{ it isn't often that morpheus takes to particular dreams. he's a shadow cast upon a waking world. night is but a concept across timezones, within a world that often finds false comfort when asleep. then there are particular dreams in the center of his dreaming that get dragged out. the vortex has weakened them, allowed nightmares to walk in their own trance when he'd been away. the damage has been done. a hundred years worth of it. he's there to repair what has remained rusted.
once in a while he'll let his shadow become the fly on the wall, allow some understanding by his own hand rather than those he's created. few capture his true curiosity beyond his duties as an endless. he's returned to a world more vivid and jaded than he last witnessed before his capture.
the dream he enters is silent, eerily so. he has yet to see the dreamer in question, but he does know it is a disturbed sleeper. punctured, he notes, like water slowly easing onto a boat and meant to eventually sink into itself. he can sense the edges of a sleep that could take the dreamer with them at anytime. morpheus is merely a guest, unless he must intervene. it is the macabre silence that makes him pause.
the sky begins to color in a maroon, and he can smell the copper from ashore. it is then gone, replaced with a canvas alight with less grey and more color. the silence morphs into static noise as the dream slowly transforms. he finds the path has opened up into a field, an array of fruitful trees leading into a faint horizon. the crisp apple scent is pungent in the air, filled with the lining of distilled hope. he's reminded of autumn. he decides to follow the path opening up to him, to see what it'll reveal. the closer he gets, the more he can see there's a well-preserved cabin. even from afar, he can see the vines decorating the door are curling around what are buds of flowers getting ready to bloom. spring this time. they droop and await to be encouraged.
morpheus halts his steps, and contemplates as he attempts to find a grasp on the dream itself. he finds it is not beholden to him. it's impressively fortified, but within it, he can also sense the cracks that are intricately patched. there is no particular reason why he should continue. morpheus can pass along, never allowing someone to see him. he has done so many times. yet, he remains. he's trying to create anew. his last nightmare returned to him depleted. it came from—
wanda maximoff. someone who knows no actual peace. a powerful, disruptive woman. simply, her. }
Interesting.
lmk if any timeline details need some changing!! 🖤
( the line between dream and reality had thinned as of late, a sieve of river rock. under the brunt of her chaos, and under the slowly rolling influence of the dark hold (still just the start of her studies, it seems), what is a dream but a promise of another life? another universe taunted out of reach. near as much as it is a cruelty she cannot escape because it is not her own life she dreams of. she chases it out of grief. because she does not want to think too long on her mistakes in westview.
what could have been, and whatever her mind creates is easily slipped through the hairline fractures of her psyche; easily shaped into being as she gives chase to hope. and it can drag her under just as easily.
some people would argue that sleep is an escape from the waking world. wanda is not sure she would ever be able to say the same.
this dreamscape is a close reflection of what the landscape around her cabin has become, if a bit brighter and quieter both — cinnabar red skies masked under layers upon layers, like oil paints, each just as real and just as malleable as the one beneath it. there’s an orchard that stretches far, buds not yet in full bloom. she walks through it now, hands tucked into pockets as she nears the cabin.
she isn’t sure she’s dreaming — it feels too real and it doesn’t, all at once. but her mind catches on something, a scratch of awareness that isn’t her own amidst this place. it makes her still her steps, attention caught by his word just as much him, as a whole — singular as it is, voice settling all around her. he carves a tall figure cloaked in a coat like the darkest night, such stark contrast to the springtime blossoms, and the intensity of his mind nearly overwhelms her, surface barely breached and it makes her think of depthless waters and endless galaxies and she pulls away with nearly a wince.
her eyes never leave him. ) Who are you? ( sharpness curls around the words and even as she asks, some inherent part of her knows, the same way all endless are known and unknown, in the end. she recognizes her nightmares within him, she thinks. echoes of something there.
it befuddles her more and she isn’t sure what she should think. Instead she supplies an uncertain, if guarded: ) What is interesting?
