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dreamaturgy) wrote2024-03-16 09:47 am
@riftings | skyhold
continued from here.
âȘ someone does find her. or something, anyway, depending on technicalities.
the dream lordâs eyes, first â matthew, perched high on the top-shelf, overwhelmed by the flock of ravens he had to circumvent to get here. beasts, all of them. smart, too, though not i-was-once-a-human smart, deceased now and loyal subject instead, wings for thumbs. they do serve someone, but there was no conversation to be had; only croaks and judgment, and a few missing feathers.
not his, mind you.
the second is morpheus himself, delayed. the creation of dreams and nightmares have taken up most of his time lately, for reasons heâs hesitant to confront. now that heâs finally reconciled with his purpose â and itâs all thanks to death â his craft sparks old and new joys alike, but even with his passion rekindled, his motives might not be entirely without stifled incentive. workaholism is a thing, apparently â lucienne told him more than once to please rest, my lord, but even dream isnât above escapism, especially if itâs stained with a faint hue of denial.
heâs avoiding her. itâs probably one of the most selfless, conscious choices heâs ever made, because he doesnât want to. or maybe itâs not selfless at all, and he just figured he couldnât cope with heartbreak again. but heartbreak requires feelings, and thatâs a whole other level of awareness he stashes away in his creations, pretending it doesnât exist. because it doesnât.
which perfectly explains why each of them winds up with an itch to yearn for the impossible, and when dream spots unnamed longing in their eyes, he vows to avoid mirrors for the rest of eternity, lest he catches the same glint there.
matthew doesnât have the same reservations.
hey boss. look, i know you donât wanna hear it â and donât shoot the messenger! â but the lady doesnât look well.
it doesnât matter whether dream glowers â his raven knows him well, maybe more than he knows himself at times, and he canât fault him for doing his job. he is the dream lordâs eyes, and his sight is exceptional.
dream doesnât go right away. her presence in the dreaming is a vacuum in his stomach that threatens to collapse his physical form into a dense, compact little ball â sometimes, he almost wishes it did. entropy is at a rise throughout the universes, and thereâs nothing he can do to stop it. itâs all her, causing the skies of the dreaming to darken and brighten at the same time, which in turn causes lucienne to withdraw from his sight, just to roll her eyes and sigh.
god fucking damn it. he doesnât say it. he doesnât even think it. but itâs pretty much what it feels like.
neutral ground, then. he doesnât meet her where she probably expects him to be. where sheâs not seen him in a while, perhaps looking for him. the thought coats the back of his mouth sour, but he forges on, soon materializing in the library where she hides. peace is a luxury thatâs rarely ever been available to her. she finds it in the dreaming, sure, but the waking world doesnât wait for anyone, least of all her. she looks almost fragile there, despite all her incredible strengths, fast asleep even as her muscles twitch, restless.
is it coincidence that she chose a library? the scent of old leather is reminiscent of his own, and dream walks unhurried along the shelves, motes of dust following his steps. but his eyes are locked on her, a plethora of books in his periphery, begging to be touched. she doesnât have to. beg. standing in front of her, his scrutiny is nothing if not concerned. matthew was right; she looks exhausted, infinitely more than last he saw her, and his endless heart sinks lower than he thought it could. itâs a beast, that one. for an entity that doesnât technically have a true corporeal form, it beats with the frenzy of a thousand men, which makes him feel entirely too human. his presence is too vast, too peculiar, perhaps, to fully look the part, but he feels it. and itâs infuriating.
itâs not vexation he feels now. thereâs anger in the mix, though itâs not aimed at her, slightly overwhelmed as he drops to a crouch and observes the ravages of her wars. he made sure to appoint her favorite dreams as her companions in his prolonged absence, but here, as powerful an entity as he is, heâs more or less out of his depth.
let it be known that dream of the endless has, perhaps more than once, felt utterly inadequate. just donât mention it anywhere near him.
slowly he reaches for her, as if giving her time to sense his intent, even as she sleeps. small shivers wrack her frame, never at ease, and dreamâs fingers graze her neck, pushing blond strands away as his palm finds the valley between her shoulder blades. the muscles underneath are impressively stiff, a glum crease between dreamâs brows; sheâs a prisoner, much like he once was. the circumstances differ, but not unlike his, itâs not a cage she can escape, and she doesnât possess the lifespan or the otherworldly potency necessary to endure what he did. â«
What will become of you, little dreamer?
