Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Our story begins in the waking world; a world humans insist on calling the real world. As if the realms weren’t as many as there are stars in the sky, as if whatever actions you make everyday had no impact on the endless dimensions of the universe. Our story begins in London, past the tall glass buildings, following the river to something that's akin to a home.

Our story, as always, is snagged tight by a protagonist who's seen too much and shone too bright.

Our story, is your story.

---

You are (Name) (Middle name) Adderly, child of the foster system -since you were four- a ruler of nothing except yourself, and maybe your imagination.

And you’re the loneliest being in this world.

You look out of a window on a sunny, silent tuesday, a surprising occurrence for this side of London. It’s a grand kind of window; one you wouldn’t have expected to look out off had it been a year ago. Before that, there was no park, no light, no colours. Before that, you were all the way across London, in a duplex briming with too many people, too many children. But you're here now, through circumstances somewhat foggy within your mind. You live on the second floor of the New Inn, with your foster father, Hob Gadling, a… relatively normal man. A man who.... seems so much... older-

Let's go back to your window. It's safer. It doesn't hurt your head as much, when you try to believe in something they all call real.

Outside, passes London, cars blurring before your weary eyes. You are.... looking for something. But what? Nobody is run over; nobody looks up to the glass panes. No ravens, no devil-hunter- no godlike entity- No danger. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The calm without storm, the flower without the stem, the sea with no waves, the good without the bad. The end of a story who hasn't begun.

You don't want an ending.

Your hair brushes your shoulders, covered by a simple grey hoodie, one you’ve had for gods know how long. You fiddle with the purple-stoned necklace around your neck, running the pad of your fingers over the familiar creases and bumps of the carved crystal pendant, as you rest your chin on your knees, curled like a child. Your (e/c) eyes linger on the sidewalk, on the parc beyond it, on a specific spot where you feel there should be something there-

The sound of the doorknob turning on its hinges breaks through your thoughts, followed by a woman's voice. A welcome distraction from the endless zoning out you seem prone to do. You manage to make out the words through the fog in your head: “(Name)? Can I come in?” she asks, her voice soft and full like the sunlight reflecting off the glass of the window.

"...Sure," you answer, pausing before speaking up again, loud enough for the sound to reach the now open door: "Hello miss Meyers."

Julia Meyers — your foster agent— enters, her steps careful, as they always are. She’s a middle-aged woman, one who’s seen your case many times over the years. Julia never said it aloud, but she finds it so sad, that a sixteen-year-old like you is stuck in this system. Was stuck in this system? After all, its pretty much a given you're staying here. Maybe her worried expressions comes from the years of watching folks’ dark sides resurface after a week with their children. You turn, what you assume is a reassuring smile working its way up your face.

You've always been pretty good at those.

After all, you're used to people looking down at you with pity, or fear, or -God forbids- worry. There is a reason she's here. Usually, its because you've been asked to leave, or it’s been found out your foster family created a cult. It happens. (Surprisingly often too, from what you've asked your friends in the London foster system.) This isn't usual.

She watches you with those doe-like weary eyes, a contrast to her sharp features and brown bob cut. It's a new haircut. Usually, she'd have it longer. Or up in a ponytail, probably a trait acquired from watching over so many children, for so many years. But she cut it short. You tilt your head, silently filling the details for later before sighing: “I’m assuming this is because I’m expected to see my mother again?”

The woman freezes, before shaking her head; “Oh, no, dearest I’m not… I’m not here for that.”

Maybe she’s surprised by your expectations. Maybe she just thinks it’s pitiful how you’re so ready to leave, how unbothered you are about all of it. Of course, in this living room, no vulnerability can be shown. Neither can it ever be shown in the waking, after all, who’d want to see that? Maybe there was a time where you were free, but that time disappeared when your mother drowned herself deeper in feeble releases, in drugs and alcohol, in deliriums of a time long gone. Of a man long gone. No matter how many times they shoved you to her door, it wouldn't change a thing.

You just made everything worse.

It's not all that bad you're staying. After all, you enjoy Hob Gadling's company more than any pitying adult you've encountered over the years. However, this means there's another concern the government wants her to check out. Something that wasn't a concern until a month ago.

You narrow your eyes upon Julia's face; “So you think I’m crazy too uh?”

