| CHAPTER TWO

as all things wane with time.

The Nightingale would turn round the corridors of the Castle of the Dreaming, The Eldest House, daily. She would feel the unshakable stone beneath her bare feet, the long train of her golden gown trailing behind her as she wandered.

It was an ever-expanding Land, the Realm of Dreaming. Lord Morpheus's Castle was no exception.

Every few hundred years or so, a new wing was assembled while others were torn away to start anew.

Many nights passed with The Nightingale, perched within the Minstrel's Gallery, overlooking the elaborate throne room below as she sang her sweet songs of creation and despair, of lords and peasants.

As the highest balcony within the Castle, the Minstrel's Gallery, was her roost. It opened out over the vast courtroom, sprawled with ivory checkered floors and ornate Doric columns that hoisted the court's lavish, elaborate arches.

Often, she watched Lord Morpheus pace those ivory floors, turning and talking, crafting and directing.

When Nightingale had first arrived at the Eldest House, she'd envisioned parties nightly. Creatures of all walks of the Dreaming and the Waking Realms would be able to gather under her songs, dancing and drinking and making merry.

But, it was not meant to be; Lord Morpheus was a solitary Being. While he held court when problems would arise, these issues came and went like fleeting pests, hardly remaining for more than a day at a time.

Rather, Nightingale's purpose was a craft of a different nature. She was a conduit, a well of inspiration for the Lord as he poured out his plans for dreams and nightmares. Night or Day, Nightingale was by his side when he called.

Like an angelic being, her perch from above would create the loveliest echoes throughout the Castle. Often, Dreamers would stop to listen. Sometimes, dreams would listen too. Occasionally, a lone nightmare would halt by the Grand Hall.

"What songs have you for me, sweet Nightingale?" Her master would inquire, one hand full of dreaming sand and the other with a masterful aim.

"Dear Nightingale," Lucienne addressed her, as she cleaned the glass of her wiry frames. The Nightingale approached the Librarian with a soft smile on her desert rose mouth. "Have you not finished your wandering yet?" Lucienne's dark eyes darted quizzically.

The pale pink dusting of morning's light refracted through the glass etchings of the stained glass windows. Another day was dawning, and the guests were once again returning to their Waking World, one by one.

Nightingale's long, dark hair flowed freely, adorned with sweet oils and a crown of dew drops. She ascended the first stone steps of the throne, standing alongside the steadfast and solemn Lucienne, breaking her solitude.

Lucienne pushed her glasses atop her dark, pointed ears. She smiled tightly to the minstrel, pocketing her handkerchief, and sighing at the maiden's reply:

"I'd go mad if I ever had, good Lucienne."

Lucienne hummed an acknowledging grunt and produced a book from her pocket. It was small in size, fitting right in the palm of the Librarian, with a leather backing and tight, chord strings tied tightly to keep it shut. "Don't let Lord Morpheus hear you speak like that," she warned.

The Librarian was a dependable dream, loyal and lofty in silent judgements. She was small for her status but taller than most — taller than The Nightingale by just a mere inch or three. Not that Nightingale counted. Much.

With her coarse, shaved head, midnight skin, and round speckles that added to her air of perception, Lucienne was usually found wayfaring the Castle halls dressed in a sharp three-piece suit. But, most importantly, Lucienne was a dream.

And, as a dream, the pair shared an unspoken bond — as all dreams and nightmares share.

"Whatever for?" The Nightingale asked, threading her fingers together with her question. She watched the sharp eye offered by her companion as Lucienne unravelled her book, scribbling a studious task list.

Despite the query, Nightingale knew. "What harm does yearning cause?" Nightingale's chest puffed up self-righteously, her dark nose upturned. "I could Venture for a night —"

"— you shall do no such thing!"

"—And what if I did?" Nightingale flippantly cut off Lucienne. The air of the courtroom turned acidic for a moment's time. Lucienne looked about the room and bowed her head with quiet unease.

The Nightingale could sense him before she spoke. His aura radiated through the stone floors, a cool, calm but electrifying sensation that sent a charge through the tips of her fingers.

"Any Venturing," his voice coldly rang out, "is a dangerous endeavour for a dream such as you." Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, stepped out from the shadow of the archway. His long, wiry frame was illuminated under the morning's sun.

