “And it’s about to be summer in the Waking World, which has been nice. It’s not frigid cold every time I have to go there.” You freeze. About to be summer.

“Do you know the date?” you ask mildly, the reflection in your coffee staring up at you. “I think it’s April 27th.” A pang of sadness so strong comes out of left field and nearly knocks you senseless. You can practically hear the echo of your mother and her sisters in the cottage, their weeklong preps for Beltane bringing them together every year under one roof, your grandmother micromanaging them while she forced you to sit and listen to her recount years of tradition. Cétshamhain is your history, child. You’d be wise to listen to it’s lessons. You can feel the smart of tears in your eyes as you close them. Would you have seen them? In the Sunless lands? Did you give up an opportunity to be reunited with your family? Would you just have gone straight to hell? Would they be so pissed at you over the grimoire? You think about everything probably going on at home, the community preparing for the festival, boughs of yellow flowers lining doors and windows. You didn’t have many friends when you were alive, but you were known, and always welcomed on Beltane. Longing thrums in your chest, the feeling so vibrant that it has tears falling down your cheeks before you can get a handle on yourself. Matthew caws, alarmed.

“Hey, you okay?” you shake it off, forcing the wistfulness from your limbs as if you’re stretching out sore muscles.

“Yeah. Fine, just got distracted. Sorry.” You pop the last of your scone in your mouth and pack up the leftovers for Lucienne. “We should probably get going.”

A dark cloud of hangs over your head the rest of the day. You tuck yourself into a corner with the stack of miscellaneous books Lucienne handed to you, taking your time finding where they belong. Your mind is stuck, trapped in an endless loop of thoughts of your family, the festival, your own death. Did you make a mistake? Did you sacrifice an eternity of being with your family to stay here? Would this ever feel like home? Your hand grips the pearl around your neck tightly.

“Excuse me?” you jump, startled by the small voice of a dream. A wraith like girl stands a few feet from you, her body translucent like a ghost. You recognize her right away; you’ve seen her many times in The Dreaming. She’s visited your cottage with Cain and Abel in tow. You think you’d consider her a friend, even. You relax at the sight of her face, and she gives you an apologetic smile. “Lucienne mentioned that you might be able to help me find a book?” She gives you the name of the dreamer she is researching, and you motion for her to follow you.

“Of course.” You locate the volume in question quickly and go to pull it from where it sits on the shelf when she speaks again.

“Are you alright?” Your fingers dig into the leather-bound spine, and your force breath in and out through your nose.

“Yes.” The false cheer in your voice is flimsy at best, and she gives you an odd look. “Did you need anything else?”

“No, this is it. Thank you.” her smile is genuine as she bids you goodbye. “It was good to see you.” she adds over her shoulder, and you return the sentiment. You drag yourself off to settle back into a corner, this time making sure you couldn’t be found.

You puff the cigar slowly, the cherry and wood flavor of the smoke warming your mouth as you attempt to blow circles from your lips. You had finished up late today, the sun already set by the time you left, and you stumbled upon Merv smoking under a stone archway. Just your luck. You had always liked the taste of a cigar.

“Like this, kid.” You passed it back and he demonstrated, earning him a laugh as you watched smoke rings disappear into the night sky.

“Okay, okay. Let me try.” You’re just about to take a pull when the swing of a familiar black coat in the dark catches your eye, and your spine immediately straightens. Merv clears his throat with a cough.

“Er, hey Boss.” Merv says. Your eyes look down to your feet, fingers still clutching the lit cigar.

“Mervyn. There is an issue in the library that requires your attention.” Merv stands with a huff, and you hand the cigar back to him with a slight grimace. He grumbles under his breath as he stalks off.

“Hello.” Morpheus stands stiffly before where you’re sitting, his shoulders high and tight, teeth gnashed together tensely. You chew on the inside of your cheek, the tingling in your nose nearly making your eyes water with the need to sneeze. What’s his deal?

“Hi.”

“May I sit?”

“It’s your realm.” Your voice is bitter and rough. He ignores it.

“How are you faring?” you beat back the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’m good.”

“Are you?” You tilt your head in confusion. “You have become a beloved figure in The Dreaming, witchling. The residents are eager to voice their concerns when they fear something may be wrong with their dear friend.” Gossip. He means the residents have been gossiping about you and your terrible mood. Conflict roars in your ears as guilt wars with your sadness. You regret being so short with the wraith from earlier, you hope you haven’t hurt her feelings.