âȘ the point of contact breaks, but his hand hovers tentative as he searches her face for answers he knows he wonât get. all he can do is fuel her mind with a wealth of dreams from which he hopes she can draw strength, and return to his duties.
but not yet. heâll sit for now, in the chair adjacent to the divan, matthew perched on his shoulder and a book in his lap. think sheâll be alright?, and dreamâs jaw clenches on a deep, soundless exhale.
are they ever? â«
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Yes, she's always loved it here.
This is the first time she's been in the Dreaming since she learned of her Dream's true name and nature. Circumstances haven't allowed her to truly rest, to sink into slumber deep enough to breach the Veil between the Waking World and the Fade. Catnaps, short stints of unrestful sleep, long nights passed in uncomfortable bedrolls; such has been necessary as of late. She soldiers on, determined, but there's no real way to hide the dark circles under her eyes, stark against her pale skin. But her will is great; she will endure, and pray Maker when it's at last done, she can stop.
She's making a necklace of flowers, humming with her young friends as she reclines in the sweet-smelling grass, but glances up when a peculiar shadow passes overhead. She sees nothing, so she goes back to her work. A moment later, she hears the distinctive call of a raven. Her brow furrows. Then comes the familiar feeling of fading; she's waking up. A sigh, a kiss for each of her companions, then Leah closes her eyes only to open them once more, this time seeing dusty rafters overhead, draped with pale cobwebs, and the stretch of endless bookshelves that touch the ceilings high above. The scent of books and age fills her nose, and she realizes with a sinking heart just where she is and what's happened.
Skyhold's lower library, and it seems her nap is over. Damn.
Three seconds later, the Inquisitor realizes that she isn't alone.
Sheer battle reflex takes over, honed from all of those endless missions in strange lands, and she surges upright, a ball of fire in her fist, but before she can hurtle it towards the intruder, it dies between her fingers as she realizes just who has found her, hidden deep within her fortress. ]
...Dre--er...Morpheus?
[ It's such a shock that she can't help but fall back against the ratty divan, completely nonplussed. But, despite her crogglement, a not-so-small part of her happily leaps with both excitement and a good dose of girlish delight to actually see him, sitting right in front of her, a book in his hands and a raven on his shoulder. And, to her utter embarrassment, Leah feels her cheeks flush, warm color flooding her face and traveling all the way down her neck and all the way to the tips of her ears.
Oh, Maker. ]
...wh-what are--I-I mean... [ Oh, just give up, girl. ] ...um...hi.
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âȘ heâs known quieter dreamers. leah tosses and turns, gasps and groans, enough for matthew to croak a few swears. impressed or exasperated, dream canât tell, and while his own eyes rove the pages of the book â journal of the tranquil â his mind has wandered farther afield. or closer, maybe.
he shouldnât be here. somewhere between pages 7 and 18, it occurs to him that heâs never before shown himself to her in the waking world. itâs no transgression â heâs shown himself to plenty of people â but it also kind of is, breaking the self-made walls heâs so carefully erected in the past weeks. in the past years, even, back when he first realized that she could be a threat. not just to the dreaming, but to himself as well, a full-fledged dream walker and a magic user to boot.
no other reasons. obviously. those were dangerous enough on their own.
itâd be easier if they were all like burgess. if she was like burgess. specifically. but she isnât, even as flames lick her fingers, and morpheus looks up just in time to watch them evanesce into the bleak squalor of the library. he stares. matthew bristles, quickly hopping from one shoulder to the other and looking oddly disheveled.
whoa, whoa, whoa! lady! nobody ever told you that feathers are flammable??
