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Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall
And lo! the other one:—it is the law.
But there is One who holds this falling
Infinitely softly in His hands.
—
The shadow pooling underneath his boots is a thing that brushes on the threshold of something unnatural.
It is not something entirely garish, your father sitting beside you doesn’t seem to notice it. He is still talking with Lord Morpheus who sits opposite him. But the occlusion underneath his feet is darker than where the foot of the chesterfield sofa meets the carpet, the one where he sits on the brown leather.
You think you need a nap and your eyes are playing silly tricks. Though naps are getting rather dull on your frail body lately. It’s all you do most afternoons, what the doctor suggests.
Only soft duvets, no taxing activities. No sports or the likes.
You’d much prefer to spend time with Oscar and your Hemlocks in the yard. Some books, maybe tea.
On a rare occasion like this, your father insisted on going against what the doctor suggested. That you acquainted yourself with lord Morpheus. You think you know where your father’s inclination comes from, a potential match for a suitor.
Before Lord Morpheus came your father explained that the lord is not an English noble like you, but a descendant of kings from distant ancient lands. You believed that because he bears a disposition of one, holds a beauty in that archetypal way of being. Addressed with a title of one. A different kind of noble unrecognisable by the state, his wealth speaks louder than the station of his birth.
Your father tries to entice you with fairy tale like qualities in hopes you would take a fancy.
Still, the purpose of his stay in London remains unknown to you.
With all that entails, his wealth, his beauty, the smooth polish of his boots and the shine of his slicked back short hair, is not so much intriguing as the shadow he bears. You almost don’t want to realise it because nothing should be able to do that.
It erupts you with palm—sweating anxiety, a little dread. A singular demonstration that he is something of an other.
And when you pulled yourself away from it, you caught the flick of his gaze, his silent acknowledgement in those taut shapely lips of his. His eyes gnawing into you. You avert your eyes from him to the windows as you sip your tea, hiding behind the cup. You feel like a child, her hands caught in a cookie jar.
—
The second thing is his hair. It absorbs light in a different way.
When the sunlight from the window behind him lands upon his back, it does not show the illuminated strands of brown even people with black hair usually do. It is a shade darker than normal. A shade lighter than abnormal.
And it unsettles you.
Your parents seem unperturbed by it, still talking animatedly with him. Still enjoying the lunch they put together for him. Oysters, Lobsters, Veal cutlets en Papilotte, roasted calf’s heart and beef tongue. Pigeon pie and lamb chops. Trifle, Cherry tart, Blancmange, Apple pie Marmalade with Madeira and Port.
And he barely touches any of it.
That very act of deliberate inaction irritates you. And you want to strike this other with the palm of your hand, even if the act would surely harm your frail skin instead of harming him.
"Isn’t that right, (y/n)?" Your mother suddenly ropes you in.
"Pardon?"
"Oh this girl, lost in her head again. Please forgive her Lord Morpheus."
He merely gives you a polite smile.
"I’m sorry. What were you saying, mother?" Blush blooms on your cheeks.
"The Soirée Marquess Cavendish holds is the most extravagant in all of London, isn’t that right, (y/n)?"
The Soirée is extravagant, lavish. But it grows trite very quickly. Lord Cavendish prides himself on his 80 course meal for every event to stuff yourself fat, 30 musicians for the orchestra to dance the night away. Bouquets and bouquets of fresh flowers at every corner of his manor, the gaudiest chandelier high society has ever seen. But there are only so many trends and innovations he can keep up with that it dwindles as time goes by. The same pattern would resurface.
"Yes, mother. The best."
"Come with us, Lord Morpheus. I’ll introduce you to the peerage." your father, proud as always of his noble blood, of his title as Earl, almost preens under his own words.
"It will be my pleasure." he said, his bright, beguiling eyes finding yours. Your heart races underneath your corset. You feel the blood rushing to your ears, to your neck. A coiling Python.
A cough rips through your lungs, quickly your plate is layered in blood. Your blood. falling from your nose to your ivory dress and laces. Abrupt, carmine and garish. Rose petals drip richly.
There’s a commotion you hear, your father apologising profusely to Lord Morpheus as he hurries to your side, the hysteria in your mother’s voice, the coming of her trembling hands. The servants' footsteps rushes to the dining room.
