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Heart of the Dreaming

Morpheus x Female Reader

Soulmate AU

You are the daughter of Rodrick Burgess. You find out about the "demon" in the basement and decide you want to see it. Things take an unexpected turn when your soulmate connection is made with the man you find down there. You are the one he has been waiting for, and you're being taken away from. Not for long. Dream will protect his soulmate.

{Masterlist}

{Next Chapter}

Chapter One - See you in my dreams

☆☆☆

1916 - 11 years old

Tonight was the night.

Tonight was the night your father was going to summon Death and try and bring your older brother back.

You were sitting in your room, on the edge of the bed, hands restlessly placed in your lap as you can hear the clock ticking away. You were nervous. Of course you were. This plan was crazy, but your father was crazy enough to go through with this.

Of course you missed your brother. He was better than you and Alex in every way, but he loved you both. Rodrick certainly loved him better than his other children. When he died, your father seemed to only hate you even more.

You could hear everyone bustling about the house. The book your father had been waiting for had arrived. Tonight he would attempt the impossible. At least, impossible by your standards.

No one could capture Death.

Death was inevitable and came for everyone. Even your brother. That was just the truth of it. There was not a spell in the world that could being him back.

You were not allowed to leave your room, despite the fact Alex, who was younger than you, was permitted to watch. It didn't seem fair. Even if you believed the matter to be impossible, why couldn't you witness the attempt?

At some point, the house grows quiet. You sit there with nothing but the sound of your soft breathing to keep you company. Your eyes focused on the door.

The silence was becoming deafening.

Had they done it?

You climb off your bed and open your door. At first, you don't see or hear anyone. The house seemed empty, but after a few more moments, you can hear voices and footsteps. You stand in the doorway of your bedroom and watch as many of your father's men go past talking too quickly for you to understand what they're saying.

You look down the hall and see your father walking to his study, a peculiar item in his hand. Alex comes into view and looks at you for a moment. You want to go over and ask what happened, but his name gets called and he hurries off.

A sense of something bad sets in your bones.

☆☆☆

You're in bed when you hear knocking on your door. It's quiet and hesitant, as if the other person wasn't supposed to be here. You climb out of bed and head to the door, opening it slightly. You see Alex standing there.

Alex comes into your room and closes the door behind him quickly. He looks at you with big eyes, worry embedded in them.

"What happened?" You ask him.

Alex walks over to your bed and takes a seat. He looks down at his slippers. "I think he did it."

"He did?" You look at Alex with wide eyes.

"Well... there's something down there..." Alex tells you, voice quiet. You swallow nervously.

Something.

"Death?"

Alex shakes his head. "No... I don't think so. I heard father talking to someone in his office, but I couldn't hear everything."

"What did you hear?" You ask, eager to know what had happened.

"Something about dreams."

"Dreams?" You had no idea what that meant.

Alex simply shrugged and looked up at you. "I'm afraid."

"Will it hurt us?"

"I don't know... I hope not. I didn't get to look at it for very long."

Silence fell between you both. You weren't sure what else to ask. All you knew was that your father had successfully caught something down in the basement, and you were too scared to even dig deeper.

Alex left your room, leaving you more questions than answers. However, for now, it felt better to leave it like that.

☆☆☆

1926 - 21 years old

Rodrick never mentioned the demon in his basement. You never asked about it, no matter how curious you got. You had heard the whispers. Everyone called it a demon, which frightened you even more.

You had done your utmost to forget about the thing in the basement. The stories were enough to put you off going down there. Even the people in town talked about Rodrick's demon.

He became something of a celebrity.

However, the world was suffering.

Dreams. Alex had told you Rodrick and his stranger in the office had spoken about dreams. As it turned out, some people could no longer sleep, some couldn't ever wake up. Dreams became a thing of tale, none existent.

Except for the ones you had been having.

You hadn't told anyone. Not even Alex. Your dreams were yours. Your secret. Your strange mysterious secret.

You dream of a man.

It's dark, but you can see him. He's sitting there, naked. He is expressionless. He never speaks. He just sits there with his legs up, arms around his knees, and staring forward.

You don't know his name.

Every night, you see him in your dreams. He seems to be trapped. Unable to go anywhere. You wonder if he's hungry and cold. He must be.

"Who are you?"

You always wake up right after that.

Every night, he's there in your dreams. It's strangely comforting. He's your secret. You just wish you knew who he was.

As you leave your room today, you see Alex leaving the office with a shotgun in hand. You frown as you look at him, catching a glimpse of your father in the office.

"What are you doing?" You ask him.

"I'm going to shoot a bird." Alex responds, though not so happily.

You stare at him hard. "A bird?"

"A raven," Alex says.

"Huh?"

"I'm off to kill his raven."

"Who's raven?"

Alex looked at you with an empty stare. He clutches the shotgun in his fist tight. Alex knew you had never seen the man in the basement. Rodrick had kept it that way. He had always said you were more trouble than you were worth.

"The thing in the basement."

Alex didn't say anything more as he left the house. You were confused by everything. Nothing made any sense to you.

You wanted to know what your father was keeping down there. Yet, fear consumed you. Was it dangerous?

Why did it have a raven? That confused the most.

It was half an hour later when you heard a gunshot. You had been in your room, staying out of the way as usual. The sound echoed through the house and scared you. You rushed to the door and looked down the hall. Alex and your father emerged from the basement. Alex looked lost.

You wanted to go over and ask what had happened, but Rodrick spots you watching and you retreat into your room.

☆☆☆

A few days go by where you don't see much of Rodrick or Alex. You do your best to avoid them as much as possible. Which was probably for the best as far as Rodrick was concerned.

Ethel, your father's mistress, was pregnant. He didn't want it. Of course he didn't.

Having so much time to yourself gave you time to think. Your dreams were consistent. Every night, you saw the naked man in his glass prison. Just sitting there, waiting.

Waiting for what? You did not know.

However, you wanted to help him. You wanted to understand him. You just didn't know who he was, or where he was.

That night, Ethel ran away. While you were tucked up in your bed sleeping, visiting your dream man, Ethel had run away with the tools, and some money from Rodrick's safe.

She was gone.

Rodrick was furious.

From what you heard, he tried to bargain with the being in the basement. When he got no response, Rodrick turned his anger to Alex. Had heard the yelling. You had wanted to go down there and see what was happening, but the guard at the door was stopping you.

That's when it happened.

Alex pushed Rodrick, and your father hit his head quite badly. He did not get up again.

The funeral was a week later.

☆☆☆

1931 - 25 years old

The house was too quiet these days. Alex spent most of his time avoiding you. You tried to occupy yourself with your hobbies, but there was a voice in the back of your head nagging at you.

The basement.

It was still guarded. Alex kept it that way. However, you knew times when the door wasn't guarded. There wasn't anyone there 24/7. Some of the guards like to slack off.

You had decided. You were going to go down there. After all this time, you wanted to know what your father had captured that day. You wanted to know the reason your father had been so successful and popular with people in town.

You wanted to know why things were the way they were.

You waited. The guard left as usual. He always disappeared for 15 minutes on his shifts. 30 if he thought he could get away with being away that long. This was your chance to get down there.

You were quiet as you moved down the hall. You weren't sure exactly where Alex was at this time of night. You needed to be careful. You double-checked to make sure no one was around and unlocked the door to the basement. You had been planning this for weeks. You knew the codes and the schedules for the guards. You knew someone else would normally be down there, but never at this time of night. That's why the guard thought he could get away with disappearing for so long.

You looked down the dark stairs and took a moment before going through with your plan. Finally, you would see what was down there.

You descend the stairs.