“I- Well, it’s not-” the woman sputters -surprised by your bluntness perhaps? - but you interrupt her, your eyes now running over her cheery flowery dress. “I know what this is. I won’t… pretend otherwise.” you add, averting your gaze to the window again. To the dew sitting on the windowsill and the trees beyond the street. Something that isn't as foggy as this conversation.

She sits on the edge of your desk, keeping an eye on you, the teenager curled on what could be considered a bay window were it not so small. Waiting for something. A crack perhaps? She thinks you’re crazy — they all think so. They’ve got in their head that you imagined the events of the last year. That you're delusional, that the names you scream before waking up are nothing but hallucinations and imaginary friends.

Maybe they are. Maybe you are crazy. But there's a... a thing within you, covered in star dust, an instinct telling you to trust your memory. Not the lies.

Your hands rests themselves on your lap and you sigh for what feels like the hundreth time: “Hob called you, I’m guessing?” you ask, but hesitate, “Actually, don’t answer that.”

You don't want to hear it anyway.

Silence fills the room, a silence you’re all but used too by now. It’s been one month. One month ever since all went sideways, ever since the Dreaming closed its doors to you, ever since the magic they say you imagined disappeared, ever since Hob started avoiding your gaze at dinner when you spoke of your 'dreams'. Of your family. Of your friends.

That awkard silence stretches in your room, reverberating on the comfortable double-bed, the brown shelves filled with books and the sage-coloured walls.

“… I’m not my mother.” You start, glaring at the pigeons who landed on the edge of your window -as if they were the cause of all this mayhem. “Neither am I... addicted to some illicit substance- as you all seem to think.”

Miss Meyers looks up - surprised by your clairvoyance perhaps? You can see her, a reflection in your brooding window, a concerned blob of a person. You can also see Hob Gadling, trying — and failing— to eavesdrop without you noticing. Your necklace seemingly heats up once.

“We’re just… Darling, you’ve been saying lots of things that don’t make lots of sense,” she says, looking down at her notes. “You speak of… of animals that can talk, and janitors with pumpkin heads. It’s- It’s not rational. We know you’ve got difficulties adjusting and-”

The dust you feel in the depths of your being almost rises from its slumber. You feel yourself freezing at the words and your snap your head towards Julia, as your voice resounds like something within you just woke up: “I’m not crazy! How many times must I explain- You’ve just… You’ve all-!" You cut yourself off, clenching your fists. They’ve forgotten everything. You seem to be the only one remembering the truth.

The hellish, the good and everything in between, the waking monsters and the Dreaming. Dream, Matthew, Ren… Lucienne.

You take a deep breath and straighten. “Fine. If you all think I invented all this, I won't deny it," you sneer.

You feel the air still; Hob stiffens as you glare at the doorframe. You hear the pigeons fly away, turn, and for but a moment, you see a slimmer of a person on the other side of the road. Someone looking toward you, with familiar eyes and familiar brooding. A loud honking sound erupts from outside, a car passes, and the shadow disappears. But you’ve seen it.

Finally tearing your eyes from the road, you turn and stand, although there is no dramatic flair. (You're not wearing a long trench coat, unfortunately.) You decisively walk to the bed and plop down upon it, looking up at Julia Meyers.

A deep breath fills your lungs and unclenches your fists: “Let me tell you a story Miss. Maybe then you’ll understand.” This is your opportunity. Your only chance to tell what you think truly happened, to show what you’ve discovered in blurry patches of your memory, to remind them of the family you found.

“… Fine. Go ahead, Adderly. Let’s see what you’ve got to say,” she answers, perhaps a bit annoyed, or scared from your recent defiance.

A grin works its way up your face, and this time you don’t try to pretend its not dangerous. You don't try to hide it.

There is only one way to find them. Something within you knows exactly how to get what you want. How to get their attention.

"Create a story," it whispers, "Create a story so bright it shakes the realms."

Maybe then will they see it, the shadow doesn't add. But no matter. 

You'll keep screaming till they open the doors.

Chapter Text

One year ago, October 2nd, building 09, Langdale Street, London.

DATA:

(Name) (middle name) Adderly.

Fifteen years of age.

Location: Waking world.

Current affiliation: No official links to the realms.

