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ohraicodoll · 1 year

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Mortality

Inspired by @ennas-aesthetic and MystiqueWaves conversation on Twitter! Except it went angsty so someone write the lighthearted version. Summary: When Orpheus is sick, his immortal parents find they do not know what to do with a mortal child.

On the fourth day his son did not fully stay in the Dreaming, Morpheus knew something was wrong. Occasionally Orpheus had fitful nights where he would come and go in sporadic bursts or Dream would have to extend his power and grasp hold of him, wrapping the Dreaming around him and pulling his mind to stay and be calm. If only because he knew Calliope would need the rest. It was not easy taking care of the small babe alone in the Waking. She had refused to move to the Dreaming, was attached to her life and kept to the separation she had since the beginning of their courtship and so he did his best to shoulder the burden.

But this time he was unable to pull Orpheus to him, his mind slipping through his grasp like grains of sand as the child once again awoke and was pulled from him.

And so he went to his wife in her small home, merging and reforming from the shadows of the room as the fireplace bathed it in an orange glow. Calliope stood there with her hair unbound and baby to her breast, looking exhausted and worried. Even in the dim light, he could see the furrow of her brow as she stared down at the little one in her arms.

“Oneiros, he will not rest,” she whispered and smoothed a hand over her son’s brow, “When he wakes he screams and when he sleeps he is restless. I do not know what to do.”

The dreamlord pulled himself from the shadows and joined them, frowning as well. He was usually able to see what his son needed, could feel it coat the young mortal’s essence as if he were calling out. But now he only heard discomfort and cold and ache. He didn’t understand.

Calliope sighed and pulled Orpheus away from her breast as the small infant began to wail. She winced as if the sound hurt her, but held him out to his father who took him dutifully. He’d gotten better at caring for the child, had grown used to the feel of something so small in his hands and learned the tricks to calm him.

Morpheus swayed his arms, cloak only wisps of shadow that writhed around him and caressed the cheek of the baby like hands made of night sky. His son’s skin was warm, too warm, small beads of sweat dotting his forehead and joining the tears that ran down his red face. His son was also loud, a voice that almost bellowed from tiny lungs and would shake the world around him when he visited the Dreaming. Lucienne had once requested he not be in the library when he was upset after books had rattled to the floor around them.

His voice already held the semblance of some power. But for now he used it only to scream and cry, to shout his discomfort at his parents and the world.

“Is he meant to feel this hot?” Oneiros whispered almost to hide his uncertainty.

His wife only blinked and frowned, her uncertainty less hidden, “I am not sure. I know that mortals tend to run a bit warmer than us, but his skin feels like flame and it did not before. He screams like he is in pain but I cannot find any wound and nothing else seems to be wrong. Orpheus is clean and refuses to eat so I am at a loss. He is mortal, it must be something he feels that we cannot…I may see if I can call upon Asclepius. Maybe he will have answers.”

Dream almost frowned at having to call another god to discern what was wrong with his son when he should know, but Calliope was right. Orpheus was a mortal and though the Dream King could see the minds and hopes and fantasies mortals created in their sleep, their physical bodies were beyond him. He didn’t make it a habit to stay amongst them on a regular basis to learn about that in detail.

The muse quickly left the house to call the God of Medicine, leaving him alone with the screaming baby in the darkness of the room.

Morpheus’ chest felt tight as he watched him wail. He had not felt such a sense of hopelessness in a long time and the fact it was towards his own son made it all the worse. When Calliope was pregnant, he was uncertain but hopeful to finally have a child. It had never been something he had considered before as Endless do not typically have lives or families of their own, only their function, but the newness of it almost excited him.

And though the child was the son of a Goddess and Endless, he was mortal, had mortal skin and mortal bones. A mortal life. His sister, Death, had been there on that day of his birth and while she cooed over the pink wiggling mass, Dream could also see the small spark of sadness in her eyes. Not for Orpheus, but for him.

