Chapter One -- What Dreams May Come
I fell into a stupor as the sun rose outside my heavily draped, daylight-barricaded windows. I dragged myself into bed. In the old days, he would wait for me. Years ago, all I would have to do is close my eyes and he would be standing there expectantly. This time, like the first time, I knew I would have to seek him out.
I remember his first words to me after asking why I was there, that first time when I found myself in his throne room, far from the abandoned dumpster where I huddled in the waking world. I had called him by his true name, Morpheus, the shaper, not just Dream (the idea). He replied in that snooty tone he uses when caught with his guard down, "I do not appreciate an unwarrented excess of familiarity."
But I am his, and always was. He is the Prince of Stories, and I am forever a storyteller at heart. Though the bloodlust binds me to Desire and my taking of life to Death, I am first and foremost his.
As I settled into my soft bed, I began to be assailed by my own doubts. Why would he remember me? I thought. He has met countless dreamers. I do not know how many lovers he has taken, nor how memorable any individual one of us would be. I admit my jealousy for Thessely: out of all of his lovers, she was not only the least attractive but also the most vicious to Morpheus after the fact of their breakup, yet she was the one for whom he seemed to have pined the most.
But I was still the most special; I had his blood. Not much, but then again, anything of the Endless is much more than it seems. Those few drops of his blood within me would reveal to him who I was, and perhaps aid me in finding him.
I could feel myself sink heavily into sleep, a great velvet blackness that embraced and paralyzed me. Vampiric sleep is nothing like the mortal sleep I once knew. It is more akin to a sedative-induced slumber than a natural loss of consciousness. I fell into a familiar recurring dream where I am chased by psychotic clowns. I pushed it away with surprising ease.
Not many dreamers come to Dream's castle or see the true landscape of the Dreaming (as opposed to the fantasmal landscapes of their dreams and nightmares) except by invitation or by sheer accident. Sheer accident was how I found it in the first place; Morpheus' will was the only reason I used to land in the Dreamtime without fail. Even those such as myself, who learned the secrets of lucid dreaming and controlling our dreams, could not find the hidden realm of Morpheus if he did not wish us to.
My tiny drops of Endless blood would change all of that.
As I swirled in the gray void, I called upon the blood mentally, feeling the dream-stuff of it begin to shimmer the dream-stuff of the void around me. I closed my eyes and visualized Dream's castle as I remembered it. I felt unreality shift and twist around me and, opening my eyes, found myself before the castle.
It was unlike the castle I remembered, but I knew undeniably that it was Dream's. The air felt lighter than I remembered, the sky a bit brighter. The castle that stood before me was not the dark and vaulted gothic monstrosity of my former dreams, but a vision of delicate pale-gray spires and colorful stained-glass windows. "At least he didn't go totally opposite and pick the pink My Little Pony theme," I chuckled to myself. I approached the gate nervously, glancing up at the three guardians: the hippogriff, the dragon, and the griffon. I did not dare to think that they might let me in without questioning, as they may have in the old days. One thing was definite: no matter what freedoms one enjoyed as Dream's lover, as soon as you walked out that door, it was shut and barred behind you.
"Who stands at the gates of our master?" the three spoke in a voice that was three, blended into one melody.
"I don't expect you to remember me," I answered, my voice shaking slightly. "I was your master's lover some years past, before his death and... shifting of aspect. I am Drusilla."
"What is it that you require here?"
"I wish for an audience with your master, if he is not otherwise occupied. I merely wished to-- to catch up, to recount old times, perhaps." I shrugged.
"I will notify him," the hippogriff replied.
After a moment, the creature inclined its head toward me, "My master is pleased to entertain you in his humble abode, and awaits you within, milady." The doors swung open soundlessly, slowly as if bearing a great weight. "Stay to the path shown to you. There are powers and creatures that could be very dangerous to you, and the master cannot help you should you stray from your path."
"I thank you," I murmered. I knew all too well this warning, and I was definitely going to heed it. I stepped inside, feeling a breeze as the doors swung shut behind me, leaving me in darkness.
The hall in front of me began to glow, lighting the path I was to take. On either side of this was darkness. I followed, dazzled by this place I had left so long ago. After some time I came to another set of doors, these ones of crystal, carved with an ever-shifting relief of dream-scenes. These did not open at my approach, and I raised my fist to knock.
Before my hand could make contact, the doors opened to reveal a throne room of breathtaking whiteness. This was not the dark and shadowed room I remembered, but more like a photographic negative of the original. Where once was black, now was white, and upon the throne in the midst of the room sat a man a barely recognized: the new and former King of Dreams.
