Rachel Andric and Final Death

Chapter 8: A Nagging Feeling

Morpheus looked at the unconscious threesome before turning on his heel and walking away from them. He couldn't deny that there was a familiar feeling about them, particularly the black-haired man; however, it wasn't a particularly endearing memory about him, Guy of Gisborne, he'd been called. Morpheus shrugged the thought away. He didn't need them bothering him.

He made his way back to his temple, which was never occupied anymore. Not even at night. Nobody prayed to the god of sleep—he was forgotten, tossed aside. Even his old friend Hermes had stopped caring about him. Perhaps it was better that way. He didn't want anyone praying to him. It bothered him for some reason.

Morpheus pushed his way into the inner rooms of the temple, where he slept. He stopped when he saw a woman standing there. Tall, red-haired and striking, she was no one that he had ever seen before. Yet again, he had that nagging feeling that he should know her. Her dark eyes reminded him greatly of someone, but he couldn't quite place her. "Can I help you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Morpheus, god of sleep. How the mighty have fallen," she said with a smirk.

"To be honest," Morpheus answered, "I've never exactly been 'mighty'. I'm a minor god. Are you here to do anything except rub it in?"

She smiled a little at him, twisting it into a sweeter expression. He wasn't fooled. He folded his hands behind his back, feeling the knife in his sleeve. She motioned to the table in the middle of the room. "Shall we sit down?"

"That's my table," Morpheus said calmly, "so, no. What do you want from me?"

"Oh, Morpheus," she said, making a tsk tsk sound. "Don't be so innocent. You and I both know those people in the square sent that man to kill you. And once they wake up, they'll come after you again."

Morpheus shook his head, trying to clear the fog settling over his eyes. "Woman," he said, "you have no power over a god! Leave me be, before I kill you. I know who you are; they spoke of you. That boy, Will Scarlet, he's your son." He's the Editor's son. "And you're the Editor."

"It seems you're not completely stupid," the Editor answered, crossing her arms. "And what shall you do, Morpheus?"

He stared at her, a memory tickling at his mind. He could clearly picture her turning him against somebody, a young woman. No, not just any young woman... her. That blonde hair, those icy-blue eyes, her lack of height... everything made sense. "Rachel," he said dully. He couldn't believe he'd put her fiancé to sleep and knocked one of her best friends unconscious. Oops.

The Editor shook her head. "It seems you have a stronger mind than Gisborne," she said. "I would have liked to have kept the charade going a little longer, but we can't always get what we want, now can we?" She drew a sword and pointed it at Morpheus—no. Ewan. He was Ewan again. "Are you ready to die?"

"Been there," he answered, "done that." He drew his sword, holding it parallel to his cheek. "My question is, are you ready to die? Because if you don't release my sister from Final Death, that's exactly what's going to happen to you. I'm not happy with you."

"Morpheus, if you really think you can best me—the creator of The Story—you are sorely mistaken," the Editor retorted. "Once I've dealt with you, I'll go and find my son and dispose of him, since you so kindly rendered him unconscious for me."

Ewan felt heat rise to his cheeks. He couldn't believe he'd hit Will in the head with a stick. The outlaw was going to kill him when he woke up. "If you think I'm going to let you kill them, you've got another thing coming," he said.

"Did you know that a person can die in Final Death?" the Editor asked. "And that would be it. No second chances, just... dead. Did you know that?"

Ewan lunged at her, and she caught his sword on hers. They stood sword-to-sword, Ewan's furious face inches from hers. She smiled at him. "Once you've undergone Final Death again, I'll kill her in front of you," she promised.

In spite of the fact that his sword was beginning to press against his chest, Ewan pulled one of his hands free and punched her in the face. She stumbled back, and he stepped towards her, his shirt torn, a long line of blood seeping down his torso. He barely even felt it. "Don't ever threaten her," he growled. He raised his sword, but the Editor wasn't out of tricks yet.

Her sword flicked up, and he narrowly avoided getting impaled. Their swords clashed in midair, and she pressed the attack. It was then that he realized how outmatched he was. She was like a wild thing, her sword strokes so quick his eyes couldn't follow them. He didn't want to die again, but his pride prevented him from backing down.

"Duck!" Ewan obeyed the new voice, going prone to the ground. Something spun over his head—he saw with a good deal of chagrin that it was a stick like the one he'd hit Will with—and struck the Editor's forehead. Someone grabbed Ewan's arm. "Let's go!"

Will Scarlet dragged Ewan out of the temple and back to the busy streets. They ran through the crowds together, Will shoving his way through. "You're bleeding," he said.

Ewan shrugged. "She nicked me. Why did you come rescue me?"

"Because I knew you'd be a fool and try and get yourself killed," he answered. "This way!" He pulled him down a dark alley, where Morgana and Guy were laying, still asleep. "Could you, I don't know, wake them up?"

Ewan waved his hands over them. "They'll be awake in a minute," he said. "How'd you come after me so fast?"

"Simple," Will said. "You never knocked me unconscious. You hit me, yes, but I have a hard head." He grinned. "That was a very satisfying encounter with the Editor."

Ewan rolled his eyes. "She's going to hate you."

His grin widened. "She already does. So why not add a little fuel to the fire?"