---

The air is stiff with fear, sweat and red dribbles of blood building up on the door as they scratch at it, like an animal trying to escape a trap. The rich brown closet walls are too close for comfort, no light reaching the tearful thirteen-year-old. Transparent mirror shards dot the planks they stand atop of, from the reflection their foster father broke when he threw them in this suffocating space. And now there's crimson red bloodbloodbloodblood on the floor, and it's not theirs –

They bang their fists against the locked door again and again, breathing loud and strong within what could be their coffin.

They didn’t want to die here, surrounded by clothes, smothered by them –

"Please! Please I'm sorry, I won't say that you're mean anymore! I'm sorry!" Their voice is horribly childish, and they feel the control over the white lies they would've built up slip as fear hovers over their head.

"I'm scared! Get me out!" The admission burns their tongue, but hell, they can't lie now, can they? 

"Get me out, get me out, get me out, get me OU-"

***

"(Name)! (Name)! "Hey, wake up!"

The fifteen-year-old's eyes snap open in alarm as they scramble up in a panic, almost punching the little boy who awoke them, before sighing and relaxing at the blank sight. No blood, and no casket filled with clothes.

Sleep called them closer, even with their old mattress's springs digging in their back and the memories nightmares awaiting them, but they shook it off. If one of the twins took the risk to wake them up – especially after (Name) cooked all the kids’ spinach as retribution last time – something was happening. Hopefully not a fire. They should really wake up, shouldn't they?

They sigh and drag a hand down their face, narrowing their eyes to the bedroom to focus back on the present. Far, far away from what happened two years ago. When the rough fabric had choked them-

Present. Focusing on the present.

Well, this place isn’t the luxury of luxurious places, but it’s better than what it could’ve been. Yes, the room always felt crowded, with the twin's bunk bed overtaking the right, while (Name)'s own space was squeezed to the left, but at least they had a window. A square of light that could fall on the narrow and bleak trench between the two beds' covers. It could've been a cellar. Or a collector's room. No seriously, if you asked (Name), they'd tell you collectors are the worst, especially those that gather dolls and Pop figures. They get really aggressive and— The teenager yawns, letting their feet rest on the carpeted ground.

Their eyes are still aching from their run-in with forgotten chemistry homework in the dead of night.

"Luka, I swear you bloody child, I’ll be making overcooked pasta for the rest of your—" They take a deep breath and calm themselves, glaring at the eight-year-old who woke them at—they glance towards the clock—seven AM?

School.

Fuck.

"You're going to be late, come on!" The boy adds, leaving the teenager to swear and reach for whatever clothes they could find fastest beneath the bed.

Hurriedly, they passed a shirt – found in their local church’s basement last summer – over their head, hopping the last few steps to their bedroom door like a wounded flamingo as they tied their shoes.

A house full of boredom, devoid of colour, like all the houses they’ve been at.

(Name) tumbled out of the duplex, grabbing their backpack from one of the four-year-olds – Lilly, maybe? – before rushing to open the van door and throw themselves in.

"Sorry, Mister Darell," they say, squeezing themselves next to Ivan – Luka's twin – while the van started. "I slept in—"

-Just close the door,” the man answered, already dreading the traffic ahead after the third bus strike that year.

Miss Amelia Darell was the one who wanted to foster. At thirty-four Amelia had decided she needed a new passion project, dragging her husband, John Darell, along to the infinite paperwork of the foster system. And now, their bleak duplex was overcrowded with six kids, squeezed into two rooms, with (Name) being the oldest. Had there been any more, they were pretty sure the house would have exploded.

It must look really nice on their resume (they’d each gotten a promotion since they started fostering). Shame the one taking care of them all was just the fifteen-year-old. If the Darrells actually did their jobs, maybe (Name) would wake up without being late, but late-night lullabies, caring for the sick ones and homework only brought you so far.

The teenager closed the door and quickly forced the seatbelt on Luka and Ivan who were fighting again.

They’d forgotten their chemistry homework.

***

School- (Name) didn’t retain much from school, even if their grades proved the contrary. What they did remember, though, every time they came home to the children’s screams and shouts, was usually how they got yet another nosebleed or ripped shirt.

The people at school were no better than adults most of the time, only weaving destruction on the one they couldn’t understand.

Unfortunately, that category was theirs.

