In slumber, usually mired with torment and ever so filled with drear, was respite finally afforded to the Nightmare Weaver: a twilight autumn, he drifted passively up azure-verdant hills and through a radiant drapery of elegant mist. The moon shone down upon him, shone ahead of him, and gelid dew drops gently set along his skin as heeded its spectral call up the slopes.

Ahead, ahead, above, from beyond, distant streamlets sang to him in tandem, as they dove down those silvery scarps he remembered incised the landscape. The wind's aeolian hum coupled the chorus, calling, calling, as the zephyr undulated through the labyrinthine, bare boulevards of the unchanging city and whistled through the vacant spire-towers he knew laid there, out of sight.

Fine mist matured into a quartz palisade of fog, frigid, gnawing at him as he passed, but ahead, ahead, above, from beyond its veil, the moon did glare, a stern but loving gaze compelling him to persevere, to follow, follow, follow.

And then the glimmering haze dissipated, and the scenery became immersed in a greater splendour now revealed: the brightness of the garden Celephaïs.

He swayed onwards, ahead, ahead, claw reaching towards the light just above, yearning to cross into beyond, comforting beyond, to the city, to her… but the world revolted, no! Cried out! Cried out at the lurch of the terror into sanctuary, at the ripples his misshapen being sent pulsating down and above slopes, blackening sky, rotting grass, tainting distant marble facades, and sizzling quartz towers until fracture and caving. The unchanging city deformed, the tapestry of perfection on the cusp of unravelling… once more, it was time for his joy to be cut short, it was time to leave.

The gardens were left to idle, the monster had vanished: melting into the dirt in shame, surfacing far, far away where it could no longer foul his sister's sublime works… he had gotten carried away, beguiled by a pleasantness Darkrai knew he was not destined to bask in, by his infatuation with the halls and mosaics and marble columns of that haven in the gardens he could no longer visit.

Alas… and no matter. He had a garden of his own to sustain and, now lucid in the land of dreams, he would nurture it, in his own way.

The wraith emerged from the deep darkness among the trees, to a clearing in a forest in dream, one mirroring his Blightwoods as precisely as the Nightmare Weaver himself could fine-tune. He had fashioned it as a great fulcrum, from there, the vastness of the dreary half of the world of slumber was open to him, as the terrible weald atop the hills haunted everyone's minds and subconscious equally. A conceptual vessel none were free from, which always lingered somewhere in their worries, which could be brought forth and could bring forth.

Darkrai did not wish to frighten, Darkrai did not wish to turn rest to torment, but his choice mattered little: at night, the villagers might not become trapped in nightmare forever, but few could avoid those terrors his presence exuded, the anxiety which clawed at their eyes and minds while they remained awake, and which found them weak enough to scar, once they let their guard down and slept. Yet, the Nightmare Weaver could choose what it was they saw, he had done so minutely for long aeons now, seeding advice and counsel and worry and unease.

… It is possible that his was at the root of… certain aspects of his situation: indeed, at the village's inception as bivouac and disordered settlement, the folk had shown great ingenuity at handling the plague from the forest, but he feared at the time that it would not be enough. Thus, he reached into their dreams, giving them visions of Chesto berries, making them wary of the days of the New Moon… the attempt to motivate them into a quest for a Lunar Feather had fallen flat. All the same, succeeding village chiefs had heeded his warnings and followed his trails of clues, and perhaps that was where their resoluteness to remain steadfast, planted there, had come from. He truly did believe that some town elders now passed had deduced some providential mission, a protection from the divine, from his aid…

He disliked that possibility, and so he ignored it, for it would have meant it for the better that those initial settlers die out, and the rest flee so as to close Haven's chapter and avoid further sorrows. Instead, he was content to continue and use the first hours of the night to help them – to reach into their dreams and whisper advice, spread visions – to cultivate his garden, before himself being allowed to rest.

Anyhow… and no. The very first world of dreaming which had reared its head to him was that of Mawile, and right next to it, Morgrem's. The first was dreaming – as always – of some convoluted situation wherein she managed to entirely supersede her heroes and at the same time earn for her their unending affection and admiration, in this case Darkrai could vaguely tell that she was repeating one where she saves Gallade by vanquishing some distorted version of the Nightmare Weaver. He would not spoil her fun by making an appearance. On the other hand, Morgrem was cowering from the Moonshadow amongst dense foliage. Darkrai would not transplant himself into that particular nightmare, there was no reason to up its verisimilitude for the distressed goblin.