You must’ve looked dreadful in front of the guest, leaking your blood like that, your hands hanging mid air unsure where to put, your mother grasping one gently.
You find Lord Morpheus merely watches you, a pair of silver eyes like the necklace dangling on your throat, wringing like the jewellery. Turns you inside out. He’s not supposed to see this vulnerable side of you.
You can’t stand the pressure of his gaze. His inhuman, beautiful eyes. Addled with something you can’t recognise. Pity? Disdain? fascination?
Your head is too muddled by pain to discern it.
—
Your joints are throbbing annoyingly. Bruises blossom on your skin in a matter of hours. When you look into the mirror, you are met with a familiar sight. Your body in patches of red and blue. You don’t remember when it doesn’t. Your childhood memories are woven from the very same patchwork.
Your mother would’ve scolded you if you so much as left the bed. But your bedroom with its canopy bed and silk drapes are starting to lose its colour, bleeding grey in your eyes. Dull and monotonous. You feel a little disoriented, restless. The silence of your bedroom and your vehement thoughts would only make you cry. With great effort you slowly course through the hallway of your mansion.
No paintings or plants are out of place, the candles on the golden sconces have been put out by the servants. The moonlight pierces through the windowpanes, lighting your path as usual.
But the marble floor is unexpectedly colder, pinching your soles like little needles. A peculiar stillness hangs in the air. Deafens your ears with its silence. The painted eyes of your ancestors follow you disapprovingly, taunting you back to the comforts of your bed. The hairs on your neck stretches on end, as if your body is under the watchful gaze of the shadows residing in the ceiling, under the panelling of the walls, behind the tall vases. Waiting to strike you in your state of debility.
To swallow you whole—your bruises and perpetually unclotted blood.
Your hand moves to your throat on its own, a phantom of your silver necklace still dangling there.
You swivel behind you, looking for a sign of life, only to be met with silence and dark vacancy.
—
It’s your rows of Hemlocks. Your head tilts to the side when you realise they are slightly—imperceptibly—leaning towards you. But not you precisely, someone behind you. Of course, when you turn, you find him silently standing nearby.
Other people would never be able to notice the change. But these are your Hemlocks. You tend to them almost every single day, children of your own.
And the way they behave is alarming. Plants shouldn’t be able to do that. Or at least that’s what you have always known.
What the fuck is happening?
"Evening my lady." he greets as he stands to your side. A pair of bright eyes searching for your face.
"My lord." you returned. Looking upon him, unmoving from where you sit on the ground. Your gloved hands are drenched in soil. Your dress stained by the dirt. Your tabby cat—Oscar—is by your side, stretching languidly under the cool afternoon sun.
"I’m afraid my parents are away for the day." you continue. The servants must have let him in.
"I come for you, Lady (y/n)." he clarifies.
"Whatever for, Lord Morpheus?" you pluck the gardening gloves from your hands.
"It was only yesterday that you were bleeding all over yourself. I think that warrants a visit for your wellbeing."
You swallow thickly.
"You came for nothing, sir. It is a frequent occurrence of minor nosebleeds. I am perfectly fine."
"It's not Hemophilia then?" he stares pointedly at the bruise on your wrist. You turn it down in response. Opt to fondle Oscar on his stomach instead, as you realise you’re not the only one who notices things.
If he's always been able to see the bruises peeking from your dresses, you don’t want to dwell upon it.
Your silence is an answer in it on itself.
He walks towards your Hemlocks, your plants standing tall towering over him. The shades of the flowers almost match his perfect, unmarred skin. Glows even under the setting sun. A shiver of jealousy washes over you. Yours looks more like the mottled stem. What you would give to—
"Do you tend to them?" his eyes never leave the flowers shading him. Interrupting your thoughts.
"Every day when i could."
"Your cat could die from these."
"Oscar is smarter than most cats." did he take you for a fool?
"My apologies. I did not mean to offend." his concession leaves something indescribable within you.
"You did not." you say as you watch that pooling darkness beneath his soles, slowly entices you. Your heartbeat paces faster by the second as the dusk starts to swallow the light in the sky.
He fingered the white petals of your flower. Sampling its textures between his fingers. The plants are drooping lower, as if his mere presence is a windstorm. Pulling in everything in his path, and you and your flowers are merely the moorlands he would ravage.
You don’t want to be his victim.
"It’s getting dark, Lord Morpheus." he understands your cue. He helps you to stand as he bids his farewell.