"My lord." The Nightingale bowed, cheeks flushed and eyes wary of meeting his.

Lucienne started to protest, her soft mouth forming an oval of objection. "My lord, Nightingale is prone to wandering mind and heart. She —"

"— Lucienne," Morpheus chided. His guilded tongue sliced the atmosphere, though not looking at either. "I did not ask for an explanation." Nightingale wearily glanced to and fro, from lord to lady.

Morpheus paid little mind to the pair as he strode across the grand entrance, his dark cloak billowing with an unfelt air. He prowled past the throne's entrance, towards two large, iron-cast wood doors. His pale hand extended to the latch and he opened it with a flick of the wrist. The iron echoed across the stonewalls.

"Little bird," Lord Morpheus called, only turning his ivory head a tad as he called her. "Take a turn through the garden with me. Ask your questions and be filled."

Her soft waves fell over her hunched shoulders and she stepped softly, almost afraid to make a sound, towards Dream the Endless—her delicate steps reverberated off the castle walls. Lucienne watched wearily from the sidelines.

The morning light rebounded kaleidoscopes of rainbows from The Nightingale's dew crown. The warm sunlight soaked through the silks of her gown, and she basked in it with a simple delight, though trying to hide it from Lord Morpheus.

He was a mystery to her. An enigmatic Being, neither good nor evil. His iron-clad pride weighed heavy on the Dreaming World, and not many dared challenge his will.

She was nervous as they meandered around the Secret Garden, taking forking paths of rosebuds and curved bridges of stone. To her cautious surprise, Morpheus spoke with her of life and humanity. He explained the Origin of her purpose with steady-paced words, firm and heavy with an absolutism.

The greens and golds of the garden were charming and speckled with colours of every known kind. The scent was intoxicating and alluring, and Nightingale found herself satisfied with the answers, even if just for a time.

"My purpose is to sing of the rise and fall of humanity," she repeated, fingers interlaced.

"Your purpose is to inspire, through dreams. To spur the hearts of the sleeping and ignite their imagination."

Nightingale glanced up to his face for the first time in their walk. She found that she'd been too fearful to try sooner. What she'd found, in place of the imagined hardened expression of an angered Endless, was rather plain.

No furrow was etched across his ageless brow. No frown upon his lips. Yet, Morpheus's gravitas air was charged. His crystal eyes bore into hers with a ferocity, searching hers with an unspoken inquisition. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his pale chin was held high, giving him the air of looking down on her as she paused her walking.

"What would it be like to go outside the Dreaming?" She asked, her sunset eyes alight with curiosity. The sounds of birds chirping and the wind rustled leaves sounded throughout the garden. Lord Morpheus pursed his lips.

"You are not made for Venturing to the Waking World," he repeated. "Your purpose is here, in the Dreaming."

Nightingale found that reply unsatisfactory and she bit at her lip to keep from making a frown.

Lord Morpheus strolled closer to the shade of a large, fruit-bearing tree to the side of their path. He reached out and pulled an apple from the heavy branches, a red delicious.

Nightingale gingerly reached out as he offered the treat to her, taking it with a blush. She'd never received a gift before.

"Sow an apple seed once, you feed the world once. Sow dreams, feed the world for generations." Morpheus explained, taking her hand and placing it atop the apple so that she was firmly grasping it with both. His eyes searched hers, wondering if she could be content.

Ashamed, Nightingale bowed her head, looking at the brilliant-coloured fruit in her palms. It gleamed in the sunlight, and she could see herself peering back into its waxy skin. "I don't believe I understand," she admitted.

"You need not understand. Just know this: dreams cannot last in the Waking World. Eventually, we all play our parts."

Lucienne's quill scratched against the pages of the weathered catalogue in front of her. The room was filled with the sombre humming of her companion as the Nightingale fettered from shelf to shelf, pursuing a novel that had never been written.

Agitated, the Librarian clutched the quill tightly, pausing to watch the Nightingale with annoyance. The woman continued to hum, her long black hair tied back into a thick, heavy braid down her back. She touched every book before her, running a finger down the spine of each as if to pull it from its place before deciding it was not right.

"," Lucienne sighed, setting her quill to the side as she pressed her hands together, weary from the incessant noise. "Are you looking for something in particular?" She held her tongue from finishing with a witty cut.