Children... he would always leave to their own devices. It was driven by emotion untied to reason, yet he simply could seldom motivate himself into twisting and contorting those terrors the little ones would go through. This latest generation had made it all the more unlikely that he would interfere: the Morgrem was afraid of his own shadow, and the Mawile frightened by seemingly nothing at all, never quite relenting, no matter how subtly he had attempted to influence her into greater prudence – he truly did dread any one of them being overly brave, for children grew, and one day he might need to face and... Either extreme was bothersome in theory, but in practice he would not complain at having been given an excuse to avoid manipulating their nightmares. Those would be their own, he would move on to the next.

… Suddenly, was an Ariados, one much grander and more gruesome than any that had ever been seen. His slender legs speared the trees as he crawled through recoiling canopy, the beast's weight bending wood in its daunting march, great mandibles clanged together and warded off the fowl of the weald. It was ravenous, and it knew well where the sole true denizen of this soon-to-be-nightmare resided: beneath a fair willow there was a cabin, and on its porch, sat on a pew, was Ursaring.

Darkrai the great arachnid abandoned the darkness, abandoned the forest's cover, emerging into the clearing and coming to loom over the bear with mighty jaws bared.

"What are ya' doing there?" Ursaring's steadfast voice left Darkrai befuddled at first. "Take a seat, if ya' want."

The spider shook off the perplexion, having been momentarily carried away by the beginnings of the dream himself, though now was once more lucid as to what he was doing: the arthropod could not quite sit, but he would lean into whatever it was the bear seemed to be clutching and staring at. That was why he had infiltrated his slumber.

It was a lump of wood. One Ursaring seemed particularly intrigued – nay, irritated – by: he would look at it, raise it to the sun, turn it, raise his hand over it to see how it looked in the shade, rinse and repeat. "I just don't see the vision," he complained to the foul entity as though it was indistinguishable from Ariados his co-worker. "I've been trying the entire day."

"What form for it do you seek out?" Darkrai's voice echoed behind that of the spider. "I could perhaps be of some aid to you."

"Ah, well," and so the bear began, still fidgeting the piece of trunk in his hand. "Once upon a time, I maybe… stumbled my way into a mountainous shrine out of clumsiness… the Ninetales guarding it did its job – darned fire still sears in some areas – but on the way out I saw these… these statuettes, of three monkeys. One clutching its eyes, one its ears, the other… bah, I just can't for the life of me remember what they looked like!" Ursaring set the wood onto the table with great force, his voice booming with equally charged frustration.

It was a petty affair, but Darkrai indeed could help, for he was there to do so and for he knew what those three wise monkeys – Pansage, Pansear, and Panpour – looked like: the spider's legs rose and, with an acute tug on his pervasive webbings, the entire cabin became embroiled in the foliage of the woods, and Ursaring became lost… or maybe not quite, for Darkrai had released his three muses in there with him, and he instantly knew his purpose. The bear was soon on the hunt for his little creatures through the thick undergrowth, and would hopefully recall their appearance and finish his figurines upon waking. He was also gifted with a domineering sense that he should be done with it before nightfall, lest the hunter become the hunted, as he ventured after them into the depths of the Blightwoods.

And Darkrai receded.

… He was a cloud coursing through the cold, maritime breeze, though one tinted a pressing, deep grey, which the Wingull and Wattrel steered clear of as he slithered through the steadily more turbulent aether above now agitated seas. His form would darken further – while the sky would take on the menacing, hoary hue, breeze turning to thunderstorm – before Darkrai had reached them: Chatot and Drifblim, transporting some cargo above waters ever less clement, seeming increasingly nervous. His job had been halfway accomplished for him.

For upon his waking, it would be the very last day of the month; ergo Drifblim and Chatot would set off on their great journey to deliver mail and items and fetch supplies, so on and so on. Vital business. A gruelling job, but one which allowed for them to avoid Haven's reaches for some short duration of time – they would distribute that which they had to distribute, acquire what was meant to be acquired, and then were offered a day's respite to engage in whatever they pleased – but these… short durations had begun to drag on for far too long. Chatot and Drifblim both were procrastinating their return, so much he suspected…

And he could perhaps prove it, before carrying on.