He did not fully understand it until now as he looked at his screaming child, helpless as Orpheus yelled in discomfort and some unknown problem tormented his son. His life was so fragile. A single fall would kill him. A sting from a scorpion, a slip of a knife, a fire unknowingly growing out of control. His son was mortal which meant his son could die- would die one day. He had less than a century to know him, to see him grow from an infant to a toddler to a small human being who would continue to grow and grow until he was an adult.

Orpheus would one day leave and have his own family, would grow and grow and grow until his skin wrinkled and his body slouched. Then he would dream no more and his sister would return, as she had that first day, and guide him to the Elysian Fields and would take him from Dream.

His son was mortal. His son would die.

The knowledge hit him in the chest like a blow, having been delayed all these months since his birth. It was a pain he could not describe, so monumental it felt like the hand of Zeus had reached down from the heavens and wrapped around his form to crush it. His son would die, his son would die-

But he said nothing, could only look at the baby in his arms even as the future played out in his head. Dream of the Endless held Orpheus close as the pain of his mortality pulsed against his skin. He would hold that pain tighter than he held his son and would use it as a barrier. A reminder that the tighter he held the child, the tighter and stronger the pain would be.

Dream would love his son with his whole heart even as the pain reminded him every second that went by that he would die. Like the sands falling from the hour glass, that moment would draw near.

And Morpheus was as helpless to stop it as he was now.

#Raicodoll writes #The Sandman #Morpheus #Dream of the Endless #Orpheus #The Song of Orpheus #Orpheus Sandman #Oneiros #calliope the sandman #Calliope #The Sandman fanfic

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alteon77 · 10 months

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The Maker, the Muse, and the Sundered Song: Chapter 1

In his temple, what remains of Orpheus waits in trepidation. Something is changing. Something that he knows might alter the very fabric of the world as he understands it.

Finally freed from captivity, Calliope struggles to make any meaningful changes to the laws that saw her bound and taken in the first place. When the strange woman appears on Mount Parnassus and offers help, Calliope knows she would be a fool not to accept it. Even if she thinks that she's being lied to.

Meanwhile in the peace of the Dreaming, Morpheus grapples with guilt over his son's fate. As he basks in the love of his new children, he can't help but to regret his own failings where Orpheus is concerned.

And as for May, she's really just got a job to do. And her own traumatic issues to deal with. And if it's all hella awkward because she's having to work alongside her husband's ex-wife, she'll see it done anyway. There's even the small possibility that she might eventually admit to Calliope the truth about her identity. That is if she can ever actually work up the courage to say it aloud.

AO3 here, Masterlist here

Quick note: This is one of the short stories that I've had a ton of requests about posting, so I'm going ahead and putting it on here. This is set in the Precious Fragile Things 'verse about six years after the epilogue.

"Father!"

In the river of Fiddler's Green, Orpheus dips his hand under the clear water, rummaging around beneath its glittering surface with an intent furrow to his brow, the expression almost amusing for how out of place it seems on his youthful features. When at last he lifts the limb up and holds it out, his fingers splayed wide, Morpheus leans over to see what his son has found. Settled on his palm is a rock, one smoothed by the gentle currents here, and despite how blandly unremarkable such a trophy is, Morpheus cannot help but to smile at it regardless.

"You have found a rather impressive stone, my son."

"Is it magic?" Orpheus asks, a grin lighting up his face as he beams. It twists Morpheus' heart in emotion, that look of utter adoration. His son loves him as Morpheus has never known love before, wholly and all encompassing in the way that only a child is capable of.

"Perhaps," Morpheus allows. "Shall I tell you a story of it?"

As predicted, the boy, his boy, clambers out of the river, making his way to Morpheus before he crawls into his lap. He's wet still, his tunic having been drenched while he'd fallen a few times in his bid to find a suitable treasure, one that Morpheus knows he will ultimately store in the small box near his bed where he keeps such things. With the lightest touch of his power, Morpheus dries him, unwilling to see this child catch an ailment or chill from the sodden fabric.

Morpheus circles his son in his hold, his arms settling around the boy as he buries his face in his dark curls and breathes in the scent of him. He smells like sunshine and warmth, like the heat of a day spent outside playing when one is young and given to such frivolity.