***

And of course, they’d missed their lift back to the Darell’s house.  Luka wasn’t there to wake them up as they were dozing in English class yet again, and so when the bell rang... Well, they were in the good old town bus. Late. Of course.

It cost one too many pounds, but that was another matter entirely.

The teenager sat on the plastic torture chair in the almost empty bus, ready for an hour and a half of public transportation with nothing to do but open their schoolbooks, or look outside, or-

It was all so boring. Everything was. Yes, they could see funny stuff. Like that guy with a noose rope tattooed across their skin, as if he was going to the gallows. Was probably thinking of them too, from the looks on his face and the ankle monitor on his leg. They looked around and leaned back in their seat, glancing over at the map to check on their progression. Still half an hour. And then they were at the intersection, a crossroads that wasn’t leading where they wanted to go. Fucking roadworks.

What else was there to do? Oh, and there was a child with a pet snake in her cardboard box. It would’ve been funny if it had escaped, but it looked like it was just sleeping.

Boring.

And when it wasn’t boring, the world was just dangerous. How was that fair? Why were they stuck here? Honestly, they’d do anything just to-

“Mind if I sit here, dearie?” asked a feeble yet strict voice, coming from a woman smelling of roses. They held back a sigh. A judgemental grandma? Today of all days?

-Uh… yeah, “said the teenager, grabbing their backpack to make some space.

But the one who sat down to their left wasn’t the same, as if she’d passed through some ripple of light and suddenly become slightly younger. (Name) was just too tired. Probably. They were ready to shrug it off and go back to brooding, but the middle-aged woman addressed them:

“What you are thinking is a risk.” The caring voice echoed three ways, as if echoed throughout the loud space. “A risk, a risk.”

A car honked. The fifteen-year-old could’ve just left. Stood up and forgot about their own demands and wishes. They could’ve been safe. But it wouldn’t be much of a story, now would it?

“Sorry?” They asked, narrowing their eyes on the white-haired woman before them. The afternoon light hit them right in the eyes, overwhelming their retinae. (Name) blinked away the tears quickly, and when they looked up, a maiden sat next to them.

“You wish for something to end, whilst you don’t know the risks.” The charming woman tilted her head, meeting the (e/c) with rich brown, doe-like eyes. She spoke again, some age lines creasing what was a forever young face: “We shall grant that wish. Kill the normalcy and monotony.”

The teenager pulled back slightly, resting their hands on the pocket containing their money pouch and other valuables: “Ma’am, I don’t want any trouble.”

Sure, they always wanted to live rather than survive. See colours again. Have an actual fun adventure. But they wouldn’t say that to a weird woman who clearly smoked so much crack she could infect the air around her. They tightened their grip on their bag and stood up. “Actually, I think I’m going to go—”

“Sit down.” The voices resounded, a pressure building up in (Name)’s skull until they sat back down, without even noticing. “Sorry, dearie. But you asked. We deliver.”

“Once for the father, thrice for the family.”

-

The eyes of the teenager widened, stars blinking in and out of their vision.

“Death by a thousand papercuts.”

The afternoon light flickered slightly; the bleak bus suddenly filled and emptied of colour once again.

“Seeing horror by the hundreds.”

The one-who-is-three grabbed their wrist in a vice-like grip, their claws digging into the teenager’s skin.

“Illuminating lives by the dozen.”

It was as if poison, void and power were mixed within their blood, dripping down from the nails, coursing through their veins until it reached their beating heart, unlocking a door, a passage, something that would be their end.

“Your fate is that of a star child. So it was called. And so it shall be.”

The teenager jerked awake in their seat for the second time that day, their heart beating faster than ever. They heaved, looking up at the old man to their right. The sun is outside. The bleak world.

“What the fuck was that…?”

Nothing abnormal. No strange woman. No overwhelming scent of roses. Nothing.

They didn’t see the golden ichor closing the indents around their wrists. Nor the three woman watching the bus roll away into east-London.

***

"She's gonna get hurt, isn't she?" 

"It's such a shame..."

"Well, she did wish for it."

Something glimmered in the distance. 

There is so much left to do, is there not?

Chapter Text

DATA:

(Name) (middle name) Adderly,

Fifteen years of age.

Location: Waking world, building 09, Langdale street, London.

Current affiliation: No official links to the realms, one looming prophecy.

