Daydream | Morpheus

how does a dream die

Hi! For the next few chapters, I'm going to be using my questionable European history knowledge, and I do not promise everything is accurate. But I sure hope it is.

Also, Morpheus-in-prison time will be very non-chronological. But making sense, I promise. Because well, I had an idea for this before I had an idea for that and such things (I might replace the order of chapters later tho)

Oh, and there will be a name there, Jan and you read it like Yan/Ian, not with a j sound.

Trigger warnings:
suicide, war, a lot od death (nothing too graphic though)

Anyhow, here it is:

~*~

Present | 1943 Warsaw, Poland

(Oh lord is history finally useful for something?)

I remember sitting on his throne, long after he has left his realm, long after he abandoned me. The stone was cold against my skin, unpleasant shivers running down my spine but I it didn't matter when I always ignored them. I drew my knees against my chest, hugging them wity my hands and curling up in a ball-like positions. The dreaming became colder and colder day by day, or at least seemed to do so, but only for me. Now I know it wasn't the realm - it was me changing, loosing my warmth.

Each second of each day I've hoped to hear him enter the throne room and with annoyed expression on his face, say, „Shoo, daydream."

Oh how I longed to hear him say it. My name didn't feel mine anymore after years when no one has spoken it. It felt like a memory. I felt like a memory.

I remember wearing his dark coat in sad attempts to warm myself, when the shivers got too common. I remember the feeling of the soft, black fabric against my cold skin. It was much to big for myself, falling on the chamber's floor, the sleeves a feet too long for my hands which were lost somewhere inside.

I remember staring at the nightsky, dreaming of him coming back to me, of my name spoken from his lips, of his warm embrace, but the stars on the Dreaming's sky started to fall, and each time, I woke up to a darker night.

I remember the pain of dreaming, of hoping for something that is not likely to come true. I remember all the tears I've shed over the twenty years I've spent in the Dreaming without him, sitting on his throne, in his coat, staring at the falling stars.

I do not wish to remember how it ended, and how I ended up here, on Earth, so I tell myself I do not, as if the memories do not hunt me in my nightmares.

Oh well. There's too many of those to count anyway.

It's cold, here, too, but I'm far too old to be expecting comfort in a cell.

Oh, Morpheus. (At times, I find myself talking to him still, as if he could hear me- as if he cared to.) Look at me, speaking of comfort, when I'm laying on the stone floor, curling up in pain from the tortures of humans.

There is not a day I do not regret my physical body and the way humans can hurt it.

Humans do like to do that, it seems. They like to suffer, but not more than they like making others suffer, I sometimes mutter to myself at night, when I'm filled with hopelessness and the pain is too big.