(no subject)
The Dreaming shivered, and shook, and shuddered in a way that Moiraine had felt before, known before, has gone to Destiny in order to prevent from ever happening again. It changed and when it had finished changing Morpheus did not hold the reins of the Dreaming.
Perhaps worse is that two thirds of the Warder Bonds in her mind have slipped and shivered and shaken until if there are there she can no longer feel them. The quiet, pained and loving feeling of Daniel and the barely checked and angry love of Nyarlathotep are no longer a part of her mind.
When she arrives in the Dreaming it is in a place that she knows well from conversations with that Dream which she married and that Dream who asked her, once, with pleading and hopeless love if she were his wife or his widow. The balcony which looks over the Garden, and beyond the Garden to the whole of the Dreaming if one chooses to look that far.
A man leans against the balcony. A man in a black trench coat and black slacks, in black boots which are shined even in the back where many people forget. A man with wild black hair, even seen from the back it is familiar.
And he is familiar, for the Warder Bond sings with the knowledge that this is her Warder. This is her husband. This man, standing and looking down over the Dreaming is Morpheus.
This man is not Dream.
He turns toward her.
His suit coat is black, his shirt a crisp white with a blue tie.
He turns toward her, and the features are correct, but they do not change as Dream’s change, in subtle ways and slight. The features are stable; this the nose and this the brow. These the lips, and these the ears, and they are steady and changeless even as those of a human’s.
His eyes are still stars. A single star each, even as a man has iris and pupil which are his for life, this Morpheus has no fields of stars, no changing constellations, but one star per eye of a blinding and pure white upon a background of utter blackness.
“Moiraine. Beloved.”
It is his voice, Morpheus’ voice, and although it does not hold the power and depth of Dream in it, it is not a mortal voice.
He smiles, slightly, and waits for her to respond to him.
Perhaps worse is that two thirds of the Warder Bonds in her mind have slipped and shivered and shaken until if there are there she can no longer feel them. The quiet, pained and loving feeling of Daniel and the barely checked and angry love of Nyarlathotep are no longer a part of her mind.
When she arrives in the Dreaming it is in a place that she knows well from conversations with that Dream which she married and that Dream who asked her, once, with pleading and hopeless love if she were his wife or his widow. The balcony which looks over the Garden, and beyond the Garden to the whole of the Dreaming if one chooses to look that far.
A man leans against the balcony. A man in a black trench coat and black slacks, in black boots which are shined even in the back where many people forget. A man with wild black hair, even seen from the back it is familiar.
And he is familiar, for the Warder Bond sings with the knowledge that this is her Warder. This is her husband. This man, standing and looking down over the Dreaming is Morpheus.
This man is not Dream.
He turns toward her.
His suit coat is black, his shirt a crisp white with a blue tie.
He turns toward her, and the features are correct, but they do not change as Dream’s change, in subtle ways and slight. The features are stable; this the nose and this the brow. These the lips, and these the ears, and they are steady and changeless even as those of a human’s.
His eyes are still stars. A single star each, even as a man has iris and pupil which are his for life, this Morpheus has no fields of stars, no changing constellations, but one star per eye of a blinding and pure white upon a background of utter blackness.
“Moiraine. Beloved.”
It is his voice, Morpheus’ voice, and although it does not hold the power and depth of Dream in it, it is not a mortal voice.
He smiles, slightly, and waits for her to respond to him.