---

The ride back ended with no further surprises for the Adderly. No strange dreams, no flashes of colour. Just a simple bus ride, dropping them off around the Rope Walk Garden. There were no ropes there, only a little playground. It’d always been a mystery to (Name) why it’d been called that, and they kept pondering upon it as they walked on. The duplex loomed ahead, but the teenager cracked open the door anyway.

To hellish chaos.

“Lilly, don’t you dare eat that plant!” they grabbed the pot from the four-year-old, heaving in panic. “Adam, don’t think I don’t see that chocolate cake! Where are the Darells?” They yelled, turning off the oven, before spinning on their heels to face the five guilty-looking children who'd assembled like lost sheep in the small kitchen.

Luka, ever responsible, answered: “Amelia said she’s got a meeting. And mister Darell went to the pub-“

-Yeah, and we’re hungry!” interrupted Mary, his twin interrupted.

A chorus of whine echoed through the kitchen, giving a migraine to the fifteen-year-old.

“Okay, okay I’ve got it!” (Name) sighed and turned the oven back on. “I’ll make… chicken nuggets or something.”

This time, it was five heaps of joy that responded, hugging the teenager tightly one at a time before going back to causing whatever chaos they could.

***

Cooking. Cleaning. Calling Amelia’s husband with no answer. More cleaning. Getting the children to eat before sunset, and finally, getting a moment’s rest.

(Name) faceplanted upon the bed, groaning internally as the yells of the twins resounded. Not dealing with that. From what the neighbourhood could hear, Mary had stolen Luka’s doll. Again.

At least the teen had a few minutes before the devilish pair barged in the shared room, complaining now that Amelia and Nicholas were both out in wine-doused meetings.

God was it tiring, especially when the others kept screaming and whining at the same time, asking for their mum and dad. They ought to know the adults never came back. It wasn’t (Name)’s first rodeo with hopeful children, and from the look of things, it wouldn't be their last either.

“Bloody beautiful hell what I’d give for a break right now…” the teen muttered, rolling onto their back.

They could potentially think about their weird dream on the bus, since the fight or flight wasn’t engaged in saving the house from a fire for the third time this week. No thanks, lets save that for future me. They pondered on what to do next. Maybe go on the roof? Get some peace and quiet?

The teenager danced around the idea, and the sound of rushed footsteps reaching the second floor convinced them faster than any chocolate bar could.

The door was yanked open, Luka rushing in first, ready to ask for (Name) to get their sewing kit- The only thing answering him was the open window, who was making the white curtains flap wildly.

Mary entered too and groaned: “Oh come on! How’re we gonna repair Marx now?” she asked, shaking Luka’s dismembered doll above her head to the gods above.

“They must’ve left to see their friends. Come on, let’s do something else,” the little boy answers, bringing his sister downstairs, their previous argument settled in favour of seeking out another game to play.

***

Pigeons had taken (Name)'s spot, but a few well placed swears shooed them right off.

The teenager smiled, resting their back atop the roof of building nine. Beautiful eyes met the gray-ish sky, which was darkening ever so slightly. Thankfully, their room’s window was close enough to the roof for them to pull themselves up. They’d always been quite skilled at climbing, and like a little meteor, they’d never fallen.

Must be your father’s blood giving you that balance- the snide voice of their mother sparked afront (Name)’s mind before they could think of shutting it out.

They sighed, stretching a hand towards the sky, watching the light play around their finger. That’s all she’d ever say, comparing (Name) to a man who’d disappeared before their mother even knew she was pregnant- when she wasn’t cracked up on whatever she managed to snort at the time. That woman came to London after her relatives cut ties with her, and (Name) suspected it had something to do with the reason she fell so far down the rabbit hole.

They closed their eyes, letting their hand fall over their lids within that strange and special place on the roof. Between sky and earth, dream and reality, day and night. Between life and death, maybe. They relished in that sense of freedom, far from disturbing thoughts, from walls that got too close, from screaming children.

They were just a teen.

(Name) pulled a chocolate bar from their backpack, leaving the bag open next to them as they tore through the wrapping. One of the families they’d been placed into had unfortunately taken a habit of starving the children staying there. In turn, the habit of hoarding food had grown on (Name)- as it so often grew on other foster kids.