"Father," Orpheus demands in his tiny, enthusiastic voice. "The tale!"

And with a low chuckle, Morpheus gathers his child closer to him. "Very well. Shall we begin today with Chaos? Or perhaps the Titans?"

"The thread, father! I want to hear of the thread!"

Ariadne and Theseus then, unfortunately one of his son's favorites, though Morpheus does not think he will ever understand why. His boy, another smile stretching across his still babyish face, claps eagerly in anticipation, and though Morpheus is relatively tired of this telling, he can do naught but to carry on with it regardless.

For he loves this child of his, so completely that he feels remade in the glow of his affection, so completely that he can never imagine seeing him hurt or brought low. He thinks, as a father should, that he would rend worlds to ensure this sweet boy of his always stays so happy as he is now, that he would tear the very fabric of creation apart so he might never know pain or suffering. With certainty, however, Morpheus knows this to be impossible. For Orpheus will grow as all mortals are wont to do, and once he does he will make his way into the world on his own, will be exposed to a great many things that Morpheus rather wishes he could avoid. It is the way of life, the way of all children really. They are born. They live. They mature. They pass. And despite the protectiveness that Morpheus feels for his son, he is well aware that he cannot circumvent this cycle.

No matter how fervently he might wish for it to be different.

Though in this moment, his baby is here with him, safe and content, and Morpheus thinks he would be a fool to waste such a precious thing as that on his own melancholic wanderings.

"As you wish, my son," he murmurs at last as he drops a kiss atop the Orpheus' head. "Once not long ago, there was a demigod called Theseus…"

"Dadda! Look!"

Morpheus glances up, blinking out of his sorrowful remembrance slowly as he takes stock of his surroundings. He is in the Dreaming, and many centuries have passed since Orpheus was a young child content to spend time in his father's presence.

Fiddlers Green is, as it is on most days, splendid in its beauty. There's a warm breeze gently blowing through the air, carrying on it the fragrance of nearby jasmine blooms. All around him, the land is covered in rich greens, a testament to the verdancy of this place, and the sun shines brightly, its heat pleasant on him where he sits near the river bank's edge.

His wife is in the Waking for the moment, though her reasoning for going had been relatively vague, and he had brought his son to this place in an effort to stay the worry threatening to overtake him. It is always this way, despite that he had realized years ago that his beloved would come and go as she pleased, however much he might hate the idea of her being outside of the protection of their realm. So now he finds other ways to manage his panic regarding the matter, strict as he is in his resolve to control his own frustrating fears.

"Dadda, please look," Chalen tries again, and this time Morpheus does as he has been bid, peering down at what this boy of his is cradling in his hand.

It's a rock, one smooth and polished by the flowing water of the river here, and Chalen holds it before him as if it is a prized discovery, one worthy of admiration.

Morpheus stares at it, his throat working arduously on a swallow at the sight of the stone perched on little Chalen's palm, his fingers curled guardedly in as if the object might sprout wings and fly from where it is nestled.

Which, given this child's skill with his power, could very well be a possibility.

"What have you brought me, son?" he asks, his voice rough with emotion as he again reminds himself that this isn't Orpheus. This isn't the child that he had inevitably failed so completely with his own foolish pride, with his own stubborn rigidity regarding his inability to even attempt an understanding of the boy's grief.

No. This is instead his other son, the one that he vows daily he will never err similarly against.

And Chalen, his sweet child of only six, smiles at Morpheus in that sometimes hesitant, shy way of his. His eyes, though, as wide and blue as a spring sky, shine in something that Morpheus can only call excitement. "It's magic," he declares, his tone sure and steady, not a hint of doubt in it.

"Magic?"

"Yep."

