| CHAPTER ONE

with a familial wager.

Often, the lines between Realms are stretched so thin that a prick of a quill can pierce through the boundaries. There is an overlap betwixt them, the Seven Endless. Delicious delirium mingles with the willful nature of desire, the dreams of destruction and destiny creating life itself, and the inner working of the human mind.

Aeons ago, the two Realms of Dream and Desire touched frequently. For, what is desire without a dream?

Destiny, in his all-knowing wisdom, had bestowed upon his two siblings the task of revitalising the Waking World; to aid them out of the Darkness and into a New Era of enlightenment.

And so, Dream and Desire begrudgingly, but earnestly, took up the mantle, crafting new dreams and desires, new vices and nightmares. The two Endless pondered new fantasies and enticements for Human Kind.

What would inspire the leagues of men? What would spur in the dark of their worst nightmares?

It spurred between them an unspoken competition, a domestic gamble of whom's creation would cause the most effect.

Among these crafted in the Homeric Age, was The Nightingale.

She was a frail being, bewitched with the beauty of a Mesopotamic maiden, sweet and endearing. Her purpose, a song to guide the Greek Dark Ages from their slumbering stupor.

Her dark hair fell as tendrils of The Black Sea down the olive-toned curve of her back with delicate, thick waves. Her dark eyes shone with pools of liquid sunset, and in their depths reflected a thousand and one nights. The curve of her mouth was steadfast and full of mysticism, seducing with snaring stories and songs of the hearts of Humankind. The good and the wretched.

The Nightingale's honeyed hymns grew to tempt many, her saccharine songs soaring far and wide throughout The Dreaming. She enticed many poets, historians, and men of great renown. Homer once portrayed his vision of her as a Siren, a songstress out of reach, whose capture would lead to nothing but Death. He visited her often, inspired by his melancholic muse.

Homer's meetings with Her, at first once a fortnight, soon progressed to nightly visitations. Her aura of mystery and secrecy spoke to him of gods and monsters, of magic and mystic. And, he spoke to her of Humanity and Free Will, adventure and adversaries.

"Fairest Nightingale," Homer would crone. "Why do you remain, caught in briar thorns and meadows of dreams?" He motioned around the Fiddler's Green, then dubbed The Elysian Fields, and would hold her hand, wishing to hold it for much longer than a night's sleep permitted.

"Soar away with me, to my world. Taste the sweet air of Mount Pindos, feel the salty sand of the Black Sea under your toes, see the cities and the villages, smell the vineyards and indulge in their intoxicating meads. Surely, this Realm was not constructed to hold a being as divine as you."

"Your world sounds like a delicacy," Nightingale admitted. Her soft brow furrowed only deeper as she sat, under a thick Willow alongside her companion. "But, Dreams do not Venture."

Homer became enraptured by her power, hidden behind her timidity and shy nature. He found it odd, that a Woman with such power would be so cautious of her own nature.

The Nightingale found him fascinating, in his own right, and enjoyed his companionship. Her melodies grew joyful in the growing months, descanting of heroes and triumph. Some even told tales of a grand Venture, of a Human who so desperately desired to be free that they crafted wings of paper and wax and took to the sky. Hopeful, but ill-fated.

Even Mervyn Pumpkinhead, the grouch himself, would find himself lingering by her perch in The Fiddler's Green, moved by her soft songs.

Nightingale had become a beacon, of hope and harmony, of humility. Her inner circle flourished. And, unbeknownst to Her, He too watched and wondered.

He would linger for a little time, standing just out of eyesight of Fiddler's Green. He would ponder to himself of what she'd seen, and felt, through the visitors of their Realm. So sweet Her song, but it lingered on the horizon with lyrics that spoke well beyond Her years.

In turn, the Waking World rippled with her tones. Light enflamed the consciousnesses of all who visited her nest, sparking a fire of inspiration into the Ancient Age. He swelled with stifled pride. For, though He could never admit it, She was a worthy dream.

Despite the truth of what ensued to dreams and nightmares that dared to Venture beyond The Dreaming, Nightingale allowed Homer's charming words to massage her mind. Would she be so cavalier, so cruel, to abandon her home for The Waking World?

What would become of her? Despite the willful yearning she felt, Nightingale was resolved to stay. Surely, she would be content with her mere companionship with Homer. His winding tales of the lands beyond, and above, were enough to offer Nightingale her fill.