Wind swayed the suburban area, although they could see the skyscraper of central London not to far off. This was a scenery the teenager was getting tired of.

(Name) had never belonged anywhere ever since their mum was sent to prison. Thrown from foster home, to foster home, to foster home, they’d never quite felt that sense of… belonging. And they suspected that even if given the chance, they’d never feel it, especially in this blank world.

It would surprise anybody, looking at this teenager with their simple clothing and meager belongings, but they’d always been passionate of silly things, like cartoons and fantastical worlds. Maybe it came from a need to escape. Maybe something within them found it more familiar than reality (after all, (Name) was pretty sure their mother was high when she gave birth.)

They’d literally hacked their way to a Netflix account for their favourite show. If that wasn’t dedication, they didn’t know what was.

Well, maybe a better proof of their dedication was the fact their school librarian knew them by their first name, amongst the hundreds of other students. Or maybe their habit of humming their favourite intro songs when no one was listening.

Like right now.

“We will protect your earth… And we’ll protect you…” their voice died down as they crossed their arms behind their head.

Before long, the sun disappeared behind the skyscrapers, and the streetlights slowly lit up. (Name) pushed themself up, stretching atop the rooftop, before glancing to the sky. No stars, as always, all blocked by London’s smoke and smog.

They’d always liked the idea of stars. Something who gave light to hundreds of worlds, even illuminating the night. Creating something so magnificent people used it to navigate their lives.

They could really use something like that.

They walked to the edge of the roof, listening to the sounds of the house. The twins seemed to be away, and so the teenager crouched on the edge of the tiles readying themselves for the little climb down. They grabbed the gutter, taking in a deep breath before letting themself drop. They felt as though their heart would leap right out of their chest, but they hung on the gutter, dangling seven meters above ground.

“I hate climbing down so much,” they muttered, slowly resting their foot on the windowsill, said window held open by a stick they’d placed there earlier.

Now was the tricky part. (Name)’s right hand left its hold, as they extended it towards the wooden frame around the window. They hooked their arm, before finally swinging themselves in the room. They landed on the ground roughly, rolling to a stop before the door, ever so slightly out of breath.

It was worth it really- an hour and a half of peace and quiet without the children. They knew how to get themselves to bed anyway. This silent had been a dream come true, one that they unfortunately had to wake up from as they heard the screeching mouses approach.

“Come on, the old lady said we had to go to sleep!” sounded out the little boy.

-"But I don’t wanna!

-Me neither, but papa and mama said to be good right? That’s why you gave me back the doll-" their conversation came to an abrupt stop as they burst in the room -not even bothering to knock- just as (Name) closed the window softly.

“(Name)!!” They squealed at the same time, running to hug them tightly.

Wow. That made them feel kind of bad for avoiding them.

“Hey- “

- “(Name), (Name)! Mary broke my doll and-” Luka started, before said little girl interrupted him.

- “Not true! You broke it yourself you dunce- “Mary started.

… (Name) didn’t feel so bad now that a new headache was forming. Before it could come to fists, they intervened: “Okay that’s enough you two.”

- But-" they both said, before their temporary sibling interrupted them: "I said enough,” (Name) snapped, glaring at the little rascals. “Now you both go to bed. It’s way too late for you to be up, and I don’t think miss Darell would like for you to be in trouble like that.”

The children sulked for a few seconds, before climbing in their respective bunk. (Name) turned and changed, hiding beside the blanket they’d hung off the ceiling to divide the room in two at night. Their toes literally froze at night, but it didn’t matter, so long as they had their privacy.

One… two…

(Name) sighed as they heard the Luka’s soft cries. They crossed over the blanket border and knelt next to the boy. Even with his responsible act, he was still just a child. Like them.

“Luka. Hey Luka- “the fifteen-year-old started, just as the boy turned towards them. “Listen, I’ll repair Marx tomorrow, okay? Just promise not to break it again.”

The boy beamed, his tears drying as he hurriedly nodded his head. So much so that it might’ve fallen off, at it not been so thoroughly attached.

“… Thanks (Name). You’re the best,” he said, curling up before turning away from the teenager.

(Name) smiled, then stood and walked away, making their round and muttering a ‘good night’ to the children in the other room. They crashed down on their bed for the second time this evening and turned to look at the bleak ceiling.