"I hope we can see each other again soon, my lady." he kisses the back of your hand, his fingers linger briefly on your tender—bruised wrist. You almost wince from the pressure.
—
You’re watching him conversing with your father and his peers from behind your Brise fan. Lord Morpheus looks immaculate in his formal attire. His short hair neatly slicked back, his coat tail hangs elegantly behind him. The white vest, white tie and white gloves complement his skin without flaw. He appears as if he belongs with the English peerage. He could be the king himself.
The young women are restless. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they hold their fans as if they could fan the temptation away. The giggles they share. Lord Morpheus is someone new to the scene, rich, young, painfully beautiful and desirable. But the older women scorn his presence, along with the older men. You overheard their whispers, that Morpheus only uses your father’s kind nature to climb the upper class. As if he’s merely a parvenu.
The notion is entirely ridiculous.
You barely know the man, but you don’t think it is in his nature to be deceitful. It has always been your father’s way of being kind and welcoming. Naively trustful of others.
What his nature is… that you don’t know of.
Hours passed and the boredom is quick to settle in your stifled yawns. Week after week, no matter how grand a ball is, no matter if the lord cavendish is dishing 80 course meal or some other Marchioness or Earls or Viscountess are trying to outdo the other, everything is the same. The ingredients are always the same. The crystal chandelier, the fabrics of dresses the women wore. The same conversation of class and politics, you’ve seen everything. Tasted it all. Heard all of it.
And when you return to the comforts of your home after this, it will always be filled with bruises and the same books with the same blood leaking out of your nose.
The women and men have taken to the dancing floor. You are content by watching the shiny fabrics of the women’s dresses twirl under the chandelier. On your periphery you realise Lord Morpheus is coming your way.
"My lady, may i have a dance?" he offers his pristine gloved hand.
"You may."
You did not know what came over you. You’re not much of a dancer. But his hands beckoned, beguiling. The warmth of his palm that settles on your waist pierces through your corset, flares your skin alive.
The crowd watching is lost to you, the room spins in a blur until there are only his eyes, swallowing you whole. Marbling under the light, lifelike tendrils. You are lost in it for long, His irises seem to grow alive, and it convinces you that you have grown mad. For you can see the stars and moon and the night sky with billions of uncontainable stars within.
Dazed, you stumbled back. But his grip is strong on your waist and it keeps you upright.
"Are you alright?" his concern seems that of a farce. Though unfounded it is your irrational suspicion that he knows of your discovery. In which you remove yourself from his grasp and try to put some distance between you. Found solace in one of the dark hallways of Lord Cavendish’s mansion, lit only by moonlight from the rows of windows.
A solace far from solitude. You feel his presence in the dark ceiling. The shadow settled in the corner. The hairs on your neck stretch upwards. Litters your arms with shivers.
"Come out." you whisper to him, he splits himself from the shadows soundlessly.
"Are you a vampire?" you finally ask the inevitable. Amused smirk curled his lips.
"A ghost?" you continue, and he merely circles you. Drinking you in.
"The devil?" you hold your chin high. You try not to show him the traces of fear boiling in your gut.
He is silent still. His bright eyes pierce you whole.
From his hand, a stem of Hemlock blossomed. He holds it between you.
"i am a part of you."
You feel impatient over his cryptic words, but you still ponder them.
"You are fear?"
"Not quite."
"Love?"
"sometimes."
"desire?"
Something flickers in his eyes, but he is silent.
"Are you my dreams?"
His smile confirms your words.
"The god of Dreams…" it stuns you. His name should have tipped it away.
"Clever," he said with admiration and a hint of contempt at the same time.
You take the stem from his hand. Twirl the flower between your fingers. It looked so much like yours back home. Smells like one. Mottled with purple and blue. You wonder if you rub the sap on your eyes will it kill you too.
"You’re hounding me." You mutter.
"You did it first."
"Only because your human form is fractured at the seams."
He tilts his head upwards. His smile reaching for the brink of something sinister.
"Do you want to know what the seams would unfurl?"
Your heart races. You don’t know how to exactly answer that question. All this time what use are your inquisitive eyes if not for this very moment. To know his true nature?
"I can show you everything." He offers you his gloved hand. Pristine, like the forbidden fruit, tempting you to the core.
