The stories that shaped her world
In the vast expanse of the Dreaming, where thoughts and fantasies intermingle to form worlds of their own, the King of Dreams stood atop a hill of sparkling silver sand, his cloak billowing around him like shadows in the distant corners of the Dreaming where nightmares lurked. Morpheus’ dark eyes scanned the ever-shifting landscape below, deep and knowing. Among the countless dreams being spun into existence all at once, one in particular caught his attention, a small figure of a child, perhaps no older than eight.
She had tousled golden blonde hair and wore a simple dress, her bare feet leaving faint imprints on the dreamscape’s ground as she wandered. This was interesting; he had seen many children create more than just the simplistic dreams, most of them were filled with tables with large feasts, or courtyards with other children leaping through the air to dance upon the clouds overhead. Morpheus’ dark gaze followed each step she took, she was was lost in a world of her own making through the very words she spoke into the dreaming. He’d seen it before but he could see that she was in-between a space of memory and imagination, at an age when the world first starts to open up through the written word. In her hands, she held a book, its cover worn and familiar, a cherished possession in this dream. To Morpheus, the book indicated many things; it held meaning for her, and in the Dreaming, infused with significance; such things often became tangible.
A large oak tree appeared as the girl sat beneath it, its leaves golden as the autumn sun filtered through them, offering her shade. He heard her reading aloud. “She’s making her own story,” Morpheus mused. It was one he had never heard before, and he wondered how a young child could even have the capacity to read in the Dreaming. The voice that emerged was soft, almost hesitant, yet filled with the wonder of discovery. The tales within the book, filled with knights, monsters, and faraway lands, danced before her eyes, forming shapes and scenes in the air around her.
Morpheus watched, intrigued, as the dream began to take on a life of its own. The stories she read were no longer confined to the pages; they blossomed into vibrant, living visions of dragons soaring above, castles rising from the ground, and heroes embarking on grand quests. The child’s imagination was potent, weaving a dreamscape that was rich and vivid, yet tinged with a certain melancholy.
At that moment, a shadow passed overhead, and Morpheus turned his gaze upward to see a raven circling above. His raven, black as midnight with a striking white patch against its dark feathers, cawed softly before swooping down to land beside the child. It was Lucien. “What is your name?” the bird asked, tilting its head and watching the girl with keen, intelligent eyes, as if guarding the dreamer in her delicate state.
Morpheus, curious to see where this dream would lead, watched as Lucien fluttered beside her, a silent sentinel. The King of Dreams moved through the shadows, unseen, as she began to venture deeper into her dreamscape, into a world of her own making.
“The book she carries,” Morpheus pointed out to the raven, “there are no words within its pages. Her story will change for her…” He pointed a long finger as Lucien hopped over to look at the book.
“That book will remain here, in my possession…” He could alter it, perhaps, by helping her realize that her world may crumble with just a simple gesture, but he did not. Morpheus hardly ever took it upon himself to really interfere, that was unless something required him to; but even then, it was like pulling teeth, this was not something he needed to do for himself, he found no reason, but Morpheus chose to observe, letting her dreams unfold while she learned to escape the waking world within the Dreaming.