The day swirled beneath their eyes. School with its bullies, cooking supper, the stars just out of reach, cartoons, colours, the unmistakable fact that they had the weirdest fucking bus ride…

They felt themselves drift away to sleep. To dreams.

Fate had surely decided enough of wallowing in the dark took place.

Because when (Name) opened their eyes again, they were falling to their probable death.

Chapter Text

DATA:

(Name) (middle name) Adderly,

Fifteen years of age.

Location: The seams between worlds

Current affiliation: No official links to the realms, one activated prophecy.

---

It was a constellation filled space, a rift between realms, a tear in the fabric of reality, something incredible and uncanny. Something new. Lights of every possible colour shone so close (Name) thought they could touch the sparkly things, cup them in their hands and protect the stars from their inevitable downfall.

Colours.

Dozens, hundreds, millions of colourful stars around them in this galaxy, bypassing the veil covering the usual bleak world. It calmed their mind, warmed their heart, brought their soul to rest. No more heavy fatigue weighted on (Name). No more screaming. No more pressure. No more empty words and emptier promises. Just them, and the world. Or where ever they were.

The teenager’s heart panged for this. It was... familiar. And that familiarity seemed to be something just out the corner of their eye. They turned and right as they were about to touch an amethyst-like star, gravity regained its grip on this realm. (Name)’s head pulled back, their body following suit as they reached towards the flickering stars in desperation.

This didn’t feel like a dream at all anymore.

A scream worked its way up (Name)’s throat, erupting as a panicked yell whilst they plunged. Behind them, a wedge cracked open the darkness, filling the void with warm light and the sound of crackling pages.

“Oh SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT-" their (e/c) eyes widened as the teenager fell through the rift whilst their stomach lodged itself in their throat.

BANG!

They crashed down on a neat pile of books, sending them scattering on the wall. One of them, a greenish Hebrew dictionary, fluttered its pages in annoyance and flew away amongst the endless shelves stretching on both sides of the alley they found themselves in.

The fifteen-year-old looked at the far-off ceiling, heaving one breath after another.

(Name) sprang to a sitting position, extending their hands before them. No wounds. No marks. Before their eyes, the blank pyjama they were wearing in London faded away, replaced by a black trench coat. To their surprise- and no small amount of concern for their own sanity- they saw small constellations threading themselves into the seams, some even floating off before disappearing.

“Holy shit.” they said, still transfixed by the familiar sight of their own hands.

They snapped their head up as the fluttering sounds intensified. To the teenager’s surprise and disbelief, books of all kinds, shape and sizes, were lining up the stacks, and almost instinctively, they thought the story containers would fly from one perch to another.

“Holy shit-” they rubbed their eyes once, amazed. “How- Am I dead?”

They were so transfixed by the vibrant shades within their strange predicament that they didn’t hear the librarian approach before she spoke:

“Now, this, is strange.”

The woman pushed her golden round spectacles up her nose, casting a long look over (Name)’s dishevelled state. After all, waking denizen rarely came across the castle, and when they did, they were whisked away to the edge of the Dreaming’s door for pick up.

She didn’t understand how this child found their way to her library of all places.

They didn’t appear to be a vortex -endless knew how much she dreaded those occurrences- just a lost human spread chaotically across the floor like a dropped puzzle she’d have to make sense of. RIght then, the non-dream turned towards the Librarian and scrambled up from the ground, running their eyes over the entity who seemingly came out of nowhere with a large tome in hand.

“Hi- uh… Hello?” the teenager said, their voice so unusually… real within this place. So very human.

“Hello,” echoed the pointed-eared — pointed ears? — woman, her voice precise as the scratching of a quill on paper. “Don’t worry. You’re not dead, which means you’re either very lost… or very trouble.”

She snapped the tome in her left hand with a puff of silver dust. “And judging by your appearance and that… dramatic entrance, I’m leaning towards the latter. The language certainly isn’t appropriate either, but I expected as much, seeing you’re… relatively human.”

Her eyes glinted with a mix of interest and wariness, and she eyed the numerous constellations drifting off (Name)’s coat, finally pinching one between her fingers with raven-like focus.

“Now then little sky breaker, what in Morpheus’s name are you doing in this library?”