“I’m fine. Just going through some stuff.” You’re not particularly eager to share how you feel with him. He’s been practically a stranger for months, and now he wants to know how you’re faring?

“Stuff.” The word sounds foreign as it falls from his mouth. He studies your face for a moment before his head snaps in the other direction, eyes focusing on something far off in the distance, and he stands in a hurry. “I apologize, I must attend-“ you wave your hand.

“Go. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” You chuckle drily. Something dark flashes across his features before he’s evaporating in a cloud of shadow and you’re alone again.

The next morning, you are returning from a walk with the wisps when your nose starts to tingle. The sensation jerks your head up, eyes scanning in every direction for the Endless that you know must be somewhere close by. When you step out of the woods and into the clearing where the cottage sits, you’re surprised to see him standing on the porch, waiting for you.

“Are you well?” he asks as you rest a foot on the bottom step, looking up at him. Something is different. He looks, almost nervous?

“I am. Are you?” you answer quickly, unsure what to do with him lingering so awkwardly on the porch.

“I am.”

“That’s good.” You glance around as the tips of your ears burn. “Do you uh, wanna come inside?”

“Yes.” You gulp nervously as you gesture for him to step forward, your legs a little shaky as you follow him through the door. It occurs to you that he hasn’t been here since you’ve… upgraded the cottage, so to speak. What if he hates it? What if he doesn’t approve? The cottage is his, it’s a part of his realm. What if he doesn’t want you to change it? You glance around in a panic before closing your eyes to steel your nerves.

“You have made changes.” Your throat tightens as you wring your hands together and nod.

“Yup. Ah, just a few. To kind of modernize it. And I wanted a bathtub.” You rush to explain. He nods thoughtfully.

“I am pleased you are making it your home.” The celestial sparks that are his eyes met yours, and your skin ripples with goosebumps. Is it hot in here? His expression grows somber. “I regret that I have not been able to spend more time with you, witchling. It occurs to me that you may be suffering.”

“What? No, I’m not suffering.”

“It is natural to mourn. You have lost your mortal life.” You don’t understand how he knows, but he does. The pulse of sadness beats under your skin. “I wish to ask you if you would spend the evening with me, tomorrow.” You peer up at him slack jawed. Your heart takes off at a gallop, excited, before it comes crashing to a stop. He feels bad for you.

“Do you pity me, Morpheus?” your tone is flat.

“No, but I have neglected you. You have been hurting and I… have not been here. I would like to remedy my mistake.” You purse your lips, and shrug. Be cool, be cool. Don’t squeal.

“Okay. Sure.” He smiles at you, one of his small ones, the kind that only lifts the corners of his eyes slightly, but it still melts you to your core.

He does not linger after your agreement, departing quickly to attend something in the realm. As he goes, he brings your knuckles to his lips like he did that day you woke up here, the feeling of his touch soothing and igniting something inside your heart.

You spend your day in the library, performing your usual tasks for Lucienne. Oddly, there are less today than there ever are, but you don’t question it as you’re grateful it means you’ll be able to slip out earlier.

There’s a note scrawled on brittle paper sitting on your kitchen table when you finally make it back to your cottage.

Please accompany Matthew to Fiddler’s Green at sunset. I will join you later.

“Matthew?” you call out. A little caw sounds from your loveseat.

“Right here.”

“What’s going on in Fiddler’s Green?” you’re perplexed. What is happening?

“It’s a surprise.” Matthew says and you immediately become nervous. You hate surprises. You bitch about it as you change, fussing with yourself in the mirror while Matthew tries to assure you that this is a good surprise, and that you’ll like it. You’re still putting up a fight about as you both leave the cottage, the wisps lighting the way in the dusk of the setting sun.

When you crest the hill that looks down on the valley of Fiddler’s your breath catches in your throat. Your feet become immobile, and you stand quietly in shock, trying to register what is happening.

“What is this?” You turn to Matthew, your face confused. You can’t quite wrap your head around what you’re seeing. But when you do, when you make the connections, your face scrunches up with emotion.

Your vision grows blurry with tears as you watch the residents of The Dreaming move between large pyres. Music drifts in the air, the beat of drums vibrating through the ground, the voices of dreams and nightmares blending together as one.

Beltane.

You nearly cry as The Dreaming gives you the honor of lighting the first pyre. The residents gather around, each with their own piece of wood to contribute to it. It’s different from the traditional aspect of the festival, but you love it all the same. You watch in awe as fires spark throughout the valley, laughter and contentment resonating through every single dream and nightmare in attendance.