It was dark. Lighting was kept to a minimum, it seemed. You were careful as you took each step and soon enough found yourself at the bottom.

What you saw was not what you expected.

You slowly reach out and open the gate, taking in the sight before you. A large glass globe surrounded by the summoning circle your father had made years ago. Inside the globe was a man.

A man.

A very familiar man.

You feel like all air from your lungs is stolen from you as you stare at him. Your dream man. There he was! Naked and curled up by himself inside his prison.

All this time, you were dreaming of the man in the basement. You find yourself stepping a little closer, not sure what to do. Nothing made sense. This was impossible. How can you be dreaming about this man? And why is he trapped like this?

Who is he?

Sensing your presence, he looks up. In those next few seconds, several things happen. Your eyes connect with his, and you find yourself lost in them. A searing pain crosses your wrist, and you gasp loudly, cradling your hand. You drop your gaze from him to look at the red scar on your wrist. When you look back up, he's cradling his own hand but doesn't seem to be in pain like you.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

"Who are you?" You ask.

The man in the globe moves slowly, leaning forward slightly. He's keeping himself covered, but he's still moving toward the glass. With one hand, he reaches out, hand dressed against the glass of his prison.

You feel strange. At ease. It was like he was trying to calm you from within his prison.

"Who are you?" You ask again.

You watch as he part his lips, prepared to speak, but a voice behind you speaks instead, leaving you in shock and embarrassment for getting caught in the basement.

"What are you doing down here?" Alex asks.

You frown. "I came to see what was down here! You can't keep me in the dark forever."

Alex pulls you behind him as he looks at the man in the cage. "You have to stay away from him."

"Alex--"

"No! He's dangerous. I think..."

You push past Alex and stand between him and the other man. You glare at your brother. Alex looks at you with mixed confused and disappointment.

"Who is he? What is he?"

Alex says your name.

"No! Tell me. What is all this? What did father do?"

Alex clenches his fist at his side and takes a deep breath. "You need to leave. Get out of here."

"Why is there a man trapped in the basement, Alex?"

Alex loses his patience with you and lunges forward, grabbing your arm tightly. You try to fight him off, but he wraps both his arms around you, restraining your arms.

"Alex! Let go of me!"

"You shouldn't have come down here," he says angrily.

From within his prison, Morpheus stands. He doesn't like what he's seeing. You. You had been living in this house all along, and he had no idea. Now you were here, you had come to see him, and you were being dragged out again.

Alex called for help, and two people came running. Paul and the guard should have been on duty. Morpheus leans against the glass with both hands as he watches Alex demand you get removed from the basement. The two men take hold of you and start dragging you back upstairs, all the while you're ahouing at Alex.

Alex turns and looks at him.

"Don't you ever speak to her. Don't you ever do anything to her." Alex demands. "She was never supposed to see you..."

Alex leaves.

Morpheus sinks back down in his prison and curls up again. His hands ball into fists as he stares ahead of him.

His soulmate had been here all along.

He needed to get out.

He needed to save you from this house.

He turns his hand over and looks at his wrist. A small scar in the shape of a star. He had had it forever. He ran his thumb over it. He knew from the moment he looked at you, from the moment you received your scar, that you were his soulmate.

It was unheard of for an Endless to have such a thing, but Dream had always been unique. If anyone wasn't going to be granted a partner for eternity, it was going to be him.

Not that he was actively looking. Morpheus had had lovers before, certainly, but knowing you're right there above him, it changes things.

You were real.

They only let go of you once you're in your room. Alex closes the door on you and you hear him lock you in. You bang against the door furiously and then stop, sobbing as you sink to the floor.

None of this was making any sense to you.

Did Alex know something?

Who was that man?

And why did your wrist still burn?

☆☆☆

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📝 Emotion, atmosphere and environment: A writing exercise for show-don't-tell

Before we go any further, I want to make it clear that I'm not aggressively against telling. Sometimes telling works for a whole bunch of valid reasons. If you know me at all, you'll be aware of where I stand on the issue of narrow, prescriptive writing rules (if you don't know me, hi, I despise narrow, prescriptive writing rules)

But "How do I show instead of telling?" is still a thing a lot of newer writers have difficulty with and that's what I'd like to dig into. So here's a writing exercise you could try to help build depth and atmosphere around the emotion your character is feeling...

🧠 First of all, pick an emotional experience.

For illustrative purposes, I'm going with LOSS. Then express that emotional experience in ways that can be perceived physically. The following are just suggestions, not an exhaustive list.

🎨 How could the emotion be expressed as a colour?

Grey, maybe. Slate grey. Or a muted petrol blue, perhaps.

🔊 How could the emotion be expressed as a sound?

Deep silence interrupted only by the sound of a ticking clock.

👋 How could the emotion be expressed as a physical action?

Your hand reaching to grasp for comfort out of habit and hope, fingers curling around something remembered, then dropping back to the coldness of the other side of the bed, empty.

🌄 How could the emotion be expressed as a weather condition or natural phenomenon?

The storm passed an hour ago, leaving only an occasional flurry of sleet that melts on contact with the window, sliding down the glass like tears. Outside, a tree that shed its leaves in autumn bows in tired silhouette against the halo of a single streetlight.

🏡 How could the emotion be expressed as a room?

Your nightstand holds the bottle of water you filled before trudging upstairs at midnight, your phone still plugged in even though the battery was full three hours ago, and the glasses you'll put on again as soon as you wake up after sleep eventually manages to swallow you. The nightstand on the other side of the bed holds a small tear-off calendar showing November eighteenth even though it's now January second and a book lying open and face-down with the spine sinking into itself. In the corner of the room, there's a chair with clothes carelessly draped over it a month and a half ago that you still can't bring yourself to put in the laundry. It's four o'clock in the morning and you'd give anything to hear breathing that wasn't your own.

You could try it for different emotions and different situations, in isolation and then connected to something you're in the process of writing.

How could anger, for example, be expressed differently in an office environment compared to a wilderness landscape? How could joy be shown in summer versus winter? How could fear be embodied in high fantasy compared to cyberpunk?

If relating environments to emotions doesn't click for you straight away, could you focus on single-sense experiences for a while? What colour is regret? What does anticipation taste like?

If you have synesthesia (hello, fellow synesthetes!) this could be a wild ride, but hopefully it'll also be fun and useful for anyone having difficulty connecting to the idea of show-don't-tell.

Happy writing! 💜

Tips on Writing Your Own Fantastic Beasts

Give your beast relateable behaviors (without making them all “dogs”)

Have you guys ever noticed how many creatures are actually dogs in disguises? A dog in an alien body, a dog in a bug body, a dog in a dragon body, a dog in an alien body (because that happens so much). Everything is a dog! The cockroach from Wall-E, the alien from John Carter … staaahp!

I’m tired of seeing other creatures be really “dogs” dressed up. Let’s get imaginative, people. I mean, I get why filmmakers and writers do it. Dogs are very common pets, so we relate to them and their behaviors, often on a personal level. But THANK YOU J.K. Rowling for not giving us yet another dog -_- and giving us creatures with unique, yet still relateable demeanors!

And guess what? You don’t have to show a tail wagging or a scampering bow-wow to make a creature relateable. The reality is, we’ve all seen and encountered a variety of animals and animal behaviors. Nifflers love shiny things. Cool. So do most birds. Cockatiels will sometimes try to steal earrings or jewelry off you. Mine has pecked off all the sparkles on my sandals before I could wear them twice. But guess what? The Niffler wasn’t a bird in a Niffler body either. It had its own personality and body language.