dramatic corvid. like master like bird. dream barely notices. what he does observe is the light flush dusting leahâs cheeks, her neck, her ears. she sputters nonsense, and beyond morpheusâ overall disquiet, despite its solid grasp on his mood, his mouth pinches against what might have become a smile otherwise, a hint of self-satisfied amusement in his eyes. â«
Hello. âȘ his voice fills the entire room, embers and sand. matthew huffs, mildly offended, and dream finally spares him a glance, surprisingly fond despite his seemingly cold dispositions.
contrary to popular belief, heâs anything but. â«
Iâm afraid we have intruded. âȘ which absolutely explains the fireball very nearly thrown in both of their faces. through his lashes he glances back to her, his stare slowly traveling from her neck to her eyes, noting how weary she truly looks. his expression shifts at the sight; it could have been pity, once upon a time. it isnât, more akin to sadness instead, lingering behind the celestial fires in his eyes. â« Apologies. I simply came to check on you.
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As if she could help it; his voice falls on her ears like a silken rasp, echoing in the ancient room as if it belongs only there. Leah clears her throat, feeling her cheeks heat yet again, and she unconsciously tucks a lock of gold behind her ear, more than a little flustered.
Good host that she's learned to be, however, she starts to negate after his comment, opening her mouth to say that he's never an intrusion, she was just surprised to see him here, please forgive her for reacting so rashly - but then he apologizes first, halting the words on her tongue.
Again, she blinks, not quite sure she'd heard correctly. ]
...you? Came to check on me?
[ A strange and sudden warmth floods all through her, corners of her lips turning upwards of their own girlish volition. A heartbeat later, Leah realizes just how horrible she must look; mussed and exhausted from the last few weeks. She hurriedly combs a hand through her hair; she'd refused to rebraid it earlier, not giving the first care to her haggard appearance - despite Josephine's insistences that the Inquisitor must appear refined and poised at all times.
Finally forcing her hands together in her lap, the Herald of Andraste lowers her chin on a soft laugh, oddly warm and...truly touched. He'd come to check on her. Out of all of the Dreaming, out of all of his duties, out of all of his responsibilities, he'd come to check on her.
Like Morpheus, Leah glances up through her lashes, girlish despite the cares and exhaustion marring her youthful countenance. ]
Please, you don't have to apologies. It's not an intrusion, I promise. [ Never could be. Had she been closer, she might have reached out a hand in reassurance. But it's reflected in her voice, regardless. ] That's...that's so very sweet, Morpheus. Thank you, it...it means a lot.
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âȘ oh, no no no no no. please donât give this more importance than it already has. donât thank him, spotlight switched, focus shifted, lest he remembers all the reasons why he didnât want to come in the first place. itâs not a big deal. but it kind of is, if her stupefaction is any indication to go by. it kind of is, if her immense gratitude floods his own chest in unsettling warmth. the way she quickly combs her hair, looking altogether too self-conscious for a fraction of a moment, has dream of the endless thinking that itâs all for his sake, and thatâs dangerous territory.
his attention drastically sharpens on her, a hint of burning stars flickering in the midnight blue of his eyes. there are decisions yet to be made here, shrouded in loud silence. leave. now. itâd be the smart thing to do, probably, and he almost does. itâs right there, another apology on the tip of his tongue, a reason to flee. but one covert look at matthew, who looks back expectantly â reproachingly, more like â is all morpheus needs to slowly rise to his feet and stay, more or less resigned and particularly⊠eager. anxious. greedy. â«
Your realm hangs on by a mere thread, Inquisitor. âȘ and so does she, no matter how resplendent. a fierce little trace of possessiveness that has no business existing lodges itself shameless between morpheusâ ribs, and he takes a step towards her, a cloud of dust bursting from the volumeâs pages as he closes it. â« The fate of your universe seems to reside in your hands. âȘ one of, at least, and quite literally, too. his gaze drops to its emerald glow, a new ache in his stomach as his frown deepens. â« Perhaps you need another. âȘ a hand, that is, his, though under these circumstances, its use is questionable at best.
