◆︎ Assorodus ◆︎⌛︎◆︎ Morpheus ◆︎ The Sandman ◆︎

Interlude

Besieged by the raindrops, the weakened walls of the castle melt away like sand bastions in a storm, crumbling while the gatekeepers jadedly shield themselves with their wings overlapping, sheltering from the uncharitable weather. In the saved Dreaming every dreamer suffers under the mastery of nightmares, while its regular inhabitants suffocate beneath a heavy blanket of moroseness. Filling up the rivers and arousing the sea the hailstorm rampages over the land, bringing in a tide higher than anything seen in the past hundred years. Occasionally the trees moan out loudly when a flash of lightning cracks the sky, branches breaking and bleeding leaves. No one listens as they cry out for help.

The Dream Lord sits upon his throne, leaning to the side, a vacant stare in his eyes, as if someone tried to knock him out of his seat, but failed. He is a hurricane of darkness and nightmare tears brought by the horrors of his creations. He is looming in every crevice of his domain, tracing back scents, touches, steps and every breath ever exhaled in the space. Yet from the outside he is entirely still, frowning features obscured by his fingers as his jaw lays in his palm. He finds nothing. And it rains even more.

Unlike her assertive self, Lucienne is uncertain about what she should do. It's been quite some time since the Writer vanished, they have been waiting around for long enough and even so, she is afraid to bring the subject up. She wants to know where her friend went without a word and why there is no explanation for a disappearance like this. And above all, how she should serve her sovereign so he can tend to the Dreaming and restore everything to how it was as best as he can. The desire for the old balance in her home grows within her by the hour.

Matthew is puzzled, but then you can hardly notice such a thing with a raven. He hides out in Eve's cave, as they came to like each other quite much. He watches the rainwater pouring down the rocks, forming little brooks of mud and other earthly filth. He contemplates flying back to Morpheus to tell him to stop this nonsense before he floods every valley in his vicinity, however, his boss is too intimidating this early in their relationship and he still hasn't decided if he likes to be around him or not. He would call him his friend, but unsure if such a thing is even possible. Morpheus barely has any friends. The Writer was one of them.

Content with occupying himself by cleaning up what he can, Mervyn fills up the creaks webbing the marble flooring and fixes the shelves in the library. He is far from being close to the Writer as much as the others, he only talked to the being once or twice. He has pleasant memories of those conversations, though they were nothing remarkable in his opinion. Big things in the universe go over his head, he is simply a janitor here and that's his purpose. Still, when he runs into 'Loosh' in the corridors he asks how the Dream King is doing. The answers he receives are always low-spirited and lacking hope.

Prowling in the waking world the Corinthian is quiet. He is continuously connected to the Dreaming, even if loosely, he can feel its distress. It's now different from the usual tension experienced throughout the past hundred years, ready to burst with anger and pain. He dares not to contemplate where this kind of sadness comes from. For a fleeting moment he envisages himself returning to spectate, to gloat over the great fallen king, but then he thinks better of it. Instead, he carefully wedges his knife into a young man's eye socket, carefully pulling out the delicate organ. He will meet the Writer too again. Eventually.

Ultimately Morpheus concludes that recently created beings still have proses tied to them, therefore Talos is well and in a state of working, lost somewhere in the cosmos where he can't see, nor hear. The rivers overflow after he tells this to Lucienne, while the sea now licks at the ivory gates outside, eroding the walls with every sweeping wave. The turmoil frightens the dream folk and devastates the faithful librarian. She carefully edges up to the throne and only risks speaking quietly.

"My Lord, there is nothing more we can do." Dipping her chin she looks over the round rim of her glasses. All cautious movements. "You searched everywhere, there is nothing else to try. The Writer must have a reason..."

"No." Morpheus is a black flame come alive, two eyes of depthless darkness pooling with a void, stars drowned out by sorrow. His shroud drips from his shoulders, devoid of its usual elegance. "Each one of us lies, are we not? There comes a time when a promise is not kept, Lucienne. I was too naïve to think Talos different."

Dejectedly he peels himself from the throne with painstaking slowness as if his joints are aching, however, it's his soul that is anguished, not his body. For a while he blankly focuses on nothing, working a kink in his jaw, pale skin glistening in the light streaming from the tall, tainted glass windows, which now resemble Talos in design. His kingdom shudders in response to his sudden movement, expecting change. Morpheus glides down the stairs leading to the dais, feet obscured by his heavy fabric, leaving splotches of swirling ink in his wake. Lucienne scrupulously steps out of his way, wishing for the Writer to suddenly barge in and tell them all of this was just a great misunderstanding and that of course promises are always kept. But no such thing happens of course.

"I will leave for the day." Utters Morpheus seemingly to no one. "When I return the rebuilding of my realm will begin. I shall restore the library to its former glory first."

Before Lucienne has a chance to react he folds himself into time and space, turns them inside out, shedding his regal attire and the air crackles as he tears molecules apart at his destined location while he materialises. He is in a brightly green park now, with people, who against their repeating nightmares, still laugh, play and socialise. It's the complete antipode of the ever-growing pressure in his chest and he feels the need to sit down for a bit. He has a sense of tiredness in himself, so he collapses onto a nearby bench ungracefully and watches the pigeons pecking in the grass without any interest.

In his existence, right at this moment, nothing makes sense anymore. Why would Talos leave him, the cruellest form of refusal he was ever shown during their shared eons? Their devotion to each other matters no more as he ended up alone and hurt again. And it tore his soul apart. Against his anger, he misses the gentle touches, the forehead against forehead-lean-ins, the promise of tasting those lips once again. The promise of them ever meeting again is thinned by the second.

He briefly wonders if Desire has anything to do with this, old suspicion rising up in his throat like bile and a surge of red anger overcomes him. But he calms quickly to the sun soaking into his skin and he takes a quivering breath. It's like this every time, isn't it? He is left behind, unloved, still desperate for affection and confused by the cause of such sudden actions. He grinds his knuckles against his palm frustrated. He wants to scream and shout out his pain into the world so loudly that the universe hears it. So Talos hears it.

What is there to be done? Such uncertainty is overwhelming, yet his responsibilities are growing unstoppably. He feels defeated and just wants to rest, stretch out between two clouds and disappear, slumber in the soft whiteness forever. Shame that he can't do that.

Family or a friend, he realizes subconsciously, that's what he is in the need of.