(Name) had dealt with plenty of unfamiliar things before, mainly adults. But this was a new level of… well of new. They felt like they were in a dream. This place couldn’t be real. But how could they explain the feeling of the softest fabric running over their skin, the lack of fatigue, or the solid wooden floor beneath their feet? The colours? Only vivid nightmares rose those sensations within them, and they weren’t trapped anywhere. For now, at the very least.

“I… Sorry I don’t know how I got here-” the teenager started. “Am I- Am I dream-walking or something?”

The librarian narrowed her eyes over the child, like she always did for stubborn flowery vines in newly formed alleys. Bright and beautiful, of course, but misplaced. Something more to clean up before another catastrophe hit the dreaming. Like before.

“Dream walking?”, the term rolled off her tongue, just as she let the tome in her hands fly away. “The only way here like… this, would be a ritual. This isn’t some dubious work of fiction.”

(It totally is)

She almost wanted to laugh, the slightest hint of amusement already dancing at the corner of her mouth. But responsibilities were responsibilities. “Just how old are you child?”

The dreamer snapped out of their thoughts, passing a hand through their sleep-ruffled hair: “I’m fifteen. Ma’am.” They added on instinct.

“Of course you are,” the librarian sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And please, don’t call me ‘ma’am’. It makes me feel centuries older than I’d care to admit.”

She approached the sky breaker, one measured step after another. (Name), still unsure over what to do with this… situation, slightly inched back when she came to a stop before them. The dream pushed her glasses up her nose and —without warning— tapped (Name)’s forehead with her finger.

A light passed under the teen’s skin, making her bloodstreams tingle like they’d just been filled with a soft drink. (Name) hurriedly took a step back, but the librarian instead focused on a hovering diagnostic-scroll, who respectfully unfolded itself for the dark-skinned woman. Words traced themselves on the dream paper, inking some runes that the teenager couldn’t understand.

“No fever. No concussion. No nightmare-taint or overall ritual-related wounds. Just… pure unchecked wanderlust it seems.” She peered towards the skittish human beneath golden-edged eyelashes and sighed.

Said human worked up some courage and spoke up: “Sorry, where am I?”

The librarian clicked her tongue softly and whisked away the scroll. “You’re in the Dreaming of course."

-The what?"

The master of the library paused, and so did the books for but an instant.

-Morpheus’s domain? The land of nightmares? The collective subconscious of the people?” The librarian added, narrowing her eyes on the teenager who seemed so intent to break all of their rules.

-That’s… That’s a place?” Their voice cracked as they frowned. “How-”

(Name) was interrupted yet again, as a notepad started taking notes next to the disapproving ex-raven: “So your arrival wasn’t voluntary,” she sighed in annoyance, thinking of the paperwork ahead.

She grabbed the quill currently sketching the sky breaker’s portrait on the file and added a few notes, whilst explaining the situation to the clearly confused human: “Therefore, it means something within you… ached for this place. Enough for you to leave your assigned dreamscape and reach my library.”

The bus ride immediately came to the front of their mind. They had wished to leave and live again, far from the responsibility of an elder child of a relatively negligent foster family. And then again, if what the elegant dark-skinned woman was saying was true, their ‘assigned dreamscape’ was that nightmare they could never escape. Until now.

“You said I slipped here. Can I stay?” the demand left their lips faster than they could register, but it did feel right and true.

The librarian paused her writing, looking up as she pushed her glasses up her nose yet again. A human asking for this honour so casually was… brazen to say the least; “Stay? This is the dreaming child. Not a vacation home for lonely teenagers…” Her breath hitched. 

If the teenager risked asking, even with the distance she ensured between the two of them… They weren’t simply reckless, they were desperate.  And she was proven right by the apparent constellations slightly dimming on the raven-coloured coat. The librarian felt like oil had been poured over her favourite novel.

“But…” She avoided her eyes as the teenager perked up. Hope was too bright for someone used to poring through hundreds of books per night. “Until we can determine the origin of this disturbance, I’m guessing your presence could be… tolerated.”

-Really? I- I mean thank you,” they crossed their arms over their chest, before extending a hand. “I’m (Name) (m/n) Adderly. Thought you should know.”

The librarian hesitated before shaking their hand, precise as a line in the sand. Where their hands touched, another wave of golden wanderlust passed beneath (Name)’s skin.

“Enchanted to meet you. You may call me Lucienne.”