The pebble shakes, a faint light glowing from it, and Morpheus nearly snatches the thing out of his son's hand in a fit of his oft observed protectiveness. It had been like this with his daughter, watching her learn her way around her fledgling power with an anxious lurch in his stomach every time she wielded it. This had been the compromise between Morpheus and his wife, however. Their children could work to hone their proficiency at managing magic much sooner than he had allowed Aurora, but only if their making was kept small and contained, kept as these little demonstrations that wouldn't interfere with the running of the realm.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the stone transforms, sprouting eight legs all covered in fur that it wobbles around on as if disoriented. Atop this creation, eight glassy black eyeballs form that stare intently up at both father and son, an odd sight since the body of this soon to be arachnid is still very, very much that of a glossy rock.

Tiny hairs grow from the creature, spreading over the entirety of its thorax and abdomen before finally it wholly resembles what he's sure Chalen had meant for it to be. His son at this point has made dozens of these, dozens of perfectly ordinary, if a little large, spiders, and Morpheus would be lying were he to say that his rendering of them is not improving with each attempt. The freshly crafted being feels out along Chalen's palm with its new pedipalps, the shortened legs nearest its head, and the boy giggles in response.

"It tickles, Dadda," he relays just before he crouches down amongst the grass and lowers his hand near the ground, which the spider crawls quickly onto as if it is grateful to be free, as if it is all too willing to run from the gentle attention of the entity that had sparked life into it.

"That was an impressive spider, my star." Morpheus can't help the way that his words come out so strained and rasping. He finds himself overwhelmed with his emotion, with his memories of the child he had done so poorly by. It's not a sudden feeling nor a sudden realization on his part. Instead, it is one he's harbored for decades. Long ago Morpheus had understood all of his shortcomings where his relationship with Orpheus was concerned, and the regret of that has haunted him regularly since.

This sensation of remorse, of deficiency, is only magnified tenfold when Chalen climbs onto his lap like Orpheus often did as a youth.

"I love you, Dadda," his boy offers before weaving his small arms about Morpheus' torso to cling to him.

And Dream of the Endless can do naught but to return the embrace, burying his face in Chalen's raven dark curls to breathe the scent of him in. Like Orpheus, this son of his smells like sunshine too, and it makes his heart unexpectedly wrench in grief.

Still, this child is not Orpheus, and he deserves better than for his father to compare him constantly to the ghost of dereliction past, so Morpheus tightens his hold ever so slightly before murmuring, "I love you as well, my starlight."

They stay like that for a while until Chalen is ready to run again, and Morpheus falters for only a moment before allowing him to rise, to go and do as he will. Letting go, after all, is sometimes a father's duty as well, difficult though he's always found it to be.

In the dingy basement where she's kept, Clio pulls idly at the shackle locked tightly about her ankle. It's no use, she knows, but the metal chafes something terrible, rubbing the skin beneath it near raw so that she thinks she would do anything to have it off if even for a moment. Even the illusion of freedom at this point would be welcome to her, the ability to freely walk around the dank place of her captivity as tempting as an amphora vase of undiluted wine to a drunkard. But it is not to be. The restraints they'd put on her had been wholly unnecessary, a mocking bit of torment from the man that had abducted her. After all, while owned by the old laws, she could not flee even if she tried to, the rules regarding this contract absolute in their restriction.

It's dark here, pitch black in this forsaken desmoterion to which she has been banished, and her captors are monstrous in their demands, taking from her that which she is unwilling to give and utterly cruel in her treatment. For many years, she has not known a full meal in her belly nor the comfort of having clothing to cover her nude form. And while she is immortal and does not truly require these things, the mortals who have chained her down here act as if she is little better than an animal that they are readying to slaughter.

And there are some days, horrible hopeless days, that Clio wishes they would do just that.

She can still be hurt, can still mourn, can still feel the savage abuses they visit on her. When first she was stolen away from her home, she had thought that her thieves would only require knowledge, inspiration, but they seem to have no care for such a thing from her. In truth, they seem to care only for what they can do to her, for the fact that they can injure her time and time again without it bringing about her death. And injure they assuredly do. Repeatedly. Violently. Frequently enough that Clio has often cursed her immortality for its refusal to simply allow her end.

The door atop the steep steps into her basement opens, a thin ray of light shining in through the crack of it, and Clio squints up from where she's huddled near the corner of the room. The man there descends the stairs slowly, a malicious grin curving his lips as he fiddles with the fastenings of his clothing.