There came an evening, no different than many others before it, that the Nest of Fiddler's Green fell silent. No muddled voices amid treeline were heard. No sweet songs of endearment or melancholic mania rung out.

Homer had failed to meet Nightingale amongst the thick forest of Fiddler's Green.

For the first time in nearly a millennia, no dreamers heard the stirring songs of the Nightingale. Steadfast in her wait, Nightingale remained sat betwixt her Willow and the gurgling river of Eridanos.

At the dawning of the new day, Nightingale gathered her arms to her frame and inhaled the silence. It echoed throughout Fiddler's Green. No calls of ancient birds rang as the day began. There was only the silent day, matched solely by the churning tide of Eridanos.

Coming to her senses, Nightingale settled back into her purpose. It was a shedding of a torn outer skin, the passing of dismay for the mantle of hope. After all, her purpose could not be cast aside so readily.

Nightingale continued to sing her songs of heroism and heliocentric ideals, awaiting Homer's return. Night after night, The Dreaming continued to grow. Night after night, Homer did not return.

Songs of darkness and dismay exchanged themselves for the sweet symphonies once more.

It did not take long for the news of Nightingale's sadness to spread. It was murmured by dreams and nightmares alike, each adding a new addition to the tale as the story made its way to The Castle of the Dreaming.

Many came to comfort the burdened Nightingale, some offering treats and others offering friendly words of encouragement. None succeeded.

The Nightingale sat in her perch. The blades of tall wheatgrass tickled at her dark ankles, caressing her skin like butterfly kisses as the warm breeze wafted through the trees. Brilliant days like these weren't uncommon for Fiddler's Green, but Nightingale enjoyed each one as a precious gift granted by The Lord of Dreaming.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the fragrant flowers in bloom and tasting the river's crest. Deliberate footsteps approached her Willow, with a commanding, careful pacing. The birds hopping from branch to branch stopped in their chirping, and a low hum fell on the Green.

Nightingale sensed Him before He resolved to speak to his melancholic maiden. Her dark hair was tied back from her face with ribbons and flowers and intricate braids, coated sweet scented oils. Her soft lips parted, rosehip petals agape, in an innocent endearing smile as she met His gaze.

"My lord," Nightingale breathed, bowing her head and standing.

Bashfully, she swiped at the debris and dirt that riddled the hem of her cotton skirts. Nightingale had not met with Lord Morpheus in some time, but he was a Being not easily mistaken.

Morpheus, the Dream of the Endless, stood tall with his shoulders slack and sturdy. His alabaster skin glowed with the fragmented light of river Eridanos. His constellation eyes bore a deep understanding, but a weariness as well, framed by his erratic, midnight hair.

He could sense her lonesomeness. It harboured the canticles of her forlorn themes.

"He has moved on from this realm," Lord Morpheus spoke. His baritone voice uncurled like flowers.

Morpheus inspected the dream's countenance as she stood before him, head bowed and eyes fatigued. She was small, standing a foot beneath him with her delicate, sunset eyes surveying his every movement.

She hesitated in response. A dip formed on Nightingale's walnut brow, her gaze dancing across the stark features of Lord Morpheus. There was a comfort she found in his presence, like a swaddling cloth wrapped around her weary bones.

"When shall he return?" Nightingale asked.

"He will not return," Morpheus quipped back his reply. The direct tone was absolute, final. Morpheus watched, calm, as the Nightingale's face fell.

There was a moment's pause as the birds of the Green began to chirp once more, as the life of the forest returned to its usual state of being. "He has gone somewhere you cannot follow," he softly uttered, like ointment to a wound.

Morpheus reached out a cool hand and clasped hers with it. It was small in comparison, but much warmer. "You shall never see him again. But, his memory shall remain within you. And, it shall remain in his inspiration from you. It will ripple through the Waking World for millenniums to come."

"He has ended his tale." She said it so strikingly, with such gravitas, that he was almost moved. "And now, his new journey will begin again."

Morpheus smiled, delicate and steadfast against the bottled wisdom that sought to outpour. "Come, I have prepared a place are you in the Eldest House. Sit by my side and sing your sweet songs. For, I too am in need of a muse."

//

OCTOBER MY ASS