I love when Newt tries to put Picket, the Bowtruckle, back on its tree, but it keeps moving from one hand to the other–how many times has that happened to us when trying to put a bug back on a plant? And Picket suffers from separation anxiety–like a lot of pets. But notice that no bug suffers from separation anxiety from humans. So the filmmakers put two different kinds of relateable behaviors in one creature, instead of making the creature a direct copy of one we already know (or, alternatively, a shallow, obvious combination of two very specific animals -_- ) Also, wasn’t the Occamy’s attentiveness with bugs something we’ve seen in animals before too? That’s a behavior I’ve seen with dogs (but again, the Occamy wasn’t a dog in an Occamy body like so many others.)

So you don’t have to make your beast a dog to be relateable. Dogs aren’t the only ones with endearing behaviors. Cats aren’t the only others. Brainstorm fresh but relateable behaviors and figure out how to implement them in your creatures, without making your creature an exact copy. It’s probably a good idea to also give them a behavior that is more foreign and alien. The Demiguise may resemble a monkey, but it can see into the near-future based on probability–no real animal does that. It also gives you something unique to play with. That, paired with their invisibility, make Demiguises very difficult to find and catch. Don’t forget that one of the draws of fantastic creatures for your audience is a sense of wonder (or occasionally horror).

Take advantage of animal behaviors and abilities

After you have some behaviors (and abilities), you’ll want to see how you can take advantage of them for interesting effect and possible conflicts. Fantastic Beasts did a great job of taking advantage of a variety of animal behaviors and abilities. I mentioned that in my review, but really, guys–really.

I talked about the Niffler and Bowtruckle above, but notice how each created a different kind of conflict? Chasing and trying to catch the Niffler is a nightmare! When Newt had to bargain with that goblin over Picket, it created a personal conflict of pain, because we knew how attached Picket was to Newt (k, am I the only one who totally fell in love with Eddie Redmayne’s rendition of Newt taking a moment to wipe his eyes and nose at that part, but soldiering on? It was perfection). But what would animals be without their whacky mating behaviors? We’ve probably all seen some weird ones on the Discovery channel. And the movie took advantage of that too, to create conflict. And of course it’s with an animal that can blow up. In fact, one of the reasons Erumpents are so rare is because the males frequently explode each during mating season.

The Occamy grows or shrinks to fit available space and Rowling took advantage of that too, having one grow to a huge size, which left the characters with the struggle of finding and getting it into something that would shrink it. The concept that certain animals grow to fit their habitat is nothing new, people claim fish and serpents do the same (which many argue against), so Rowling took that idea and brought it to the next level. And it had cool factor too.

Oh yeah, and lets not forget the one that was invisible.

Give your creature its own personality

Not all dogs have the same personality. Not even dogs of the same breed. Neither do fish. I keep an aquarium and I’ll tell you that even fish have different personalities. I had an algae eater once that was shy and would never want to go out and get food when all the other fish were eating it. The algae eater I have now is the exact opposite. It chases off all the other fish (and frog) from the food so it can eat it all. My parents have two dogs. One hates toys that have the texture of rubber. The other loves them. Picket is attached to Newt. The other Bowtruckles aren’t. When talking about the Erumpent, Newt acknowledges its own individuality. “Erumpent musk,” Newt says, “she’s mad for it.” Sure, all female Erumpents will be attracted to it, but his tone of voice suggests that perhaps this one in particular likes it intensely.

Your creature characters shouldn’t function as mere tools or possessions. Even the Swooping Evil, which is used awesomely and cleverly as an object, exhibits its own loyalty to Newt in choosing to listen to him over its yearning to eat brains.

Consider giving your creature a “factor”

I touched on this earlier, but with made-up creatures, it can be a great idea to give them a cool factor. The Swooping Evil is freaking cool. It’s like a yo-yo pokemon butterfly with a skull (by the way, notice that complex contradiction? A butterfly creature? With a skull head?). But it also creates a sense of wonder or horror in that it likes to eat people’s brains. I sometimes talk about the cool factor on my blog, but the reality is you can have other “factors” too. Frank the Thunderbird has a cool factor, but it’s kind of more of a “wow” factor. It’s a creature that audiences watch with a sense of awe. Not only is he gorgeous, but he’s majestic too.

You can have a cute factor. The Niffler is a perfect example of this. I saw the movie twice opening weekend, and both times the audience squealed over its cuteness, and online people are talking about how they wish they could buy one. You can have a horror factor. While this one didn’t technically come from a beast, the Obscurus had a horror factor. You could give one to a creature too. Just look at Aragog. Basically a factor is a strong feeling that your creature elicits. If it’s cool, it needs to be really cool. If it’s wow, it needs to be really wow. If it’s cute, it needs to be really cute.

Keep reading

𓅨 Shifting Wings: Chapter Eight

Shifting Wings: Before the Raven Matthew, there was Jessamy, and Jessamy came with a little sister by the name of Adrienne. Dream adores his two little Ravens, but after over a hundred years of imprisonment and the death of Jessamy, Dream will find that he has not just lost his companion, but his beloved little Raven Adrienne no longer brightens the halls of his Palace. None of his staff wish to speak of where the Raven has gone, but the silent new resident of the palace is cause for question. After all, she was the one who aided in his release. If none of his subjects would help him find Adrienne, perhaps she could lead him to the whereabouts of the missing Raven. If only the woman wasn’t so flighty and hard to track down.

Warnings: Angst, Foreshadowing.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x FemaleRaven!Reader, NAMED Reader (I like the name).

Word Count: ~2.3k

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Your fingers were smeared with charcoal as you furiously sculpted Lord Morpheus’s face upon your sketchbook page. With his image and likeness freshly ingrained within you mind, you were fervently drawing him in crystal clear detail with dark strokes of black and a shimmering cobalt blue that made his eyes come to life on your drawings. You didn’t understand why you felt this compulsive need to sketch him, to keep him in your memory. It was like he mattered to you. A silly notion. He mattered to the Dreaming, but to you personally? Surely you had gotten over your silly little crush on him by now.

The charcoal scratched across the page a few more strokes before you drew back your hand and stared at it. It was trembling. You glared at your limb in distaste and tightened your grasp on the charcoal. Surely you had more control over your body than this! You ground your teeth together, focusing on that needless tremble that you should not have. Perhaps it was a residual expression of your once feelings for the Endless being. How irritatingly needless.

“Cease this needless reaction,” You softly growled, clutching the charcoal tighter. It snapped and the two pieces fell to the floor of your tiny room. Staring at the broken charcoal, your eyebrow arched and you looked at your sketch once more. Lord Morpheus was beautifully sketched, his eyes vibrant with the stars that shone within, and Jessamy was perched on his shoulder… infinitely beautiful and stoic. The perfect raven. “You were always the better raven and sister, Jessamy,” You spoke before tearing the sketch from your notebook and setting it down in the pile of your other sketches, ignorant to the charcoal fingerprint you had left behind.

Standing in the middle of your closet turned bedroom, you looked around at the multitude of sketches you had up. It was, perhaps, obsessive of you to have nearly hundreds of sketches of Jessamy… both in her mortal form and raven form— and yet you couldn’t always control the compulsive urge to sketch her. You merely assumed that it was a side effect of your repressed emotions and shrugged it off. As long as you couldn’t feel the agonizing hurt of her death, you didn’t care what you spent your time doing.

You departed your room and crossed the space of your art studio, heading out to find Mervyn and hopefully, have something to do.

Lucienne had been out walking the sand dunes while you and Mervyn worked on clearing up yet another crumbling part of the palace. You and he kept the grounds meticulously clean from dust and debris, but that didn’t the palace looked any better at a glance. It still looked condemned, abandoned, faded with time. At times it became suffocating so she took walks… but this walk was different than the thousands before it. No, Lucienne could have sworn that she saw the familiar form of her lord, laying in a dune but a few hundred yards away.