Clio gulps past the lump in her throat and prays fervently to gods, both old and new, that perhaps this time she might not survive. It is a futile thing, she knows, since nobody can hear her in this Tartarus to which she has been cursed. And so she gathers her courage as best she can, preparing herself for whatever brutality might be visited on her this night.

On Mount Parnassus, in a pocket realm hidden from the outside world, May takes a minute to collect herself and weigh the ridiculously insane but necessary action she's about to take. This could be stupid of her, she knows, wholly idiotic. But she isn't quite sure what else to do.

It's been nearly three years since Morpheus rescued Calliope, and for almost all of them, Calliope has been attempting to rewrite the old laws, attempting to ensure that what happened to her cannot be revisited on any of her sisters ever again. And in this massive undertaking, she's made almost no progress.

Which is to say she's made none. A fact that unfortunately isn't at all surprising to May.

The truth of the matter is that if the muse intends to rewrite the laws woven in Great Design, if she means to undo a part of it, then she's going to require a maker. Of the two left currently in existence (which are really just May and her brother Viego) May knows that she's the only one capable of handling such a delicate, grueling task, and so she's who Calliope needs to address and end this travesty in any meaningful way.

No matter how uncomfortable that might (probably will) prove to be.

Honestly, though, May can't for the life of her figure out why her mother had allowed such a thing in the first place. Did she not understand, as the universe grew rapidly, that slavery was wrong? Did her mother not grasp how these rules would make it so others could snatch up their victim's lives as if they had a right to them? And if she did eventually realize how bad the whole concept was, why the hell hadn't she put a stop to it right then and there?

May shakes her head as if to force herself to focus. Despite whatever her mother should abso-fuckin-lutely have done differently, she's not able to straighten this mess now. That mantle has fallen instead to May, who resolves to try and manage what she can to fix the flaw in the Design. As draining as it might be, she'll help Calliope to take care of it.

Drawing in one more steadying breath, May gathers up her courage and walks through the entrance, the magic of this place washing over her as she does. It's a cold kind of power, and it tingles a bit as she passes, the sensation somewhat like that of being unlucky enough to catch the spray of a waterfall during a freezing winter's day.

Once she emerges on the other side, she finds Calliope easily enough, spotting her immediately at the edge of a small lake. It's surrounded by flowers, fragrant hyacinths that bloom in rich shades of blue and lavender and rosy pink. Moss covers the entrance to a cave, and water from the lake burbles into a nearby stream that flows over the mountain's edge in a quiet, subdued murmur. The muse crouches by it, splashing her face with her cupped hands. This close to her, May can make out her clothes, from the immaculately clean, white chiton to the lacings along the back that are gold, possibly from a girdle made of the precious metal.

May knows the moment that this woman becomes aware of her presence, however, given that she's watching as Calliope's back goes rigid in what May is pretty sure might be fear.

"I didn't come to entrap you," May calls out, trying to keep her tone as reassuring as possible. "I promise."

Calliope stands like a soldier getting ready to make their last charge anyway as she turns to face her, and May thinks, somewhat distantly, that she's rather lovely. Her hair is unbound, and it hangs down her back in silken waves that catch the sunlight on the gloss of their strands. Her eyes, a beautiful brown, narrow as she peers at May in a wariness that May completely gets. After all, this being had spent many decades in captivity, and the lingering fear of being enslaved to another after something like that is one May understands all too well.

"Who are you?" Calliope asks, her voice heavy with the accent that most of the remaining Grecian deities retain even to this day.

"I'm May. May Westin. I've… come to help."

Wisely, May leaves out the part about being wed to Morpheus, thinking as she does that this entity knowing too early that she's basically her ex's new wife might not go over so smoothly.

Which, she supposes, is entirely fair. This whole situation is awkward to the extreme, but… it must be seen to regardless. And if May can spare Calliope a little of that unpleasantness, then she's going to. Or at least that's what she tells herself despite that she can't deny the way her intentional silence on this reminds her of nothing so much as cowardice.