But you swallow your desire deep, deep down to your stomach. You hope it will never resurface again. You turn your heel and leave him in the dark hallway. Crush the flower in your palm until it disintegrates into golden sand.
—
A sudden vertigo strikes from the base of your neck, and you lose your footing because of it. You cut yourself with a shard of glass on the pavement after you fell from the carriage, digging through your arm. Cover your fingers with black and blue spots.
The cut lasted for half an hour, your doctor came and treated your wound at the behest of your father. But the internal bleeding is another matter. Your knee is swollen and painful, hot to the touch. You cry yourself to sleep that night, with your mother’s cool hands gently caressing your feverish forehead. Her eyes are misty. She tries so hard to not let it fall.
You sigh in relief when morning comes, the swelling has receded, and you smell sickly sweet from the sweat of the fever. The servants help you into the clawfoot tub, and you ask them to leave you alone after they scrubbed you clean and lathered you in citrus scents.
You rest your head on the edge of the tub. Your bruised fingers grip the porcelain as you contemplate the broken capillaries. What you would give for another skin, another body. Hale, beautiful. Perfect and unblemished. Perhaps one like him.
What drives you to call his name is more an impulse of desire than need, ripping through your lungs after suppressing him all night, ripe fruit bursting.
It is as if he waits for you to call him that he appears before you even finished mouthing all the syllables of his name. His short black hair neatly pushed back from his beautiful face. Dressed in a black coat with black shirt, the tip of his polished shoes shines bright from the sunlight filtering through the window. The silver pin on his black Ascot winking at you. The very picture of an Edwardian man.
"Lady (y/n)." he takes a step and perches himself at the edge of the tub. Takes his fill of your skin.
You ponder his face for a moment. And he seems content to be scrutinised under your watchful gaze. He counts the bruises littering your skin. You see it in the way his eyes ricochet from one to the other. For the first time in a long while you don’t feel self-conscious about your bruises.
"Tell me, is this your doing for rejecting your offer?" your tone is more accusatory than you would have liked.
Even as he looms over you, even if he wields every power in the universe, you’re still unsure whether it is in his nature to desire harm upon you. There is a flash of wounded pride. And his mouth pulls down a little steeper.
"Wounding an ailing woman, what do you take me for?"
"I don’t know what i should take you for." you feel a little tired. A feeling of tightness in your chest labours your breathing just a little.
"Take me as i am, as what you found me out."
You snort a laugh.
"Lord Morpheus, what i found out of you is more questions than answers."
"Then come with me, and you’ll have all the time in the world for the answer." he dips his hand in the tub to find your hand resting on your stomach submerged in the tepid water.
Your tears gather in your eyes, leaking down your cheeks. The porcelain on which your head rests becomes more uncomfortable, and you find yourself holding tight to his fingers with your bruised ones.
"I don’t have much time. I am sick and i am very, very tired. I'd die from hemorrhaging the next time I fall from the carriage. What little time I have would be of no use to a god such as you."
You almost choked over your own words. The words that were merely a fraction of how you truly feel; how utterly terrified you are meeting your end in a premature way, not laying soft from old age on your deathbed. How this illness defines you as a human being for as long as you could remember. How much contempt burrows at home within you every time you see your mother’s misty eyes and your father’s voice struck with paranoia at the slightest mishap falling upon you.
But if he is truly a god, an embodiment of a dream, he would know of this nightmare.
He tightened his grasp just a little bit more.
He knows
"The sun could swallow the earth, the universe could exhale its last breath, but I can make sure Death would pose no problem to you."
He says it with a conviction that could only belong to a god, as if he knows Death so thoroughly he would know how to prevent one. It gives no room for doubt to plant its seed within you. His other hand brushes away your tears.
He helps you on your feet, helps you dry your body and hair with the towel on the shelf. Helps you loop your Chemise over your body. Smooth the fabric with his fingertips. His touch light and gentle. Feathers over your bruises. Soothes your throbbing unclotted blood. Achingly comforting you want to sleep on the palm of his hands.
"Until you are ready, i will wait. Say it whenever you desire and i shall unfold myself to you."
He takes your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. Disappear silently in the blink of your eye. Left a single baby Hemlock with its roots at the base of the marble tub.
The evening after that day, you plant the baby into the soil of your garden with Oscar. Its darker shadow sets it apart from the other Hemlock. But you hope it will grow as tall.