he peers back at her, hesitant, a trifle uneasy. â« Your presence in the Dreaming has been quite fragmentary. âȘ aka, she most likely doesnât sleep very well, if at all, and also yes; he noticed. â«
no subject
And with his words, just like that, all of her weariness, all of those burdens come flooding back, overtaking that curious warmth that had settled low in her stomach upon seeing him again. The girlish delight begins to fade and her eyes soften, a tired smile curving her mouth as she gives a single nod of agreement. ]
...so it seems. [ Orlais is still reeling from Celine's death. Ferelden is little better, what with nobles rallying their troops to assist in the never-ending attacks of demons, darkspawn, and any disgusting cretins seeking to profit from either. With a small rueful chuckle, she lifts her hands, gazing at her palms, the Anchor glinting brazenly at the attention. ]
I honesty don't think my hands are large enough, Dream. [ She lowers the right, raises the left. ] Even with this thing in my palm. [ But she once more fights against the feelings of hopelessness, inadequacy, the fear that she's inevitably going to fail. Her fist clenches. Then she gives a little laugh, although there's a tiny bit of hysteria in the sound. ]
We definitely do, but I've no idea where I'd find one. We've gathered as many hands as we're able beneath our banner, but I'm still terrified they won't be enough. Not against this darkness. My advisors are scrambling, trying to find more allies, but there aren't many apples left in the barrel.
[ But she doesn't want to get once more mired in her woes; she'd retreated down here to escape all of that. If only for a brief moment. And Morpheus quite likely doesn't want to hear her whining; he definitely doesn't deserve it. So Leah clears her throat, shoves her hair back, and puts on a small smile, blinking at her visitor to see him looking back her as if she might suddenly lunge forward and bite him.
Then she realizes what he's just said, and her expression becomes a little sheepish. ]
I know, I've hardly been able to sleep lately, things have been so busy, and we've been on the road for weeks it seems, and...
[ Then she realizes what he's just said. Her expression devolves into puzzlement, a frown between her brows, coupled with just a hint of that earlier girlish sweetness. ]
...did...did you...miss me?
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âȘ the question catches him off-guard. itâs like a lightbulb suddenly lit up in her head, only to promptly explode. one second she speaks of her predicament, putting on the same brave face that she shows off whenever sheâs on the verge of collapsing, and then she asks if heâs missed her. she doesnât ask about the multitude of universes out there, or matthew, or how he can travel from the dreaming to the waking world. he was expecting her to ask for help, if nothing else â he hoped she would, truth be told â but no.
she asks if heâs missed her.
why do you make it so difficult for him, leanna.
has he? the answer seems a little too simple even to share. itâs highly incriminating, and dream of the endless likes to think that he doesnât need anyone. but he made that same mistake, once, rebuffing his only true friend, all because of his damn pride. hob was right all along. morpheus is lonely, and however bitter a pill to swallow, his sister ultimately made him see what an utter fool he could be. his trauma is thousands of years old, sure, but therapy is a thing, and morpheus might benefit from reaching out.
his eyes have already widened surprised, and then wary. what does it matter. but he knows what it matters, because if the roles were reversed, heâd probably like to know. deep down. he wouldnât ask, but heâd crave an answer he wouldnât allow himself to seek, and there she is now, brave where he canât be.
or maybe the question holds no ulterior motives and heâs a fool, again, for hoping otherwise.
his lashes flutter, a veil across his eyes, cast downward. his head dips just so, unwilling to show the twinge of vulnerability there, which is, all things considered, answer enough. â« I am fully attuned to my realm, to my guests. âȘ to her, perhaps more than the average visitor. he avoids her gaze for a beat longer, and then he catches hers, regal resolve stiffening his spine. â« Leanna. âȘ his voice, dropped to a rumble, rolling off his tongue and from his throat. â« I promised you kinder dreams, but the waking world keeps you at bay. âȘ the blue in his eyes grows unfocused, distant stars reminiscing as he startles himself uttering the next words. â« I know what it is to be trapped. âȘ quiet. low. a muffled rage simmering beneath his skin, dissipating as his focus resharpens, leaving only a gentle, sunken plea behind. â« Will you allow me to help you?