I fell into a stupor as the sun rose outside my heavily draped, daylight-barricaded windows. I dragged myself into bed. In the old days, he would wait for me. Years ago, all I would have to do is close my eyes and he would be standing there expectantly. This time, like the first time, I knew I would have to seek him out.
I remember his first words to me after asking why I was there, that first time when I found myself in his throne room, far from the abandoned dumpster where I huddled in the waking world. I had called him by his true name, Morpheus, the shaper, not just Dream (the idea). He replied in that snooty tone he uses when caught with his guard down, "I do not appreciate an unwarrented excess of familiarity."
But I am his, and always was. He is the Prince of Stories, and I am forever a storyteller at heart. Though the bloodlust binds me to Desire and my taking of life to Death, I am first and foremost his.
As I settled into my soft bed, I began to be assailed by my own doubts. Why would he remember me? I thought. He has met countless dreamers. I do not know how many lovers he has taken, nor how memorable any individual one of us would be. I admit my jealousy for Thessely: out of all of his lovers, she was not only the least attractive but also the most vicious to Morpheus after the fact of their breakup, yet she was the one for whom he seemed to have pined the most.
But I was still the most special; I had his blood. Not much, but then again, anything of the Endless is much more than it seems. Those few drops of his blood within me would reveal to him who I was, and perhaps aid me in finding him.
I could feel myself sink heavily into sleep, a great velvet blackness that embraced and paralyzed me. Vampiric sleep is nothing like the mortal sleep I once knew. It is more akin to a sedative-induced slumber than a natural loss of consciousness. I fell into a familiar recurring dream where I am chased by psychotic clowns. I pushed it away with surprising ease.
Not many dreamers come to Dream's castle or see the true landscape of the Dreaming (as opposed to the fantasmal landscapes of their dreams and nightmares) except by invitation or by sheer accident. Sheer accident was how I found it in the first place; Morpheus' will was the only reason I used to land in the Dreamtime without fail. Even those such as myself, who learned the secrets of lucid dreaming and controlling our dreams, could not find the hidden realm of Morpheus if he did not wish us to.
My tiny drops of Endless blood would change all of that.
As I swirled in the gray void, I called upon the blood mentally, feeling the dream-stuff of it begin to shimmer the dream-stuff of the void around me. I closed my eyes and visualized Dream's castle as I remembered it. I felt unreality shift and twist around me and, opening my eyes, found myself before the castle.
It was unlike the castle I remembered, but I knew undeniably that it was Dream's. The air felt lighter than I remembered, the sky a bit brighter. The castle that stood before me was not the dark and vaulted gothic monstrosity of my former dreams, but a vision of delicate pale-gray spires and colorful stained-glass windows. "At least he didn't go totally opposite and pick the pink My Little Pony theme," I chuckled to myself. I approached the gate nervously, glancing up at the three guardians: the hippogriff, the dragon, and the griffon. I did not dare to think that they might let me in without questioning, as they may have in the old days. One thing was definite: no matter what freedoms one enjoyed as Dream's lover, as soon as you walked out that door, it was shut and barred behind you.
"Who stands at the gates of our master?" the three spoke in a voice that was three, blended into one melody.
"I don't expect you to remember me," I answered, my voice shaking slightly. "I was your master's lover some years past, before his death and... shifting of aspect. I am Drusilla."
"What is it that you require here?"
"I wish for an audience with your master, if he is not otherwise occupied. I merely wished to-- to catch up, to recount old times, perhaps." I shrugged.
"I will notify him," the hippogriff replied.
After a moment, the creature inclined its head toward me, "My master is pleased to entertain you in his humble abode, and awaits you within, milady." The doors swung open soundlessly, slowly as if bearing a great weight. "Stay to the path shown to you. There are powers and creatures that could be very dangerous to you, and the master cannot help you should you stray from your path."
"I thank you," I murmered. I knew all too well this warning, and I was definitely going to heed it. I stepped inside, feeling a breeze as the doors swung shut behind me, leaving me in darkness.
The hall in front of me began to glow, lighting the path I was to take. On either side of this was darkness. I followed, dazzled by this place I had left so long ago. After some time I came to another set of doors, these ones of crystal, carved with an ever-shifting relief of dream-scenes. These did not open at my approach, and I raised my fist to knock.
Before my hand could make contact, the doors opened to reveal a throne room of breathtaking whiteness. This was not the dark and shadowed room I remembered, but more like a photographic negative of the original. Where once was black, now was white, and upon the throne in the midst of the room sat a man a barely recognized: the new and former King of Dreams.