āŖ oh, but he does have an army of his own. supplies. subjects all too eager to fulfill their function, heed their masterās 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. itās nothing sheāll ever physically see, though sheāll notice, certainly, the haggard haze in her foesā eyes, the break in spirit, another kind of madness. eternal torment isnāt 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. itās fine. they all serve a purpose regardless, but here, they hinder and disrupt, looming over his realm. itās 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. ā«
Nightmares do serve a purpose. āŖ 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 childrenās dreams, thatās saying something.
his gaze lingers on her for one more silent beat. itās all the time he needs to make a decision he might regret, but itās too late, his head tilted towards his raven as he slowly lets go of leahās hand. ā«
Matthew.
Sir?
Maintain your post until she returns.
Consider it done, boss.
āŖ he moves unhurried but deliberate, placing the book on the armrest and digging into his pocket for a pouch of sand. there. itās only when he starts pouring its content into his palm that he realizes he hasnāt even asked her, halting. demanding is more his style, but thatās something heās trying to change, too.
lucienne would be proud. ā«
Will you come with me? āŖ he asks at last, expectant, an invitation to his realm. thereās no safer place for her to rest. ā«
no subject
āŖ oh, but he does have an army of his own. supplies. subjects all too eager to fulfill their function, heed their masterās 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. itās nothing sheāll ever physically see, though sheāll notice, certainly, the haggard haze in her foesā eyes, the break in spirit, another kind of madness. eternal torment isnāt 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. itās fine. they all serve a purpose regardless, but here, they hinder and disrupt, looming over his realm. itās 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. ā«
Nightmares do serve a purpose. āŖ 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 childrenās dreams, thatās saying something.
his gaze lingers on her for one more silent beat. itās all the time he needs to make a decision he might regret, but itās too late, his head tilted towards his raven as he slowly lets go of leahās hand. ā«
Matthew.
Sir?
Maintain your post until she returns.
Consider it done, boss.
āŖ he moves unhurried but deliberate, placing the book on the armrest and digging into his pocket for a pouch of sand. there. itās only when he starts pouring its content into his palm that he realizes he hasnāt even asked her, halting. demanding is more his style, but thatās something heās trying to change, too.
lucienne would be proud. ā«
Will you come with me? āŖ he asks at last, expectant, an invitation to his realm. thereās no safer place for her to rest. ā«