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One moment, he doesn't meet her gaze, and she wonders if she's said something wrong, but the next, Morpheus straightens, literally and figuratively to her eye, and she catches yet another glimpse of an endless universe, spiraling behind the deep blue of those fathomless eyes. (One day, she will ask. How many stars has he seen? Just how old is he? Was there always a Fade, a Dreaming? What other worlds are there than this? Her list of questions is endless. ...just like him.)
Morpheus speaks her name and Leanna feels her entire body lurch, as if a flight of dragons had taken wing beneath her skin. It catches her breath, so swift is the feeling. But she listens intently, deep green eyes fixed on his, then his next words hit her. Trapped. Again, her brow furrows. ]
...you do? [ How? When? Why? Where? So many questions; her curiosity knew no bounds at all. But she senses the anger that follows, although not at all surprised. Then it fades, leaving her even more curious than before. Though she nods to the query, over and over. And entirely without conscious thought, unbidden, driven by her desperate loneliness and overshadowing fear, she lifts her right hand and takes a small step towards him, a tiny flare of hope kindling within her breast and upon her young face. ]
--oh, Morpheus, yes. Maker's breath, yes. Please.
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âȘ she is so earnest in the way she immediately accepts, a visible freight of burdens draining from her face. if itâs pride that kept her from asking, even at her lowest, sheâs happily stomping on it now â the same way he did when he ultimately offered a hand.
but itâs not entirely for her.
there have been certain⊠disturbances in the dreaming. for a while. assaults occurred in the past, and dream even found himself trapped in his own domain once. itâs a popular realm to assail, it seems, a plethora of impossibilities made possible, if only for a moment. itâs enough to ignite the tiniest hope sometimes, however misplaced, but there are conquerors as well, who would very much like to witness morpheusâ demise first-hand.
the threat is contained. for now. but as her war wages, her enemies grow in number, all craving a piece of his kingdom, so sure of its origin. of its essence. of its purpose. a multitude of beliefs abound across the universes, which in turn feeds his own realm and sustains his guests, inspiring, fortifying. but thereâs a thin line to cross there, a threshold watchfully guarded, and some creatures seem pretty determined to step on his toes.
leah has been fed a ton of lies. some deliberately, others just out of ignorance. itâs not dreamâs place to correct; thereâs no pitch to give here, to spiel to share, no faith to judge. not usually. it only becomes a problem when the safety of his dreamers is jeopardized, and well. itâs kind of getting there.
itâs a little bittersweet to witness her excitement. her relief. she doesnât fully realize whatâs at stake here, but dream has seen entire universes fall before, some because of his inaction. sacrifices are necessary sometimes â for the greater good, and all that. but thereâs one soul in particular heâd like to see flourish, eclipsed by a world too dim to let her bloom in peace.
so, no. itâs not entirely for her. but to some extent, it is, if only a little.
heâs going to hurt her, in one way or another, sooner or later. makerâs breath, she says, and his own catches somewhere in the back of his throat. her hand rises. consciously or otherwise, he doesnât know, though he finds himself delicately curling his fingers around hers, loosely held between them. and he bows his head. itâs brief, barely a nod, but itâs deliberate and vastly apologetic, a shadow of regret flickering in his gaze. â«
You must be prepared. âȘ and there it is, his first warning; he doesnât know the outcome. all he knows is that she isnât going to lose that war, and no one is going to usurp his domain. he takes another step closer, his expression shifting like sand; intent and stiff, gentle and (somewhat) open. â« You will rest⊠âȘ a sigh touches his lips, his eyes drifting down before flickering back up, blue against green. â« âŠbut you will mourn as well. Truths. Beliefs. Friendships. âȘ thrown onto a path where new revelations might pave the way to a bitter victory.
even without his help. â«
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(Although what form it might take she has no idea, nor does she really care. She trusts him enough to know it will be useful, whatever it is. Surely nothing tangible, like troops or supplies, but there is magic involved here, deeply so. And as a mage herself, Leanna Trevelyan knows that magic doesn't have to be witnessed to be a powerful force. Magic simply is.)
