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p a r t o n e
Deep beneath the Dreaming is somewhere no one visits. Not Abram, not Edred, not even the nightmares. A place of old. Somewhere that’s not fully of the realm, and holds something no soul has ever been graced enough to witness. An ancient, forgotten stone staircase descends below the libraries, below the shores, below places that should physically exist. Mimzi has passed the door a thousand times, not taking a second glance. And every single time, she inexplicably forgets about it moments later.
Until one night–
The room was stale, and in its cold, damp clutches held the aching sound of a death’s rattle. It was labored, pained. Whoever was in here was nearing their end. Mimzi slowly moved. A shadow through the stagnant, eerie room. It was more of a basement than a bedroom– with its stone walls slick with moisture, seeping in from the constant downpour outside. It was cold, so bitterly cold that Mimzi’s fingers started tingling, though she couldn’t see her own breath yet. Her eyes settled in the darkness, pupils dilating with the lack of light. It was pitch black in here. Her eyebrows furrowed, letting her surrounding senses sink into her bones.
The rasping rattle became louder, clearer as she moved towards the center of the room. The silhouette of a person was outlined under the thin sheets of the bed. They were old and frail, as if picking them up could make them disintegrate. Mimzi watched silently as the old woman struggled for each weak breath. The room smelt of urine, old moth-damaged linen, and something… medicinal, like an herb. However, she couldn’t place it.
Onyx eyes watched as the woman’s pain-riddled face moved shakily, as if acknowledging Mimzi's existence. That was new. Humans never register her presence within their dreams. But she didn’t move an inch, like a statue; she held impossibly still. It came so naturally that she didn’t put any thought into it. The woman’s rattling inhales made the hair on her arms stand on end. More than a thousand years of doing this and that sound still shook her to her core. Yet she stayed, the passive look on her face giving nothing away, as usual.
It took less than a millisecond to register that something was wrong. Something about this woman’s dream… was off. Very off, and very wrong. Mimzi moved one step back, yet it was too late. The woman was surprisingly quick and her grip strong as she wrapped a pale, withered hand around her wrist and whispered,
"Little Dream Walker…"
Mimzi hissed, trying to yank her hand away, yet the woman held. Her grip was impressively strong as those stormy onyx eyes glared down at the dying woman. Without missing a beat, the woman’s eyes shot open inside of her own dream. Mimzi’s mouth parted, staring down into milky, hazed-over eyes. "Do you remember who you were before he found you?"
She blanched, body turning to ice as the woman’s grip finally faltered, yet she couldn’t let go. Because mortals aren’t supposed to know her, not really. And that… didn’t make any sense. Because she was nothing before Morpheus had found her. She had no memory of it. The woman sucked in another dying breath, “I’ve waited seventy years to tell you...” Mim tilted her head, almost accusingly, as she waited for her to go on. But all that came was the last rattling breath slowly moving out of her brittle lungs.
No. No, you can’t just say something like that and leave. Shock turned into confusion, into doubt. Finally, Mimzi pulled her hand away, watching the woman’s arm fall and hang limply from the bed. This wasn’t an ordinary death dream. This was bigger than that. She could tell it was different the moment she had stepped foot through the veil. Normally, these dreams are bright, filled with memories, wonderful stories, and loved ones. This was… Torturous. It was almost like a secret locked in a box and tucked under someone's pillow. Mimzi fell back into the shadows and back through the veil. There wasn't going to be a top-side visit today.
“Who was I before you?”
The silence that stretched across the throne room became stifling. For the first time in three thousand years, Mimzi finally asked the question. And Morpheus– the one who has witnessed stars die and universes change— looked afraid. Not angry. Not cold. Afraid. As if the answer could make her vanish forever.
Mimzi’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, "Some doors exist because they should never again be opened." Because that wasn’t cryptic at all... Dark brows furrowed at his ‘explanation’. For perhaps the first time in three thousand years, the God of Dreams looked tired. Ancient. Sad. "You were Mimzi."
"Before that."
His eyes closed.
"I loved you then, too, you know."
And suddenly— that answer frightened her more than any nightmare she had ever carried. She stilled, watching every line of his face as they stood in silence, Mimzi in disbelief. “So you remember. You remember, and you won’t tell me.” Hurt flashed over the god’s face. Not from her wanting answers, but from the shame of keeping it from her. The shame of continuing to keep it from her. A cold rage settled into her eyes as she turned, waved her hand like a fan, and stepped through the veil, leaving the God of Dreams to simmer in the secrets he’d held from her.