"Help?" At this, the muse arches up a single eyebrow and appears for a moment as if she might scoff in disbelief.

"Yeah. With your mission to change the old ways. I… I know how to, and I heard about what you were doing, so… here I am. Ready to assist."

"You wish to… offer assistance in my quest to unmake the laws?"

Unmake. May could almost laugh at that phrasing, because this woman has no idea how right she is on that front. There will be a good deal of unmaking involved in this endeavor, but May doesn't tell her that. Instead, she simply answers, "That's right."

Calliope doesn't speak for a while, her forehead bunched up as if she's having difficulty making sense of what May's just offered. "Why?"

"Because…" May feels her heart begin to race, her hands shaking as some undefinable terror creeps over her awareness. She's remembering her own ordeal, her own brush with being forcibly bound. Because I was held prisoner, she wants to say. Because I know how horrid it is to have one's freedom snatched away like they never had it at all. Because I have a daughter that was trapped in a binding circle for a small length of time that felt like an eternity while I worked to free her. Because the thought of ever having it happen to another sickens me more than anything else ever has.

"Because?"

"It needs to be done," May settles on instead, unwilling to unload all of her trauma on this poor woman who was just minding her business until May barged in on her not ten minutes ago.

"And you… are capable of this?"

May nods quickly. "I am."

"Then if you are truly willing to aid me concerning this matter, you might start now. I am readying to leave to my sister's side and free her from her captor."

Relief washes over May. Not at the news that yet another of these poor muses has been taken but that Calliope is going to accept her for this task. This will go so much easier if she's working with the muse as opposed to being forced to shadow her. Teamwork, as her brother likes to say, makes the dream work and all.

"We can absolutely do that. Which sister is it, and where is she being kept?"

At this, Calliope hesitates. "It is Clio, but beyond that, I… am unsure."

May resists the urge to frown as she mentally digs through her many, many memories of the Greek deities. "Clio? The muse of… history?"

"Yes."

"Okay. That's… a bit weird. I mean, no offense to your sister, but history is…. I don't know what someone would really use her for."

"Neither do I."

May bites her lower lip in thought. "How did you find out that she had been taken?"

"The Moirai informed me of as much," Calliope supplies and in the blink of an eye, her appearance changes. From one second to the next, her hair is pinned up intricately atop her head and the water that had dripped down on her chiton no more.

"The fates? Well, then, I guess we can assume it's true." May blows out a frustrated breath. It's just like those irritating entities to give only the tiniest piece of information possible. She knows she can cast out to look for Clio with her magic, but something like that takes time, too much time that she's not sure Calliope would agree to give her. It's the binding that muddles a search like that up, the ownership aspect of what's happening to these muses making it a million times harder. It's set so firmly in the Design's weaving that it's extremely difficult to locate their threads, so to speak, hidden as they are by their captor's claim on them.

"Do you… have any idea of where to start?"

And at this Calliope grants May a faint smile, the kind born of wry satisfaction. "Yes…. I believe so. It is a… thin lead but a lead nonetheless."

Lead. Like she's a detective in a crime drama. The absurdity of that makes May grin. "Well, then. I've got a couple of hours. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

The muse frowns in confusion. "Popsicle stand?" She repeats the words like she's trying them out for the first time, which is probably the actual case now that May's thinking about it. On further consideration, she can't imagine what reason Calliope might have had to say popsicle before this.

"I'll… uh, explain it on the way," is May's promise as she nods her head one more time, fidgeting with her fingers as she often does when she's nervous about something. "We should... um, probably get going."

Calliope studies her anew at that, a scrutiny in her gaze that makes May think the muse is spooked, that she's going to call the whole thing off. In the end, she doesn't, though. Instead, her features go hard, impassively cold, as she brushes past May on the way to the realm entrance. "Very well, May Westin. Let us leave this place then."

#morpheus x oc #sandman fanfiction #the song of orpheus #morpheus x original character #sandman fic #sandman oc #dad!morpheus #morpheus fic #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus x reader #MakerMuseSunderedSong

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