{ he does not speak right away when addressed. not when the question rolls his way, nor when the sky begins to shift into an oil texture, onto the beginnings of what is paint dripping down. he thinks he sees it fall down onto the orchids, coating them in color. the intriguing part is that if one were to blink, the setting remains far too still like a photo stock. he’s been in fields, undisturbed and peaceful, untouched by man.
it gives him the same ambience. then he has to wonder what are you trying to preserve? questions of which he has no right to. he reaches out towards one of the trees, his hand grasping an apple and essentially plucking it from its nestled spot. he holds it in his hand as he beholds the one controlling the dream. }
Who am I? { he repeats, inspecting the apple in hand, and finding it immaculately put together. he’s nearly impressed. morpheus can sense the wariness, but then again, most tend to be when they spot him. his quiet alone is an unshakable force, one that burns at the core.
the nightmares within attempt to surface, entangled and matted, seeking to be smoothed out. he nets them. they point to her. }
It is not important who I am. { —a purposeful pause, made to help him think before continuing— } Look closer. You know the answer.
{ it is rare for him to expose such a facet right away, to briefly show her what is behind the cloak he wears, into the ripples of a milky way. a door, many in a row, stars blazing while losing force and then going cold. he’s the stardust left behind after a supernova. one of his names is given without having to speak. the one most might know if they stopped to listen to the quiet. he does not turn to look at wanda quite yet. he lets his whisper be his sight.
dream of the endless.
morpheus will not walk into the cabin before them, understanding the barrier is there and he has enough to know he’s not dealing with simplicity. what dwells behind is a warning itself. he only stares at it from a reasonable distance. it could always be closer, and they wouldn’t have to move. there’s something else holding it together. it’s obscenely ancient. he hasn’t encountered it in a long time.
it is then that he finally does turn to take in wanda’s presence, one as encompassing as his. to what degree, he has yet to comprehend. }
You. You made my perfect nightmare blemish. It shouldn’t be possible.
( the orchid around them is a distortion of something picture perfect; reality once again rewritten in the waking world only to bleed over into her dreams, overlapping like aged pages, split ink.
it drips paint-like around the edges, a brief haze of static before it rights itself again.
the apple is plucked by long fingers pale as moonglow, beheld like something that shows him answers to questions unasked and she wonders how much he sees. look closer, he says and she wants to.
just as he allows her to see it, this whisper of one of but many names, it is voiced and he is known — ) Dream, ( it feels endless, ad infinitum, across her tongue, in her mind. it is beautiful, this world that she glimpses, stained glass under stardust night and in it she sees the promise of many things, forever out of reach. it makes her chaos rear its head, hungry and twisting under the lure of dark texts and grief, of prophecy and powers that have come into their own.
she looks away, has to take a breath and close her eyes, heart suddenly hammering hummingbird quick under the revealing nature of his silence. when he finally turns to her, the weight of it is felt across her skin.
brows furrow, and she tilts her head. tension flows into defensiveness, and her magic rolls beneath the surface, a burning in her chest thats tamped down, for now. she is not unreasonable.
but he speaks of nightmares, this endless being that nests just beyond her comprehension. she does not wither, even if something inherent in her knows that this is less her realm than it is his, even if her will has shaped it into a fallacy of preservation. he does not seem angry, even if her own threatens to spill. ) Your nightmare. ( she repeats, curious. ) Which one? ( you'll have to forgive her if she sounds particularly sardonic, a dry-humored twist to her mouth.
just the other night, she'd dreamt, of universes and possibilities just out of reach, of losses that left hairline fractures (under this perfect orchard, if he looks close enough, he would surely see them, something not quite whole, fissures in fine crimson) and well...if she had left the nightmare drained, diamine red through its sinews, that was hardly a fault of hers. ) Your nightmare was in my mind. Whatever happened was just in reaction. ( a beat. she thinks of westview, reality re-written in all its physical shape. of all the magics beyond. of all she's seen, and done. of this ancient thing sitting within the cabin. she shrugs, though the dismissiveness is a brittle mask, ) A lot is possible.