So she ran. As fast as she could through the blackened sand until she could confirm with her own eyes that Lord Morpheus had indeed returned to the Dreaming.

“Sir! Sir!” She called out, hurrying to his side and crouching down. Lucienne scanned him for injury while rolling him onto his back. “Oh my goodness.” She breathed out, hardly able to comprehend what she was seeing, feeling. “Sir?” She asked as Morpheus stirred. “Sir, it’s me,” Lucienne reached for his hand as he looked at her. “It’s Lucienne.”

Morpheus gasped and coughed, still feeling utterly drained of his power.

“Lucienne,” He rasped weakly, holding onto her hand. He couldn’t hold back the relieving smile of finally being free and home.

“You’re home, my lord.” She said, feeling her own relief washing through her body. Morpheus was home, the Dreaming could finally heal, and you, Morpheus’s beloved raven that had withered to an empty shell, could finally begin to heal.

“I am,” Morpheus spoke as Lucienne helped him to his feet. The Morpheus took stock of his surroundings. He was beyond the ivory gates, beyond the walls of the glimmering city and palace. It was dead and desolate, there, empty. He was eager to open his gates and view his home once more.

Morpheus placed his palm on the Ivory Gates, feeling their warm and comforting hum of magic, his magic. It was nice to feel that touch once more. The gates began to part, rumbling and groaning from disuse.

“Forgive me, sir, but…” Lucienne didn’t know how to tell Morpheus that his kingdom had crumbled to dust and ruin while he was away. Morpheus stared at her with questions in his eyes. “…the palace, the village” Lucienne sighed. “They are not as you left them.” The gate continued to move, revealing the desolation of Morpheus’s kingdom and palace.

All that remained were bare trees, long since dead, and skeletons of what used to be an extraordinary palace. The bridge connecting the town was crumbled and no longer usable, the lake that surrounded the once grandiose building was almost dried up and wind whistled, stirring up dust and sand. Morpheus was overwhelmed at the destruction his home, wondering what could have caused this kind of ruin. Where were his people? Where were his creations? His Dreams? His Nightmares? Where was Adrienne!?

“What happened here?” He asked, his voice strained with barely contained emotional devastation. “Who did this?”

In the distance a tower crumbled and fell to ruins below. More work for Blanche and Mervyn to clean up. Lucienne cleared her throat.

“My lord, you are The Dreaming,” She explained, regretting the knowledge that for Morpheus to know what had caused ruin to reign in his kingdom, was his absence. “The Dreaming is you. With you gone as long as you were, the realm began to… decay and crumble.”

“And the residents?” Morpheus questioned, his very being aching with physical pain. “The palace staff? Adrienne?” Lucienne bit her tongue at the mention of you, for with Morpheus’s return, he was sure to eventually find what you had done. You could change your appearance and name, but you were the beloved of Dream of the Endless, he would find you.

“I’m afraid most have gone.” Lucienne answered, wincing on the inside in fear of her lord’s reaction.

“Gone?” Morpheus repeated in disbelief.

“Some went looking for you…” Lucienne trailed off, dropping her eyes to the rocky ground.

“And the rest? Where did they go? Where did Adrienne go? Where is she?”

“The others thought, perhaps, you’d grown weary of your duties, as for Adrienne, she—” Lucienne cut off, not knowing how to explain you. Morpheus would take nothing but the truth of your whereabouts. “She remains, my lord, but does not spend her time in the company of others. She chooses solitude.”

“So the others think that I chose to abandon them?” Morpheus questioned in disbelief. “Adrienne believes that I willingly abandoned her, broke my promise and left her without word?” Betrayal was flashing across his face as his eyes burned with tears. “Had they so little faith in me? Did Adrienne believe that I would willingly abandon her with so little thought!?”

“Adrienne’s faith in you has not wavered in the one hundred and six years you’ve been gone,” Lucienne corrected Morpheus. “Do not question her loyalty and lo—” Lucienne paused. Yes, you were loyal to Morpheus, but only as a subject and raven now. The love you had for him you exchanged for a mortal body and the ability to search for him. Yes, Morpheus would not take kindly to hearing that you no longer held the capability of loving him. “She is loyal to Dream of the Endless,” Lucienne carefully replied. “And she is dedicated to being your raven, it is perhaps her deepest fault, she will die for you should it come to that.”

Morpheus flinched. Jessamy had already done so, he couldn’t bear the thought that you would make that a repeated event. Jessamy had been a dear friend and loyal subject. Adrienne was the one whom he loved with everything he had. He would not lose both of you.

“Adrienne, under no circumstances,” Morpheus said, his voice darkening with seriousness. “Is to ever risk her life for me. I forbid it.” Once again Lucienne held her tongue, for Morpheus had no idea what you had become. The only way you would ever accept those words is if Morpheus gave you a direct order. But he couldn’t do that if he didn’t even know he was speaking to you. Morpheus turned back to his decimated kingdom. “I made this realm once, Lucienne, I will make it again.” 

Lord Morpheus had returned. You knew that much as you cleaned up the latest rubble pile of the palace. Lucienne had been out on her walk beyond the wall when she had found him. You were pleased that Lord Morpheus had made it back on his own. While you had left the water spicket open, you weren’t entirely sure how long it would take for the magic circle to be broken. Even then you weren’t sure how much power he had left, and didn’t know if he could even get himself back to the Dreaming.

But he had and was now touring the ruin and destruction of his palace while you and Mervyn worked with the Wyvern to clean up what you could. Without his tools and much of his power, Lord Morpheus would not be able to return the realm to its natural beauty. It was merely a waiting game. Sweeping dust and rubble, you glanced up when Mervyn lumbered over to you.

“Just got word, Loosh wants you to pull a few books from what we have, she and Morpheus are working on solving our ruin problem.” You stopped sweeping and raised an eyebrow.

“And how are books to help with that?” You asked cynically. “His power resides within his tools, nothing shall change until he regains them.” Mervyn shrugged at your words.

“Hell if I know, kid, I’ll take over sweeping, run along before Loosh barges over here and starts snapping out orders.” You inclined your head and passed the broom to Mervyn before picking your way across the mostly clear courtyard. Most of the library was already gone, had been for a while, but a few books remained. You weren’t sure what Lucienne wanted from them since it was Lord Morpheus’s tools that he needed, but you knew which books she was going to want.

You fluttered your way to what was left of the library, a mere single bookshelf of only about eight books. You plucked the volume that Lucienne was going to want and held it against your chest. Striding through dilapidated halls, your face remained blank as the subtle and smooth voice of your lord reached your ears. It was as dulcet as you remembered, intense in a way that drew those listening in. You had liked listening to it, had liked it when he read to you. Emerging from a crumbling alcove, you strode over to Lucienne with purpose, ignoring the moping Endless sitting on the ruins of the spiral staircase that once led to his throne and your old perch.

“The book you requested,” You explained, offering Lucienne the heavy leather book while Morpheus stared at you, his eyes focused on the streak of white at your temple. His thoughts of his ruined kingdom shifted to you, the woman who he was certain, had intentionally left the water spicket open just enough to break the binding circle.

 “Ah, thank you, Blanche,” Lucienne said, taking the book and opening it immediately.

“If that is all,” You said, taking a step back to leave.

“Will you not stay?” Lucienne probed you, searching your eyes for some semblance of your old self who would have been all over Morpheus the moment he returned. Nothing. You were about to respond when the sound of another piece of the palace breaking off and hitting the ground echoed throughout the throne room. Your head titled to the side.