The Nightingale stopped humming and turned to flash Lucienne a sheepish smile. "My apologies, dear Lucienne."

"Well, are you?"

The Nightingale weighed her answer in a casual tilt of her head, flopping herself down on Lucienne's desk. Lucienne pushed away from the table and tightly shut her ledger. She stepped closer to Lyra and crossed her arms over her chest, awaiting the Nightingale's answer.

"Do you have any books on Lord Morpheus?" Lyra asked, her fingers picking at the pearls on the hem of her cinched waist. The dark fingers plucked and primed, earning a scolding from the Librarian to not ruin good things.

Lucienne shook her head and pointed towards the back section of the giant library. "You will not find whatever you're looking for, though there are three volumes. Their placement changes every day, and only those who know what they are looking for may find them."

A haughty scoff came from the entrance to their chamber. Both women turned to see Mervyn Pumpkinhead sauntering into the library, a burlap sack in one hand and a few books in the other.

His bright orange jack-o-lantern face was ignited and scrunched up in disdain as he shook his head at The Nightingale. "Whatever for?"

"I'm writing our lord a new sonnet," Lyra said, nose upturned. She couldn't help to smile at her companion Mervyn, despite his sour mood. "What could you tell me of him?"

Mervyn dropped the sack onto the desk between Lucienne and Lyra. It fell with a heavy and spewed a cloud of debris and dust. Lucienne tsked and brushed at the soil, annoyed.

"The boss, he's a complex guy." Merv pulled a cigar out from the breast pocket on his faded blue overalls, fishing around for his matchbook while he pondered his next words. "Very hush hush."

Lucienne cleared her throat and looked at Mervyn over the rim of her glasses, seeming very annoyed now. "There is no smoking in the library, Mervyn. Not since the last time." She pushed the frames further up her nose. "Besides, it does no one any good to speculate about Lord Morpheus."

Mervyn muttered his abysmal reply, waving his hand around before picketing his cigar once more, though albeit a tad disappointed.

The pair then struck up a conversation concerning janitorial needs on the castle grounds. The Nightingale found their words carried off on the air like a low whizzing, as her imagination circled melodies. She felt something that she hadn't in quite some time; she felt drained.

Her imagination welled up as if tapped to its very essence. Dry and dilapidated. It was a worrisome thought.

Somewhere, not far, a nightmare broke the barrier of The Dreaming.

News of The Corinthian's disappearance spread like wildfire amongst the dreams and nightmares. It had been quite some time since a dream had dared cross the gates without the accompaniment of Lord Morpheus. All knew what the repercussion meant: oblivion.

From her perch above the throne room's court, The Nightingale could hear Morpheus and Lucienne discussing the matter in short length.

"My lord, you are coming back, aren't you?"

The Nightingale peered over the railing of the Minstrel's Gallery, watching the pair as Lord Morpheus gathered his tools to himself. She remained as silent as possible, but just as Lucienne below her, a pit was forming in her stomach.

Morpheus didn't turn to look towards The Librarian, carefully sliding his helm over the top of his head. "And why would I not, Lucienne?"

Lucienne stepped closer, wringing her hands anxiously as she shook her head. "I don't know, a presentment?" She frowned and glanced upward, noticing the watchful Lyra above them. She sighed and turned back to their Lord, frowning deeply as Jessamy, Morpheus's raven, walked about the floor and readied for the travel.

"My lord, dreams rarely survive in the waking world," Lucienne wondered, "nightmares, on the other hand, seem to thrive there."

The Nightingale clutched the railing tightly and wondered what would become of The Corinthian. Would he be cast into the darkness, or would Lord Morpheus pity him? She feared he would not take kindly to the missing nightmare.

"My lord," Nightingale's voice carried down the court, causing the Endless to pause. After a moment, he chose to look up to her. He looked like a nightmare, with his bone-crafted helm and a fist full of sand.

The Nightingale's words failed her. She hadn't thought of what to say next. So, she said the only thing that had been lingering within her mind for a fortnight. "I am preparing a new sonnet."

"I shall return, Lyra," Morpheus repeated. "Fear not." After a tornado of sand swirled through the court, he and Jessamy were gone.

Lucienne sighed heavily and glanced back up at the Nightingale. "Well, let's not dawdle."

//