{ he knows he is striking, a being older than most, if not one of the oldest. his skin is pale, not so that he’d be seen as sickly. it’s more luminous, meant to bring out the dark contrast of his clothing. it is easier to become a shadow when needed, and with some dreams, he requires it. his likeness has changed many a time. he can’t pinpoint why or when he chose the one he currently has. it has its necessary effect.
his eyes stay on wanda, unwavering, in a manner that could be unsettling. it isn’t. even when she looks away. her hair catches his attention. it is her contrast. it tells a story, one that could be seen in the book back in his library. he had taken a peek before. had seen the binding of the book after visiting lucienne in his attempt to apologize. he couldn’t forget the outer binding; a white foil cover, red interlaced all along the spine in what was a crown unfolding and wrapped across the whole book. the pages were tinted in red on the edges. it laid next to a thinner book, one of opposite inward colors, in blue rather than red, with silver rather than white. lucienne had attempted to move it, but it wouldn’t budge.
grief, etched onto the pages. perhaps he shouldn’t have read it, but he knows all that lands in the dreaming. including where he went wrong.
an invisible force pushes against dream, cut from the cloth of her woven words, said like a spell unfolding. she is mortal. human. correction: she is more, an unknown even to her, a mutation manifestation. the brisk power lingers around them, and brings apprehension to an endless. }
My nightmare. Yes. { there’s a dry pause. she jokes, surely. morpheus finds he’s compelled by her bravery. he’s not that scary, or so he likes to think. he decides to hold the apple up again, to seek what he can upon its surface. the stem is brown, the shape of it sketched to near perfection. too perfect. }
You create. I am the Lord of Dreams. Your mind is in my realm right now. I presume you have not been sleeping well? { a subtle shift to his face, eyebrows lightly lifting. not a taunt. she asks more of him in answers, but he reveals few. can he afford it? there’s more to it, the way his nightmare came to him in anguish, depleting, begging him to unmake her. she croaked at his feet, partly cracked. a broken statue. the witch, she whispered, beware the scarlet.
wanda’s hair is scarlet. the color escaped him earlier. now it is blatant. the corners of his mouth want to react, but the direction in which they will turn has yet to be decided. he’s intrigued enough to find out. }
Malignant came to you. Her purpose clear. I created her strong. What are you protecting, Wanda?
( he holds the apple up, still, like one would hold a book, searching for the blemishes, the necessary revisions. perhaps it is a good thing she doesn't know of the book that sits heavy on the library's shelves, paged through. she has one book and it is plenty.
this fruit he looks at now, with shimmering eyes like stars, is a perfect echo of the real thing, apple skin green to blushed red and he gets to hold it for a few moments more before he presumes you have not been sleeping well and it dissolves in a sharp coil of red mist, slipping through his fingers. a petty answer without words. ) My mind is my own. ( she pretends to ignore that the statement wavers. the mind stone's resilience had never been in question. but she had never stood before an endless.
his realm he says, and a part of her wants to rise to the challenge, wants to push against the threshold of just how much she can create, hex upon hex. even the playing field, as it were. uncertainty holds her back in turn, for just a moment longer.
he is a striking shadow carved through the picturesque greens and near-white blooms and twisting branches. a part of her knows, viscerally, that he is far more than thanos, far more than agatha could have ever wanted to be, older and more powerful than anything she's ever crossed paths with. has he really come here to sate some curiosity?