“I’m afraid I’ve just become quite busy,” You answered flatly before inclining your head. “My apologies, Lucienne.” You then gave your lord a head bow. “Lord Morpheus.” With that you turned on your heel and strode away, planning on finding another broom to clean up the palace’s latest mess.

The moment Blanche departed the throne room, Morpheus was turning his gaze back to his librarian.

“Lucienne, who was that?” He asked, his sharp blue eyes, still ringed with red, observing her closely. “This is the first time I recall seeing her within my domain.” Lucienne cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses.

“That, sir, is Blanche,” Lucienne explained, feeling troubled about lying by omission to her lord, but wanting to respect your wishes for your previous life and name, to remain dead. “You need not worry about her or her loyalty, she has chosen to remain when others have left.”

Morpheus examined Lucienne, she clearly trusted you… but Morpheus was still wary. Very wary.

“She has no empathy, Lucienne, and yet you say she poses no threat to us or our kingdom.” The Endless pointed out.

“Blanche has remained here faithfully, for the last one hundred and six years, helping Mervyn maintain the palace as best as they could when others have left. Yes, she does not feel, but her loyalty to this realm and to you, is unwavering.” Morpheus took in that information. Surely he would have noticed one so loyal as Blanche, certainly with her hair color so remarkably similar to Jessamy and Adrienne’s feathering.

“She was the one who aided in my escape,” Morpheus commented, thinking Blanche over further. “One who I do not know, aided me when my own people could not.”

Lucienne’s heart was breaking within her chest, for all she wanted was to blurt out who Blanche really was, and how Adrienne had done everything she could to find Morpheus and return him home… and she had. She wanted to tell her lord that the one he loved had been relentless in her search for him, and had not stopped until she found him. But how could Lucienne tell Morpheus that the woman whom he loved, could no longer love him back?

Date Published: 6/21/23

Last Edit: 6/21/23

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Advice for writing relationships

Ship Dynamics

How to create quick chemistry

How to write a polyamorous relationship

How to write a wedding

How to write found family

How to write forbidden love

Introducing partner(s) to family

Honeymoon

Date gone wrong

Fluffy Kiss Scene

Love Language - Showing, not telling

Love Language - Showing you care

Affections without touching

Giving the reader butterflies with your characters

Reasons a couple would divorce on good terms

Reasons for breaking up while still loving each other

Relationship Problems

Relationship Changes

Milestones in a relationship

Platonic activities for friends

Settings for conversations

How to write a love-hate relationship

How to write enemies to lovers

How to write lovers to enemies to lovers

How to write academic rivals to lovers

How to write age difference

Reasons a couple would divorce on good terms

Reasons for having a crush on someone

Ways a wedding could go wrong

Arranged matrimony for royalty

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What Is Showing vs. Telling Anyway?

When I decided to get serious about writing, I wrote short stories that meant something to me. Then I let people read them, but not just anyone. I picked people who knew a thing or two about craft. English teachers, the adults in my life who recommended books to me, and a lady who became a beloved writing tutor.

Those people challenged things like my sentence structure and word choices, but my writing tutor told me to show my stories, not to tell them.

I bristled. I was already showing them! That’s creative writing! If I wanted to tell my stories, I’d just say them out loud.

She clarified—in words that flew right over my head. My brain fuzzed out and I couldn’t grasp what she was saying, but I was embarrassed, so I nodded like I understood. It took me a while longer to get the hang of things by writing more (some terrible, some good) stories where I played around with my descriptions, narration, word choices, and themes.

Finally, years later, I understood.

Showing is describing the sensory details of your story. It’s diving into the emotional depth of your characters. It’s making the reader feel like they’re watching a movie while they’re reading your work.

Telling is more like narration. There’s no flowery language or sensory descriptions. It’s straightforward, clean, and nearly professional in nature.

Why Is “Telling” Normally a Bad Thing?

Clean-cut narration isn’t always terrible. Sometimes it works well for stories told by a narrator with dry humor or books about an intensely serious subject.

Most of the time though, “telling” keeps readers at arms-length. Picture yourself reading a history book. Each page gives you the facts. It might also describe a historical figure or the gory details of a war, but making those people or moments come to life in your mind isn’t the point of the text. It’s to convey information.

That’s what makes stories that rely on “telling” so different from stories that “show” everything.

Examples of Telling

If you’re like me, you’re probably thinking that it would be easier to picture the difference between these two concepts if there were examples. Lucky for you, I’ve already thought of that.

Example 1: I’m happy to see my best friend at school.

The narrator conveys their emotion, but not what that emotion makes them feel. There’s nothing to paint a picture of the school or even the friend.

Example 2: Henry didn’t like his dinner.

Cool, the character didn’t enjoy their food. Why? What was the taste or texture like? What did he experience that made him recognize the feeling of not enjoying the meal?

Example 3: Sofia made her bed in a hurry.

Why she was in a hurry might come in the next sentence or paragraph, but what did she feel while making that bed? What was her thought process? What’s her room like?

Examples of Showing

Let’s turn those same examples into sentences that “show.”

Example 1: I walk through the clustered school hallways with the rest of the student body, smelling their pre-exam nervous sweat and too much men’s body spray. This school would be miserable, except for my best friend. When I spot her by my dented locker, the smile on her face makes the cold bus ride to school worth it.

This is obviously more than a sentence, but notice how you get a better experience from it. The school hallways are crowded and smell bad. The protagonist doesn’t enjoy where they attend class. However, their best friend is a source of happiness. She waits by a dented metal locker, possibly with some good news, encouragement or an exciting update to something happening in the protagonist’s life. It makes you want to know what she’s going to say, especially because you can relate to what the main character is feeling.

Example 2: Henry’s nose scrunched up at the taste of his dinner. The chicken was in a desperate need for salt. This never would have happened if he had been allowed to make it.

We’ve all had a similar reaction to eating bad food. Your nose scrunches up, your mouth tightens, your tongue freezes. This example shows that in a way that you can feel yourself going through the same physical motions. It also explains why the food is bad using one of the five senses—it’s not salted enough.

Example 3: Sofia pulled her purple comforter tight against her headboard and threw her pillow at it as she ran out the door, late for the bus again.

More scenery details—the bed has a headboard and the comforter is purple. The protagonist is in a rush so her pillow is likely lopsided on the bed, which means the rest of her room is probably a bit messy too. The visual details make this a vivid scene and introduce the reader to a few of Sofia’s relatable character attributes.

How to Spot the Difference

I began to tell the difference by imagining myself reading a single sentence out loud. If I read any of the examples above before the “showing” edits, you’d have questions for me. See if a sentence, paragraph, or page makes you ask yourself:

What emotions does the protagonist feel right now?

How does the main character look through their body language?

What can the protagonist smell, taste, or feel?

What does the environment look like and is it necessary to describe it at this moment?

Does this scene need dialogue?

Do the characters feel flat?

Where’s the story’s hook?

The last question is tricky. The hook will be at the start of a short story or shortly within it, much like how a hook is within or at the end of the first chapter in a novel. If your writing doesn’t compel you to keep reading, it’s likely lacking the emotional depth that showing provides.

When Showing Goes Overboard

It’s always possible to have too much showing. It leads to the discussion English teachers always have about how Victor Hugo wrote for numerous pages about a single room in a chapter.

You could also fall into the trap of inserting flowery language into your work that you wouldn’t normally use, all for the sake of “painting a picture.” Your writing is your voice! It’s unique to you—how you speak, how you think, how you express yourself through stories. Write what comes naturally to you while keeping scenery, emotional depth, and sensory details in mind. If your words seem boring, that’s what editing is for (after you finish and step back from your work for a bit!).

