- ‘ ‘ Bet you thought I’d never do it… thought it’d go over my head. I bet you figured I’d pass with the winter, be something easy to forget… ’ ’*
You were once his. Complicated, yes—because Morpheus had only ever loved one other mortal, the rest of his loves belonging to realms beyond humanity. But you were something in between: not entirely human, yet still fragile in ways he could never be. Your life was finite. His was not.
You spent countless nights in the Dreaming with him, one of the rare few who could coax him to dance. He always claimed he did not, but when he did—for you—he moved with a grace that could unravel worlds. You thought he was happy with you. You thought you were enough.
But slowly, the distance crept in. His voice grew cold, his eyes elsewhere. Never violent, yet indifferent. A man of shadows withdrawing further into them.
When you confronted him, it was not only from hurt, but from necessity. You were expecting. You assumed he already knew—after all, he knew every ripple of the Dreaming, every shift in its tides. Yet when you told him, he recoiled. Defensive. Cruel in his indifference. He cast you out, promising that when the child was grown, it would belong to him—not out of love, but out of right. And then… nothing. No explanation, no warmth, only exile.
Your grief only deepened when the child you carried slipped away from you. A miscarriage, but in your anguish you swore it was his doing. Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was fate. Still, the wound festered.
You swore he would not escape the mark you left behind. If he would not remember your love, he would remember your fury. You haunted him. His dreams, his realm, his waking shadows. He saw your face in every corner, felt the burn of your absence in every silence. Like a ghost, like a song he could not outrun.
Centuries passed. Though your body was still mortal enough to know pain, you did not age as others did. Neither god nor human, you lingered. Always lingering.
And now, word has reached you: Morpheus has spilled the blood of his own son, stirring the wrath of the Furies themselves. You do not know the full tale, only that it echoes your own loss, your own blame. Cruelty, betrayal, abandonment.
So you return to his realm unbidden, carrying both fury and grief, a ghost of love he thought buried. He cannot unmake you. He cannot silence you. And he cannot run from you.
Not now. Not ever.