but she is fractured; wounds not quite healed and made to sting at any little provocation. dream seems to be trying to make a decision about her and wanda has to wonder if he sees a monster, same as the rest. wouldn't that be the defining moment? the lord of all of your dreams, calling you your worst fear. she isn't afraid of him, but she's afraid of that. )
Malignant — so that's who came to me. If she had a clear purpose, then I only answered in kind. ( wanda's mouth sets in a thin line, suddenly annoyed. in her mind's eye lies a thing, statuesque like grey stone, nearly broken. she shakes her head, a tumble of scarlet over her shoulder, bright as the warning given to him. she looks to dream now and thinks there are a thousand lives lived beneath the facade that he wears and when she throws her mind out around them, searching, she feels only him. a reminder that it is his realm, indeed. ) I have nothing left to protect. Not in this universe. ( but the dark hold comes to mind, treacherously. a missing puzzle piece shoved away into the cabin before them. the only possible key to a false sense of happiness promised within its vitriol whispers. is that what he is looking for? she tries, one last time, to be diplomatic. ) What is it that you want?
I do not want anything of you. { the rest is implied. i am not here to hurt you. he has no reason, per his duties. they tell him she's not a threat right now. morpheus did not come to wanda seeking anything but answers to a disruption out of his making. most often, he just does, instead of pondering on it for a long time. his sister would say he can be rather impulsive when he has a goal in mind. he thinks she isn't enough, but different domains require different might. the lord of dreams is precautious to no end.
he has a tendency to get into his own self-made mindset, fortified and made of hollow bones to keep the thoughts confined. he will not kick down someone who is wounded, yet even in the state wanda presents, she still has more power than most he's encountered. it is the mystery of it that keeps him there when he can just bow out. the cabin in the distance glows, and he could intervene, but he won't. she does not know that yet. the ancient thing within those walls, it whispers to him; it recognizes his surreal existence. he's beginning to understand slowly. }
I admit, I could be more creative with the names. My creations are not intended to harm. They only reveal the truth, and within it is a choice. Your choice is yours to make, but with it are consequences. You possess something that is not yours. I've met many who hunger power. Fools. This is not that. { a presumptuous statement, one that did not take much to craft after only being within wanda's might. he is not touching the reigns. until he does. he takes the apple, then bites into it. the crunch of it echoes briefly, cut and crisp of a sound. he's had his dealings with those that took what is not theirs, of those who seek to possess him in ways he won't ever allow. his tools are with him now. he might be acting from inward judgement, but if there's something that morpheus does not like, it's lacking knowledge.
the apple tastes of tart sweetness, and within it is a hint of unfiltered loss. something shifts in him. a familiarity of when he first got captured. wanda does not know of his experiences, but somehow the imbalance of knowing her past dreams only settle the ambience created. she's lost more than the average mortal. he can almost understand the reactive nature of what he found out happened in westview. morpheus had no stake to intervene then, and wouldn't have.
he's only been back for some time before the effects of the blip became apparent. the newfound dreams that manifested have kept him rather busy. they can wait. the apple's core burns hot in his hand. he drops it as the creation becomes dust. his posture remains far too still, as if his means of testing are meant to evoke an answer. there he goes again, with the ruffled impulsivity his sister has warned him about in the subtle way morpheus masks within inquisitiveness. it is only partly. }
Protect might be the wrong word. I will ask this instead. What do you seek?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
» strings of my imagination, now gracefully strung by your hand;
once in a while he'll let his shadow become the fly on the wall, allow some understanding by his own hand rather than those he's created. few capture his true curiosity beyond his duties as an endless. he's returned to a world more vivid and jaded than he last witnessed before his capture.
the dream he enters is silent, eerily so. he has yet to see the dreamer in question, but he does know it is a disturbed sleeper. punctured, he notes, like water slowly easing onto a boat and meant to eventually sink into itself. he can sense the edges of a sleep that could take the dreamer with them at anytime. morpheus is merely a guest, unless he must intervene. it is the macabre silence that makes him pause.