Lose Yourself in Your Stories

“Showing” gets easier when you can lose yourself in whatever story you’re currently writing. If you’re struggling to do that, you might want to write in a quieter environment or put more details into your story or character outlines.

Have fun practicing this art form and you’ll watch your writing skills grow.

Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap

I'm going to go ahead and preface this with: I comment pretty regularly on clips and photos featuring horses and horseback riding, often answering questions or providing explanations for how or why certain things are done. I was a stable hand and barrel racer growing up, and during my 11 year tenure on tumblr, Professional Horse Commentary is a very niche, yet very necessary, subject that needs filling. Here are some of the literary and creative gaps I've noticed in well meaning (and very good!) creators trying to portray horses and riding realistically that... well, most of you don't seem to even be aware of, because you wouldn't know unless you worked with horses directly!

Some Of The Most Common Horse + Riding Mistakes I See:

-Anybody can ride any horse if you hold on tight enough/have ridden once before.

Nope. No, no, no, no, aaaaaaaand, no. Horseback riding has, historically, been treated as a life skill taught from surprisingly young ages. It wasn't unusual in the pre-vehicular eras to start teaching children as young as 4 to begin to ride, because horses don't come with airbags, and every horse is different. For most adults, it can take months or years of regular lessons to learn to ride well in the saddle, and that's just riding; not working or practicing a sport.

Furthermore, horses often reject riders they don't know. Unless a horse has been trained like a teaching horse, which is taught to tolerate riders of all skill and experience levels, it will take extreme issue with having some random person try to climb on their back. Royalty, nobility, and the knighted classes are commonly associated with the "having a favorite special horse" trope, because it's true! Just like you can have a particularly special bond with a pet or service animal that verges on parental, the same can apply with horses. Happy horses love their owners/riders, and will straight-up do their best to murder anyone that tries to ride them without permission.

-Horses are stupid/have no personality.

There isn't a more dangerous assumption to make than assuming a horse is stupid. Every horse has a unique personality, with traits that can be consistent between breeds (again, like cat and dog breeds often have distinct behavior traits associated with them), but those traits manifest differently from animal to animal.

My mother had an Arabian horse, Zipper, that hated being kicked as a signal to gallop. One day, her mom and stepdad had a particularly unpleasant visitor; an older gentleman that insisted on riding Zipper, but refused to listen to my mother's warnings never to kick him. "Kicking" constitutes hitting the horse's side(s) with your heels, whether you have spurs on or not. Most horses only need a gentle squeeze to know what you want them to do.

Anyway, Zipper made eye-contact with my mom, asking for permission. He understood what she meant when she nodded at him. He proceeded to give this asshole of a rider road rash on the side of the paddock fence and sent him to the emergency room. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't have the permission from the rider he respected, and was intelligent enough to ask, "mind if I teach this guy a lesson?" with his eyes, and understand, "Go for it, buddy," from my mom in return.

-Riding bareback is possible to do if you hold onto the horse's mane really tight.

Riding a horse bareback (with no saddle, stirrups, or traditional harness around the horse's head) is unbelievably difficult to learn, particularly have testicles and value keeping them. Even professional riders and equestrians find ourselves relying on tack (the stuff you put on a horse to ride it) to stay stable on our horses, even if we've been riding that particular horse for years and have a very positive, trusting relationship.

Horses sweat like people do. The more they run, the more their hair saturates with sweat and makes staying seated on them slippery. Hell, an overworked horse can sweat so heavily that the saddle slips off its back. It's also essential to brush and bathe a horse before it's ridden in order to keep it healthier, so their hair is often quite slick from either being very clean or very damp. In order to ride like that, you have to develop the ability to synchronize your entire body's rhythm's with the rhythm of the horse's body beneath you, and quite literally move as one. Without stirrups, most people can't do it, and some people can never master bareback riding no matter how many years they spend trying to learn.

-You can be distracted and make casual conversation while a horse is standing untethered in the middle of a barn or field.

At every barn I've ever worked at, it's been standard practice with every single horse, regardless of age or temperament, to secure their heads while they're being tacked up or tacked down. The secures for doing this are simple ropes with clips that are designed to attach to the horse's halter (the headwear for a horse that isn't being ridden; they have no bit that goes in the horse's mouth, and no reins for a rider to hold) on metal O rings on either side of the horse's head. This is not distressing to the horse, because we give them plenty of slack to turn their heads and look around comfortably.

The problem with trying to tack up an unrestrained horse while chatting with fellow stable hands or riders is that horses know when you're distracted! And they often try to get away with stuff when they know you're not looking! In a barn, a horse often knows where the food is stored, and will often try to tiptoe off to sneak into the feed room.

Horses that get into the feed room are often at a high risk of dying. While extremely intelligent, they don't have the ability to throw up, and they don't have the ability to tell that their stomach is full and should stop eating. Allowing a horse into a feed/grain room WILL allow it to eat itself to death.

Other common woes stable hands and riders deal with when trying to handle a horse with an unrestrained head is getting bitten! Horses express affection between members of their own herd, and those they consider friends and family, through nibbling and surprisingly rough biting. It's not called "horseplay" for nothing, because during my years working with horses out in the pasture, it wasn't uncommon at all for me to find individuals with bloody bite marks on their withers (that high part on the middle of the back of their shoulders most people instinctively reach for when they try to get up), and on their backsides. I've been love-bitten by horses before, and while flattering, they hurt like hell on fleshy human skin.

So, for the safety of the horse, and everybody else, always make a show of somehow controlling the animal's head when hands-on and on the ground with them.

-Big Horse = War Horse

Startlingly, the opposite is usually the case! Draft and carriage horses, like Percherons and Friesians, were never meant to be used in warfare. Draft horses are usually bred to be extremely even-tempered, hard to spook, and trustworthy around small children and animals. Historically, they're the tractors of the farm if you could afford to upgrade from oxen, and were never built to be fast or agile in a battlefield situation.

More importantly, just because a horse is imposing and huge doesn't make it a good candidate for carrying heavy weights. A real thing that I had to be part of enforcing when I worked at a teaching ranch was a weight limit. Yeah, it felt shitty to tell people they couldn't ride because we didn't have any horses strong enough to carry them due to their weight, but it's a matter of the animal's safety. A big/tall/chonky horse is more likely to be built to pull heavy loads, but not carry them flat on their spines. Horses' muscular power is predominantly in their ability to run and pull things, and too heavy a rider can literally break a horse's spine and force us to euthanize it.

Some of the best war horses out there are from the "hot blood" family. Hot blooded horses are often from dry, hot, arid climates, are very small and slight (such as Arabian horses), and are notoriously fickle and flighty. They're also a lot more likely to paw/bite/kick when spooked, and have even sometimes been historically trained to fight alongside their rider if their rider is dismounted in combat; kicking and rearing to keep other soldiers at a distance.

-Any horse can be ridden if it likes you enough.

Just like it can take a lifetime to learn to ride easily, it can take a lifetime of training for a horse to comfortably take to being ridden or taking part in a job, like pulling a carriage. Much like service animals, horses are typically trained from extremely young ages to be reared into the job that's given to them, and an adult horse with no experience carrying a rider is going to be just as scared as a rider who's never actually ridden a horse.

Just as well, the process of tacking up a horse isn't always the most comfortable experience for the horse. To keep the saddle centered on the horse's back when moving at rough or fast paces, it's essential to tighten the belly strap (cinch) of the saddle as tightly as possible around the horse's belly. For the horse, it's like wearing a tight corset, chafes, and even leaves indents in their skin afterward that they love having rinsed with water and scratched. Some horses will learn to inflate their bellies while you're tightening the cinch so you can't get it as tight as it needs to be, and then exhale when they think you're done tightening it.