… It required but an elegant, simple, little scheme: knowing to whom this dream belonged with an omniscient instinct, the haar of blackness that was the Nightmare Weaver lunged at Chatot, engulfing him in an evocative dance of dazzling shadow, this before the bird could even scream. From there, he took on the voice of Drifblim, mimicked her appearance with the warranted fidelity, the open sea became an enclosed bungalow, cosy and comforting, and finally the avian was blessed with some lucidity.

"So, will we stay any longer?" The Moonshadow asked through the voice of his confidant – and he had to admit trickery made him quite giddy. "The choice is yours, I would rather go."

Chatot – and Darkrai had made certain that he would be aware enough to give an answer not subject to the whims of the dream, which was itself veracious enough to not be discovered – Chatot did not even ponder, answering with such nonchalance that it left the wraith feeling rather dismayed: "Ah? No, no! I would rather dedicate one more day to adventure, and then another to unwind."

"And what will we tell them?" The sock puppet pressed, leaving some details for the bird himself to guess. "How will you go about it?"

"There was a storm, there were winds. It'll be only a half-lie if we tell them we were marooned due to thunder and lightning," Chatot chuckled, and Darkrai was left feeling irritated in record time.

The phantom cast the avian out from the chamber of illusions – and much faster than he had expected, at that! – back into what had grown into a veritable, thunderous sea-squall. Now robbed of his Drifblim, which in the lore of this nightmare had become lost at high seas, Chatot's cargo could – with a flicker of Darkrai's eyes – be doubled or tripled, made so cumbersome that he could barely hold onto it alone. Vital papers could even be slipping from it, vases of excellent value holding on with only string as hoists, and so on and so on...

And the Nightmare Weaver, having weaved his nightmare, receded amongst the clouds, leaving the bird to its balancing act beneath the raging storm.

He hadn't done any of that in order to punish, but them procrastinating their return, their dishonesty, and dereliction of duty, he could simply not tolerate, when their work – as relays with the world outside – was so important, demanding such punctuality to soothe anxieties. Chatot would perhaps take this nightmare as an omen, or it would serve as reminder to be prudent as they voyaged, at worst.

…

Not that he didn't understand their yearning, they were born to drift and fly, after all. To be free as the wind. Darkrai could make no such prescription about himself – he was born for no reason at all – but he had always tended towards meandering and floating off and away. Perhaps, then, was that the primordial purpose of those beings which had been granted no purpose? It would seem so, or maybe it was an accidental tendency… He was terribly calm, and collected, and patient, but it was not the wait he feared, rather the idea that there was nothing to wait for anymore…

The noise of tranquil, rhythmic tides had returned.

Slowly and steadily, reminiscing and yearning had drawn him back. He raised his eyes to the sky above, and a cold wind from across the white lake chilled his face. Delighted and consigned to fate, he sat down upon the golden sand and alongside the silvery, indigo moss-sheathed coquina. Beyond the phantomic mist soared the silhouette of the unchanging city: thin ever-towers crowning the hills and world, against a sunless, many-mooned ocean of twilight.

He had returned to it, he had meandered there once more. Twice, in one night? He would consign himself to fate indeed, the Moonshadow had gone too long – three centuries, had it been? – without his dream self drifting back there, to tarry the amber shore, or better yet grovel at the base of the marble palisades themselves.

Celephaïs, its name was…

Darkrai further reclined, sprawling like a beached squid along the brisk sands of the lakefront.

… the denizens of the First Village had revered his sister under that name, and so the Original One had christened the throne-city of the dreamlands it, glorifying His last child, lady-regnant of the realm. In truth, those minarets shining with reflected moonlight in the spectral distance were called to rise long before them both, the white walls and grandiose columns along with.

Creation and perfection had lasted a thousand years, the primordial chaos all around the Overlord given form and order through the might of the thousand hands, and beneath the minute scrutiny of the thousand eyes. But He remained at the core of still unperfected space. One half was to be remade in mirror of Creation – the winding Distortion past the World Abyss, where the Beyond One now reigned – and the other to permeate the Cosmos – this was the Dream Realm.