the sky begins to color in a maroon, and he can smell the copper from ashore. it is then gone, replaced with a canvas alight with less grey and more color. the silence morphs into static noise as the dream slowly transforms. he finds the path has opened up into a field, an array of fruitful trees leading into a faint horizon. the crisp apple scent is pungent in the air, filled with the lining of distilled hope. he's reminded of autumn. he decides to follow the path opening up to him, to see what it'll reveal. the closer he gets, the more he can see there's a well-preserved cabin. even from afar, he can see the vines decorating the door are curling around what are buds of flowers getting ready to bloom. spring this time. they droop and await to be encouraged.
morpheus halts his steps, and contemplates as he attempts to find a grasp on the dream itself. he finds it is not beholden to him. it's impressively fortified, but within it, he can also sense the cracks that are intricately patched. there is no particular reason why he should continue. morpheus can pass along, never allowing someone to see him. he has done so many times. yet, he remains. he's trying to create anew. his last nightmare returned to him depleted. it came from—
wanda maximoff. someone who knows no actual peace. a powerful, disruptive woman. simply, her. }
Interesting.
lmk if any timeline details need some changing!! 🖤
what could have been, and whatever her mind creates is easily slipped through the hairline fractures of her psyche; easily shaped into being as she gives chase to hope. and it can drag her under just as easily.
some people would argue that sleep is an escape from the waking world. wanda is not sure she would ever be able to say the same.
this dreamscape is a close reflection of what the landscape around her cabin has become, if a bit brighter and quieter both — cinnabar red skies masked under layers upon layers, like oil paints, each just as real and just as malleable as the one beneath it. there’s an orchard that stretches far, buds not yet in full bloom. she walks through it now, hands tucked into pockets as she nears the cabin.
she isn’t sure she’s dreaming — it feels too real and it doesn’t, all at once. but her mind catches on something, a scratch of awareness that isn’t her own amidst this place. it makes her still her steps, attention caught by his word just as much him, as a whole — singular as it is, voice settling all around her. he carves a tall figure cloaked in a coat like the darkest night, such stark contrast to the springtime blossoms, and the intensity of his mind nearly overwhelms her, surface barely breached and it makes her think of depthless waters and endless galaxies and she pulls away with nearly a wince.
her eyes never leave him. ) Who are you? ( sharpness curls around the words and even as she asks, some inherent part of her knows, the same way all endless are known and unknown, in the end. she recognizes her nightmares within him, she thinks. echoes of something there.
it befuddles her more and she isn’t sure what she should think. Instead she supplies an uncertain, if guarded: ) What is interesting?
this is v lovely tbh ♡
it gives him the same ambience. then he has to wonder what are you trying to preserve? questions of which he has no right to. he reaches out towards one of the trees, his hand grasping an apple and essentially plucking it from its nestled spot. he holds it in his hand as he beholds the one controlling the dream. }
Who am I? { he repeats, inspecting the apple in hand, and finding it immaculately put together. he’s nearly impressed. morpheus can sense the wariness, but then again, most tend to be when they spot him. his quiet alone is an unshakable force, one that burns at the core.
the nightmares within attempt to surface, entangled and matted, seeking to be smoothed out. he nets them. they point to her. }
It is not important who I am. { —a purposeful pause, made to help him think before continuing— } Look closer. You know the answer.
{ it is rare for him to expose such a facet right away, to briefly show her what is behind the cloak he wears, into the ripples of a milky way. a door, many in a row, stars blazing while losing force and then going cold. he’s the stardust left behind after a supernova. one of his names is given without having to speak. the one most might know if they stopped to listen to the quiet. he does not turn to look at wanda quite yet. he lets his whisper be his sight.
dream of the endless.
morpheus will not walk into the cabin before them, understanding the barrier is there and he has enough to know he’s not dealing with simplicity. what dwells behind is a warning itself. he only stares at it from a reasonable distance. it could always be closer, and they wouldn’t have to move. there’s something else holding it together. it’s obscenely ancient. he hasn’t encountered it in a long time.
it is then that he finally does turn to take in wanda’s presence, one as encompassing as his. to what degree, he has yet to comprehend. }
You. You made my perfect nightmare blemish. It shouldn’t be possible.