You’re breathless. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing, legs tired and weak from dancing in circles between the fires all night. Merv even slipped you some dark liquid that you think was The Dreaming’s version of liquor. You stumble off into the dark, away from the burning fires and raucous crowd, tripping into the heavy wood of Fiddler’s Green. It’s darker here, the pyres raging in the distance, hooting and hollering echoing over the hills. You wipe the sweat from your brow with your shirt, hiking your skirt up to free your legs and cool yourself down.

“I have been looking for you.” his voice, cool and deep, floats over you softly. The wisps shiver, their soft light flickering, illuminating the Endless who is suddenly standing before you. You lick your lips.

“Morpheus…”

“Witchling.” You both stand silent before each other, and you’re about to ask him where he’s been when he speaks. “I have something I would like to show you, if you would care to join me?” He holds his hand out to yours, supernovas blinking in his eyes.

“You did all this for me?” you ask as you walk, stepping carefully on the path to avoid anything that could knock you off course. You don’t want to let go of his hand. Ever.

“I had assistance.”

“Morpheus, thank you… it was incredible. I can’t even begin to tell you how perfect it was. It was beautiful… I feel very lucky.” You grin broadly, your exuberance overflowing. The wisps reflect your mood, their warm glow shining more intensely, shimmering in the dark like stars themselves. You feel his eyes watching you, and you grip his hand tighter.

You stand perplexed as he brings you to a halt outside of the cottage. At first, you don’t notice anything amiss. It’s dark, and your eyes strain to catalogue your surroundings.

But then you hear it.

The soothing sound of running water. The wisps brighten, and your eyes find a moss-covered mound, with an opening in its center revealing a small pool.

“This is a freshwater spring. I am aware you have been conjuring water so that you may nourish your garden. I hope this will ease that burden.”

“You made me a well. On Beltane.” Does he know? The light trickling sounds of the water fills the silence between you two as you glance over, the knowledge that he holds of every culture, every custom, every ritual blinking back at you. Of course, he knows. “You made me a well, on Beltane.”

“I did.” And idea sparks in your mind, and you turn, reaching out to touch his arm briefly.

“Wait right here, please.” Sprinting off into the cottage, you grab the object you need hastily, returning to his side as quickly as you can manage.

“The first water drawn from a well on Beltane is said to bring luck for the rest of the year.” You dip your mug into the babbling spring, bringing it up full. “Will you share it with me, Dream of the Endless?” The formal use of his moniker feels familiar and true, and warmth coils in your stomach.

“Yes.” He answers. You lift the china to your lips, drinking the water deep into your soul and then pass it to him. You envision good fortune, for both of you, and push the other potential blessings far from your mind. You supposed you could invoke fertility for your garden, but the risk is too great, the concentration of power in this realm is too strong, and Hecate forbid you end up making that kind of mistake. His fingers brush yours during the exchange, the swell of longing rising in you again. It’s not home you’re sick for this time, but him. He closes his eyes as he drinks, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows. You’re illuminated by the moon and the wisps, the soft light from both casting onto his flawless skin, and you envision it flush against yours. You shift your body away, face moving to a different direction lest you get caught staring, again. Wisps dance in your line of sight, their light momentarily distracting you when he says your name, the inflection impressed with a sentimental fondness that tugs at your heart.

You turn and realize he’s staring at you, tracing your face reverently as if you’re the only thing in existence. His eyes blaze, the starlight in his gaze captivating, pulling you closer until you’re standing right in front him, the wisps glowing in a circle around you both.

“Morpheus.” You breathe.

“I must admit something to you.”

“Oh?”

“When you first woke here, after your death, you asked me if you had become a dream.” You nod, remembering. “I said you were not a dream, but I am afraid that was a lie.” You startle and look up to him with wide eyes. He places a hand on your cheek, palm cradling your face like you mean something. Like you matter.

“Am I actually a dream, Morpheus?” He shakes his head no, finger coming to stroke the pearl around your neck.

“You are the dream of an Endless.” His mouth meets yours, and your eyes slide shut instinctively as your body responds, your own lips moving with his, the kiss effortless and tender. As he draws away, stars swirl above you, dropping from The Dreaming’s atmosphere to streak across the rich velvet of the night sky. His hand gently tilts your head upward, and you stand together as he holds you close, the outline of his profile illuminated by the celestial show above. You stay there for what feels like hours, until he presses his forehead to yours and whispers,

“You are my dream, little star.”

#dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #the sandman fanfic #peaches writes #witchling #dream of the endless x original female character

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