It had been entrusted to its Lord and Lady of Dream in early days, yet Arceus would make Celephaïs His domain: the material plane deemed pristine and gifted to His firstborn, the Creator retreated there, leaving all else to flourish, to thrive on its own terms. In the Dream Realm, he called forth an immaculate polis to serve as abode of the divine and atop its hanging gardens, fashioned in the likeness of the moon, He called forth an emissary of light. Darkrai's sister had been born, and he had been there to witness it: for from the shadow of his father, as He stood counter to the lunar rays, Darkrai had been spawned, and lingered hidden.

Soon, though, the little monster crawled out from the writhing shadows to join his sibling as she neared. Cresselia was surprised and recoiled, only to approach and embrace him before her own father, but the Original One was endowed with all-knowledge: he surmised the odd creature's origin and its purpose – it was a mistake, born of His primal anxiety as He abandoned stewardship over the Cosmos, and it served no purpose in the great plan of Creation. All the same, He loved it.

For many millennia in those gardens and down those halls and between those columns they did frolic and play. As prime emissaries of the Original One, they were on occasion asked to tread outside the land of dreaming , but always returned to Celephaïs, their great city which would never change.

And then the Creator left them…

Darkrai pondered, and no coherent thoughts formed, so dove into the shadows and rose a few feet away, at the very edge of the lake. Slowly, his legs extended and there he basked in the water's freshness. He could convince himself he was quivering due to its biting haze. He had been made to endure… many things – he knew the Cosmos to have been shaped without him in mind, so he need not wonder whether he deserved to suffer: he was entitled to nothing at all, good nor bad – but few other recollections made his insides churn to the point of nausea.

… he recalled his stay at Celephaïs down to the most minute, painstaking detail, no matter that he struggled to avoid thinking of it centuries at a time if he could. And he recalled their last day in the city beyond it all… Its halls had always been empty – his sister would attempt and people it with illusory beings from time to time, but they would fade from her interest… he always missed them – yet they had never been eerily empty. Together, they winded the spire-tower at its heart, along which hanged the gardens of Arceus, and atop of which dwelled… no one.

The Creator had departed, but they knew not that He wouldn't return, and they knew not that His presence was an immediate necessity: the fabric of the Dream Realm had been bound to His unchanging will, it had prevented the degenerating powers of Darkrai from taking hold and tearing it whole. Soon, they were made to know, for a foul autumn withered the hanging gardens, a cloud of blackened leaves listlessly swaying their way down to veil the avenues, the decay they had been soaked in gnarling the columns as they passed by. Its foundations deforming, its eaves caving, Celephaïs was abandoned by its lord and lady.

Their exile to the material plane – constraining and hostile – did confuse and disturb, and his sister did cry, once or twice or maybe even a bit more than thrice. Yet she was soon adored, and it was towards him, the shadow of death, that the world would bare its fangs. To Celephaïs he wished to return, yet he could not, without the sanctuary itself being undone. His sister could, and so she departed once and returned, claiming that her presence there had purified it of his festering rot. And from then she would for decades to come abandon him no more – if he could not follow her, she would follow him – Cresselia would remain by his side: healing those his powers had scarred with a bitter joy…

… Yet sometimes she was too late, sometimes he was not forgiven by those he had hurt. He understood well why and seldom protested – even while the hurt did swell – she understood well why… and could not accept it. Cresselia was soothing, calm, and kind, the world – to him, with him by her side, at all – did not seem to be so. Eventually, to her sanctuary in Celephaïs Cresselia did recede, alone there to brood with her illusory company.

And, alone, he had not even that.

…

The sands had been soaked red, the lake at his feet had begun to bleed, to lather with an injured froth… no longer was there a refreshing mist, it had been replaced with fumes which reeked of coming doom. In the far distance – the sound of crackling flames. A sudden dread which numbed his hands and clawed at his intestines struck Darkrai paralysed, sweating and twitching supine on the shore. In their frantic spasms along the leviathan of coursing smoke that had blotted out the sky, the Moonshadow's eyes landed upon the city, upon the blinding glare of the fires which gnawed at its structure.

Towers crumbled as stone sizzled and cracked, palisades melted into a downpour of lava, and Darkrai vanished from the fringes of the sanctuary his existence had once more defaced.

He went far, but the nightmare did not end: the city had gone, the lake had gone, but the inferno lingered, coating his second home. The Blightwoods were being torched.

Sorry for the shorter and more disconnected chapter. This one is actually a prequel, set just before he wakes up from his first nightmare in chapter 1.