♡ !!
it drips paint-like around the edges, a brief haze of static before it rights itself again.
the apple is plucked by long fingers pale as moonglow, beheld like something that shows him answers to questions unasked and she wonders how much he sees. look closer, he says and she wants to.
just as he allows her to see it, this whisper of one of but many names, it is voiced and he is known — ) Dream, ( it feels endless, ad infinitum, across her tongue, in her mind. it is beautiful, this world that she glimpses, stained glass under stardust night and in it she sees the promise of many things, forever out of reach. it makes her chaos rear its head, hungry and twisting under the lure of dark texts and grief, of prophecy and powers that have come into their own.
she looks away, has to take a breath and close her eyes, heart suddenly hammering hummingbird quick under the revealing nature of his silence. when he finally turns to her, the weight of it is felt across her skin.
brows furrow, and she tilts her head. tension flows into defensiveness, and her magic rolls beneath the surface, a burning in her chest thats tamped down, for now. she is not unreasonable.
but he speaks of nightmares, this endless being that nests just beyond her comprehension. she does not wither, even if something inherent in her knows that this is less her realm than it is his, even if her will has shaped it into a fallacy of preservation. he does not seem angry, even if her own threatens to spill. ) Your nightmare. ( she repeats, curious. ) Which one? ( you'll have to forgive her if she sounds particularly sardonic, a dry-humored twist to her mouth.
just the other night, she'd dreamt, of universes and possibilities just out of reach, of losses that left hairline fractures (under this perfect orchard, if he looks close enough, he would surely see them, something not quite whole, fissures in fine crimson) and well...if she had left the nightmare drained, diamine red through its sinews, that was hardly a fault of hers. ) Your nightmare was in my mind. Whatever happened was just in reaction. ( a beat. she thinks of westview, reality re-written in all its physical shape. of all the magics beyond. of all she's seen, and done. of this ancient thing sitting within the cabin. she shrugs, though the dismissiveness is a brittle mask, ) A lot is possible.
no subject
his eyes stay on wanda, unwavering, in a manner that could be unsettling. it isn’t. even when she looks away. her hair catches his attention. it is her contrast. it tells a story, one that could be seen in the book back in his library. he had taken a peek before. had seen the binding of the book after visiting lucienne in his attempt to apologize. he couldn’t forget the outer binding; a white foil cover, red interlaced all along the spine in what was a crown unfolding and wrapped across the whole book. the pages were tinted in red on the edges. it laid next to a thinner book, one of opposite inward colors, in blue rather than red, with silver rather than white. lucienne had attempted to move it, but it wouldn’t budge.
grief, etched onto the pages. perhaps he shouldn’t have read it, but he knows all that lands in the dreaming. including where he went wrong.
an invisible force pushes against dream, cut from the cloth of her woven words, said like a spell unfolding. she is mortal. human. correction: she is more, an unknown even to her, a mutation manifestation. the brisk power lingers around them, and brings apprehension to an endless. }
My nightmare. Yes. { there’s a dry pause. she jokes, surely. morpheus finds he’s compelled by her bravery. he’s not that scary, or so he likes to think. he decides to hold the apple up again, to seek what he can upon its surface. the stem is brown, the shape of it sketched to near perfection. too perfect. }
You create. I am the Lord of Dreams. Your mind is in my realm right now. I presume you have not been sleeping well? { a subtle shift to his face, eyebrows lightly lifting. not a taunt. she asks more of him in answers, but he reveals few. can he afford it? there’s more to it, the way his nightmare came to him in anguish, depleting, begging him to unmake her. she croaked at his feet, partly cracked. a broken statue. the witch, she whispered, beware the scarlet.
wanda’s hair is scarlet. the color escaped him earlier. now it is blatant. the corners of his mouth want to react, but the direction in which they will turn has yet to be decided. he’s intrigued enough to find out. }
Malignant came to you. Her purpose clear. I created her strong. What are you protecting, Wanda?