When you're working with a horse wearing a bridle, especially one with a bit, it can be a shocking sensory experience to a horse that's never used a bit before. While they lack a set of teeth naturally, so the bit doesn't actually hurt them, imagine having a metal rod shoved in your mouth horizontally! Unless you understand why it's important for the person you care about not dying, you'd be pretty pissed about having to keep it in there!

-Horseback riding isn't exercise.

If you're not using every muscle in your body to ride with, you're not doing it right.

Riding requires every ounce of muscle control you have in your entire body - although this doesn't mean it wasn't realistic for people with fat bodies to stay their weight while also being avid riders; it doesn't mean the muscles aren't there. To stay on the horse, you need to learn how it feels when it moves at different gaits (walk, trot, canter, gallop), how to instruct it to switch leads (dominant legs; essential for precise turning and ease of communication between you and the horse), and not falling off. While good riders look like they're barely moving at all, that's only because they're good riders. They know how to move so seamlessly with the horse, feeling their movements like their own, that they can compensate with their legs and waists to not bounce out of the saddle altogether or slide off to one side. I guarantee if you ride a horse longer than 30 minutes for the first time, your legs alone will barely work and feel like rubber.

-Horses aren't affectionate.

Horses are extraordinarily affectionate toward the right people. As prey animals, they're usually wary of people they don't know, or have only recently met. They also - again, like service animals - have a "work mode" and a "casual mode" depending upon what they're doing at the time. Horses will give kisses like puppies, wiggle their upper lips on your hair/arms to groom you, lean into neck-hugs, and even cuddle in their pasture or stall if it's time to nap and you join them by leaning against their sides. If they see you coming up from afar and are excited to see you, they'll whinny and squeal while galloping to meet you at the gate. They'll deliberately swat you with their tails to tease you, and will often follow you around the pasture if they're allowed to regardless of what you're up to.

-Riding crops are cruel.

Only cruel people use riding crops to hurt their horses. Spurs? I personally object to, because any horse that knows you well doesn't need something sharp jabbing them in the side for emphasis when you're trying to tell them where you want them to go. Crops? Are genuinely harmless tools used for signalling a horse.

I mean, think about it. Why would crops be inherently cruel instruments if you need to trust a horse not to be afraid of you and throw you off when you're riding it?

Crops are best used just to lightly tap on the left or right flank of the horse, and aren't universally used with all forms of riding. You'll mainly see crops used with English riding, and they're just tools for communicating with the horse without needing to speak.

-There's only one way to ride a horse.

Not. At. All. At most teaching ranches, you'll get two options: Western, or English, because they tend to be the most popular for shows and also the most common to find equipment for. English riding uses a thinner, smaller saddle, narrower stirrups, and much thinner bridles. I, personally, didn't like English style riding because I never felt very stable in such a thin saddle with such small stirrups, and didn't start learning until my mid teens. English style riding tends to focus more on your posture and deportment in the saddle, and your ability to show off your stability and apparent immovability on the horse. It was generally just a bit too stiff and formal for me.

Western style riding utilizes heavier bridles, bigger saddles (with the iconic horn on the front), and broader stirrups. Like its name may suggest, Western riding is more about figuring out how to be steady in the saddle while going fast and being mobile with your upper body. Western style riding is generally the style preferred for working-type shows, such as horseback archery, gunning, barrel racing, and even rodeo riding.

-Wealthy horse owners have no relationship with their horses.

This is loosely untrue, but I've seen cases where it is. Basically, horses need to feel like they're working for someone that matters to them in order to behave well with a rider and not get impatient or bored. While it's common for people to board horses at off-property ranches (boarding ranches) for cost and space purposes, it's been historically the truth that having help is usually necessary with horses at some point. What matters is who spends the most time with the animal treating it like a living being, rather than a mode of transport or a tool. There's no harm in stable hands handling the daily upkeep; hay bales and water buckets are heavy, and we're there to profit off the labor you don't want or have the time to do. You get up early to go to work; we get up early to look after your horses. Good owners/boarders visit often and spend as much of their spare time as they can with spending quality work and playtime with their horses. Otherwise, the horses look to the stable hands for emotional support and care.

So, maybe you're writing a knight that doesn't really care much for looking after his horse, but his squire is really dedicated to keeping up with it? There's a better chance of the horse having a more affectionate relationship with the squire thanks to the time the squire spends on looking after it, while the horse is more likely to tolerate the knight that owns it as being a source of discipline if it misbehaves. That doesn't mean the knight is its favorite person. When it comes to horses, their love must be earned, and you can only earn it by spending time with them hands-on.

-Horses can graze anywhere without concern.

This is a mistake that results in a lot of premature deaths! A big part of the cost of owning a horse - even before you buy one - is having the property that will be its pasture assessed for poisonous plants, and having those plants removed from being within the animal's reach. This is an essential part of farm upkeep every year, because horses really can't tell what's toxic and what isn't. One of the reasons it's essential to secure a horse when you aren't riding it is to ensure it only has a very limited range to graze on, and it's your responsibility as the owner/rider to know how to identify dangerous plants and keep your horses away from them.

There's probably more. AMA in my askbox if you have any questions, but that's all for now. Happy writing.

"I just wish people would be more careful what they post here" AO3 is a site where lots of lots of people have written dark variants of good people/beings, and even more people read them and enjoy that stuff.

I wouldn't take the comment too hard, love and I wouldn't take is as criticism either. Good criticism sees what's in the story and helps you enhance or improve it (even things such as dark elements).

I think the commentor might have just been a poor pure soul who stumbled across the fic, for whatever reason decided to read it and didn't like what they read, which is down to just their interests.

They're on AO3 and you were very, very clear in the tags with what was expected in your story (reread those tags just to confirm that).

If you want to make people extra aware, maybe put a warning/disclaimer underneath your summary like: 'This story contains dark elements, please heed the tags.' because sometimes people for whatever skip over the tags. But see tags they like so they decide to read the story but don't see other tags which would warn them about things they may not like.

This commentor:

everyone else:

Dotie Rambles

I got an AO3 comment today on my fic A Small Act of Kindness that said "why would write Dream this way he is a good character, and I normally don't leave comments if I don't like the fic, I don't read it, but this fic upset me and this is not an attack on you, I just wish people would be more careful what they post here" those are just some of the things I could remember because I removed it immediately lol and one other thing where it was a waste of my writing abilities etc

Listen I know Dream of the Endless is a beloved character and despite his many flaws, he is in his heart, a character that cares deeply and tries to do good especially after that 100-year-long confinement.

That being said, I am torn between thinking ah maybe I didn't put enough tags on or maybe I could've been more specific with my summary and on the other hand, thinking I write what I want to write and I'm not at all attacking his character, that's just how I wanted to write him because...I can???

I like writing dark fics and dark characters, and maybe this type of feedback comes with the territory?

Like, is that a bad thing lol and no hate to that commenter and those who don't like their beloved characters portrayed in a darker manner, I get her point, I just want to know what I missed here because I'm new to writing fanfiction and this is the first comment I got in that vein...I'm probably not handling it too well either, am I?? 😅

Promises 2: First Sight

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

I was serious about trying to update every other day! They will be short chapters, but whatever. At least for the first few bits. NOT EDITED. PRAY FOR ME, LOL Would you like a bardcore song suggestion to go with each chapter? Let me know in the comments. Enjoy!

First Sight

She walked into a golden scene of candle smoke and gilded lilies with mud on her boots and one stubborn myrtle leaf in her hair.

Hardly fine court attire, but folk she cared for called her in fear, so she rode in haste from the far side of Meiren, and she’d lost any need to impress the court a long time ago. She’d survived the worst they could do before the current king assumed his father’s throne, and it never hurt to remind them all that she was not part of their games or under their thumbs. So she didn’t stop to comb her hair, or dig out the myrtle leaf, or even shuck her stained green traveling cloak.