Though it thrills her all the way down to her toes when Morpheus takes her hand, long delicate fingers closing around hers, and she can't help the small smile that curves her lips in response. It's...nice, this simple touch, and so profound, at least in the back of her mind.
Then he speaks again, and she lifts her eyes to his, listening intently. And she nods at his first words. Prepared. Yes, she'd learned that the hard way, hadn't she. And even as difficult as it had been, there was still so much more pain and suffering to come. She's losing her innocence one life at a time, it seemed. Yet as much as she sorrows, she has to soldier on.
Because only she can close the Rifts. Only she can stop Corypheus.
Quite a tall order, for a small Circle mage. ]
...I understand. [ And she does, as much as she's able. ] To be honest...[ It's her turn to give a small sigh, gripping his fingers a little tighter ]...I'm not really sure what to believe anymore.
[ Except: Corypheus=bad, Inquisition=good. ]
--except, I'm so tired, Morpheus. I just...I just want to sleep. And when I wake up, all of this will just be a really bad nightmare.
[ She can't stop a short chuckle, because irony. ]
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âȘ oh, but he does have an army of his own. supplies. subjects all too eager to fulfill their function, heed their masterâs call, and thrive. all he has to do is lift one metaphorical finger and swarm the minds of any who would dare meddle in his affairs with fears they would never even think to conceive. in hers, too, by association, since her predicament is so intimately connected to his realm. itâs nothing sheâll ever physically see, though sheâll notice, certainly, the haggard haze in her foesâ eyes, the break in spirit, another kind of madness. eternal torment isnât solely endured in literal hell, though morpheus suspects he might have to deal with a few actual demons too.
demons, and gods. one of which is relatively close to her. there are laws to obey, and blood not to spill, but cross the wrong line and all is fair game.
her confusion is understandable. stories are at the core of every world, but not all of them are veracious. itâs fine. they all serve a purpose regardless, but here, they hinder and disrupt, looming over his realm. itâs the kind of wrong that should absolutely be righted, and morpheus hears her plea loud and clear, the lines of his mouth creased with a faint, doleful smile. â«
Nightmares do serve a purpose. âȘ but not this one. this one is vile, tangibly harmful, and coming from the lord of the dreaming, the same one who lets loose sharp-toothed and bloodied creatures in childrenâs dreams, thatâs saying something.
his gaze lingers on her for one more silent beat. itâs all the time he needs to make a decision he might regret, but itâs too late, his head tilted towards his raven as he slowly lets go of leahâs hand. â«
Matthew.
Sir?
Maintain your post until she returns.
Consider it done, boss.
âȘ he moves unhurried but deliberate, placing the book on the armrest and digging into his pocket for a pouch of sand. there. itâs only when he starts pouring its content into his palm that he realizes he hasnât even asked her, halting. demanding is more his style, but thatâs something heâs trying to change, too.
lucienne would be proud. â«
Will you come with me? âȘ he asks at last, expectant, an invitation to his realm. thereâs no safer place for her to rest. â«
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And never having time to simply sit and process any of it doesn't help much. If anything, it only makes her wearier, trudging along a path she cannot understand simply because everything is shrouded in a fog of punctured truths, half-lies, and old myths forgotten to time and dust.
Leanna doesn't know what to believe in anymore.
Other than her companions, and those fighting under the Inquisition's banner. Those, at the least, she can put her faith in. They've earned it. And, she realizes, watching her guest withdraw and then speak to his raven - the bird once more answering back, how fascinating - she somehow knows she can believe in him, in Morpheus, the King of Dreams.
Not because she has no choice otherwise, but...because she wants to.
She watches him pull a small nondescript pouch from his long coat, curiosity piqued when it pours sand into his palm, and blinks when he pauses, asking her if she'll go. Looking up, she meets his gaze and replies without hesitation: ]
--yes... [ then frowns. ] Wait, will I be missed?
[ If she disappeared for too long, the entire castle would begin tearing itself apart to find her. ]
I don't want anyone to worry if I'm absent for too long.
[ Her companions have concerns enough. ]