no subject
this fruit he looks at now, with shimmering eyes like stars, is a perfect echo of the real thing, apple skin green to blushed red and he gets to hold it for a few moments more before he presumes you have not been sleeping well and it dissolves in a sharp coil of red mist, slipping through his fingers. a petty answer without words. ) My mind is my own. ( she pretends to ignore that the statement wavers. the mind stone's resilience had never been in question. but she had never stood before an endless.
his realm he says, and a part of her wants to rise to the challenge, wants to push against the threshold of just how much she can create, hex upon hex. even the playing field, as it were. uncertainty holds her back in turn, for just a moment longer.
he is a striking shadow carved through the picturesque greens and near-white blooms and twisting branches. a part of her knows, viscerally, that he is far more than thanos, far more than agatha could have ever wanted to be, older and more powerful than anything she's ever crossed paths with. has he really come here to sate some curiosity?
but she is fractured; wounds not quite healed and made to sting at any little provocation. dream seems to be trying to make a decision about her and wanda has to wonder if he sees a monster, same as the rest. wouldn't that be the defining moment? the lord of all of your dreams, calling you your worst fear. she isn't afraid of him, but she's afraid of that. )
Malignant — so that's who came to me. If she had a clear purpose, then I only answered in kind. ( wanda's mouth sets in a thin line, suddenly annoyed. in her mind's eye lies a thing, statuesque like grey stone, nearly broken. she shakes her head, a tumble of scarlet over her shoulder, bright as the warning given to him. she looks to dream now and thinks there are a thousand lives lived beneath the facade that he wears and when she throws her mind out around them, searching, she feels only him. a reminder that it is his realm, indeed. ) I have nothing left to protect. Not in this universe. ( but the dark hold comes to mind, treacherously. a missing puzzle piece shoved away into the cabin before them. the only possible key to a false sense of happiness promised within its vitriol whispers. is that what he is looking for? she tries, one last time, to be diplomatic. ) What is it that you want?
no subject
he has a tendency to get into his own self-made mindset, fortified and made of hollow bones to keep the thoughts confined. he will not kick down someone who is wounded, yet even in the state wanda presents, she still has more power than most he's encountered. it is the mystery of it that keeps him there when he can just bow out. the cabin in the distance glows, and he could intervene, but he won't. she does not know that yet. the ancient thing within those walls, it whispers to him; it recognizes his surreal existence. he's beginning to understand slowly. }
I admit, I could be more creative with the names. My creations are not intended to harm. They only reveal the truth, and within it is a choice. Your choice is yours to make, but with it are consequences. You possess something that is not yours. I've met many who hunger power. Fools. This is not that. { a presumptuous statement, one that did not take much to craft after only being within wanda's might. he is not touching the reigns. until he does. he takes the apple, then bites into it. the crunch of it echoes briefly, cut and crisp of a sound. he's had his dealings with those that took what is not theirs, of those who seek to possess him in ways he won't ever allow. his tools are with him now. he might be acting from inward judgement, but if there's something that morpheus does not like, it's lacking knowledge.
the apple tastes of tart sweetness, and within it is a hint of unfiltered loss. something shifts in him. a familiarity of when he first got captured. wanda does not know of his experiences, but somehow the imbalance of knowing her past dreams only settle the ambience created. she's lost more than the average mortal. he can almost understand the reactive nature of what he found out happened in westview. morpheus had no stake to intervene then, and wouldn't have.
he's only been back for some time before the effects of the blip became apparent. the newfound dreams that manifested have kept him rather busy. they can wait. the apple's core burns hot in his hand. he drops it as the creation becomes dust. his posture remains far too still, as if his means of testing are meant to evoke an answer. there he goes again, with the ruffled impulsivity his sister has warned him about in the subtle way morpheus masks within inquisitiveness. it is only partly. }
Protect might be the wrong word. I will ask this instead. What do you seek?