Hard as she rode, she didn’t arrive before the festivities began, and she spied the king sitting on the high dais beside his honored guest, for whom a second throne had been crafted. Clearly in haste. Probably merely the queen’s old seat altered to be less feminine. It looked cheap and small beneath its occupant.

Dream of the fucking Endless. King of Dreams and Lord of Nightmares.

He sat above the glittering host like the darkness behind the stars. Ethereal, unknowable, frigidly beautiful as only untouchable things could be.

Even seeing him there, in the flesh, she struggled to believe it. She couldn’t believe their fool king would go so far.

The King of Meiren didn’t hide the festivities’ goal in the invitations (threats and demands) he sent to his people. Dream would find a queen among the best and brightest of the kingdom, and the chosen would gratefully accept the honor.

Only ignorant fools courted the attention of the Endless. Her mother had been one such fool, and she only dared befriend the kindest of the seven. Dream of the Endless was far more terrible, and he sought more than a friend in the king of Meiren’s court. Yet mothers shepherded noble children dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the softest, sweetest things welcoming a stranger’s wondering caress. Family heirlooms dripped from ears and gleamed around fine throats, daring the eye to wander lower. Girls smelling of flowers and boys scented with fruit and musk turned the hall into a stinking hell of vanity and hubris.

Then there were her folk – the wiser birds with drab plumage clustering in the dimmest corners, away from the dances and merrymaking. Parents who wanted their children to live. Grandparents who understood some risks simply weren’t worth taking. Young lovers who were bound in heart and mind but not yet by law. The king’s greed would spare none if the Endless chose them. Though she had not received an official invitation, several families who knew her of old called for her help. Officially, she belonged to no fewer than five noble houses’ retinues for the event, but the guards wouldn’t have barred her entry even without their help.

No one turned a bard away from a party.

Though the long trestle tables had been ferried away by an army of servants to make room for dancing, the ghosts of a feast remained. The king planned the celebrations like a royal engagement. Seven wedding feasts. Seven days to inspire a force of nature to grow a heart and stitch it to another. She smelled grease from venison and partridge, the first victims of the king’s folly, and she hoped the only sacrifices. Better a thousand lambs, ducks, and cows than one of the young folk all dressed up for the fire.

She didn’t dither or ask for her charge’s insights before approaching the dais. Truth would always out. The king was not clever, and she trusted her own opinions of an Endless over any courtier’s.

Striding up to the throne, she waited on the verge of the crowd for the chamberlain to announce her. Her name. A few meaningless titles. Finally her occupation. She liked it best when the king was reminded she was a bard. That she carried an ounce of authority in any royal circle.

Neither king really needed any of it, of course. The Endless knew all, and she’d plagued the King of Meiren’s nightmares for decades. But manners were manners, and politics demanded performance.

She sank low, graceful as a willow frond, angling her face so the king would see the barest hint of her smirk. Not entirely mocking. But knowing. Far from a loyal subject’s easy smile or overwrought frown. The smirk made a game of her courtesies, drawing the king low to meet her, even as her knees brushed the floor and he remained in his throne. No threat. No demand. She asked for nothing. She told him what she was, where she stood, and how little power he wielded over her that she did not choose to give.

As a boy he watched his father’s men draw and quarter her. Now he must suffer her freedom in his court.

“Majesties.”

“I hope you do not bring trouble to my court.” The King of Meiren glowered down, playing the dread king. He wasn’t even a dying candle compared to the sun-bright force at his side. Not that he’d ever been a great power even before he dared weave himself into the story of an Endless.

She sprang up as lithely as she bowed. “Your majesty must think very highly of me indeed to think I could bring anything grander or more concerning than an Endless to your throne room.”

The human ruler tensed, but the eldritch ruler at his side…shifted. She’d sparked his momentary attention, and unlike the first king’s attempt to intimidate her, Dream’s look chilled her until it burned. His gaze, however, did not focus on her like a mortal’s would. His starry eyes saw too much for that. They swallowed her, washing her in the loneliness of the night sky.

Unfathomable. Incredible. Cold as stone and livelier than a sea breeze. Entirely inhuman and everything that led a soul to dream. That gaze made her ache for a shield to lift against him.

 So. She offered the smallest, polite smile in recognition and returned to the mere human on the throne.

“A shame the years haven’t blunted your tongue,” the King of Meiren said, struggling to reclaim the authority she’d so neatly plucked from the conversation.

“I prefer to think of them as a whetstone, majesty.”

“I do not recall issuing an invitation in your name.”

“And yet I found my place through the names of others. Several houses requested my attendance in their support.”

Gods, he looked so petulant. But she’d laugh later. He wasn’t above sending a guard to run her through in the hall, and while she didn’t fear death, she didn’t enjoy pain. Or ruining good clothes. No need for more drama in this fraught production, anyway.

The best he could do was insult her clothes, eying the mud and bracken. “Clearly you came in haste.”

“But of course, your majesty.” Wide eyes and an innocent expression couldn’t bury the implicit insult entirely – she had not come for him, her very presence was a kind of defiance, and she would never ride so hard or long without care for her appearance to preserve him or his honor – but they did well enough. A little simpering would stay the blade, and any words said sweetly must be born, even if they soured the king’s stomach.

After all, she would outlive him and his kingdom both. She’d carry what stories she chose to the generations that came after, and no threat or sentence in his power to levy against her would give him back control of his legacy. At least he was smart enough to understand that much.

“Perhaps you should retire for the evening, then.” The king looked pointedly at her boots, reminding her they did not belong on his polished floors. She, in her rough clothes and wild hair did not belong. But she’d worked hard to ensure she never entirely belonged in places like these, always a step out of line, a loose thread that escaped the warp and weft of society’s patterns.

Othered and free for it.

“A most gracious suggestion.” Another, shallower, curtsy. Her eyes dipped to the floor but didn’t linger with any kind of reverence. “I take my leave.”

She moved back through the crowd, unable to disappear between the fine people in their fine clothes. A dark look touched her, stayed under her skin as she passed through the doors and turned down the hall, and she refused to name its owner. There was no time to fear him. Or – if she was very careful – reason to. She had plans to make and riddles to solve, and what was she to an Endless?

Her patrons would request her advice in the morning. She did, actually, need to wash the road off her gear. And her lute was in need of tuning. She retired to her work.

helpful sites for writers

i have a little collection of websites i tend to use for coming up with ideas, naming people or places, keeping clear visuals or logistics, writing basics about places i've never been to, and so on. i tend to do a lot of research, but sometimes you just need quick references, right? so i thought i'd share some of them!

Behind the Name; good for name meanings but also just random name ideas, regardless of meanings.

Fantasy Name Generator; this link goes to the town name generator, which i use most, but there are lots of silly/fun/good inspo generators on there!

Age Calculator; for remembering how old characters are in Y month in Z year. i use this constantly.

Height Comparison; i love this for the height visuals; does character A come up to character B's shoulder? are they a head taller? what does that look like, height-wise? the chart feature is great!

Child Development Guide; what can a (neurotypical, average) 5-year-old do at that age? this is a super handy quickguide for that, with the obviously huge caveat that children develop at different paces and this is not comprehensive or accurate for every child ever. i like it as a starting point, though!

Weather Spark; good for average temperatures and weather checking!

Green's Dictionary of Slang; good for looking up "would x say this?" or "what does this phrase mean in this context?" i love the timeline because it shows when the phrase was historically in use. this is english only, though; i dig a little harder for resources like this in other languages.