oliver cheshire is the man of your dreams (poppyseeds) wrote in monte_logs, @ 2012-06-20 23:39:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | morpheus, pasithea, ~complete |
log ; morpheus and pasithea
Characters: Oliver Cheshire (poppyseeds) & Audrey Williamson (dorveille)
Date/Time: Sometime back in May.
Location: In Audrey's dreams. Oooooh
Rating: PG. IDK?
Warnings: None.
Summary: While wandering around in some dreams, Morpheus runs into his mother playing with some stars. His real mother.
Audrey Williamson tended to see the world differently than most people. Which was all well and fine, really. She found there to be very little about the fact that necessitated displeasure or prompted any need within her to complain. Her world was a bright place, fantastic and often (she felt) quite reasonably impossible. And there was a specific sort of joy to be had in impossibility, in her opinion. She very well may have dreamed the same as everyone else, though. It was terribly difficult for her to be certain, however, due to an unfortunate lack of empirical evidence in her personal possession. A dearth of suitable sources to use for comparison, if you would. A bit inconvenient on the whole, perhaps, but not insurmountable. There were f a r worse things than not knowing, after all. (Like knowing, upon occasion. Knowledge could be a very heavy thing.) So, for all that they may have been the same as anyone else's, she remained rather entirely fond of them. It was the one with stars tonight, but there were no wide expanses of sky this time. Just the quiet darkness of her grandparents' living room - the piano playing itself a muted melody to the tune of blue and bookshelves filled to the point of overflow with precariously-leaning piles of paper (words chicken-scratched and crossed out, toppling their way into the margins) alighting on flat surfaces and tucked poorly into the drawers of end-tables - and a bucketful of stars resting in front of her, glitter of them already staining her fingertips. __ Morpheus, or Oliver Cheshire in this life, liked to think he saw the world differently as well. Not to the extent of his mother as her territory was completely different than his own, but different none the less. Being able to seamlessly enter and exit the dreams of people certainly did change one's outlook on the human race. People really did hide their darkest secrets and desires away from the waking world, but they always managed to work their way out during dreams. Knowing these things really allowed him to look at people differently and even make a game of guessing their secrets. He had to amuse himself somehow. On this particular night, Morpheus found himself wandering aimlessly from dream to dream with nothing really catching his fancy. People were boring tonight. As time passed differently in dreams, he had no idea what time it was in the waking world when he passed into the next dream with piano music reminiscent of movie musicals during Hollywood’s golden years. There was something different about this one, something that made him wonder if perhaps his one brother could have been responsible for it, though it wasn’t quite his style. As he turned the corner of the hallway, he came into a living room with a blonde woman and a bucket. He didn’t say anything, though his gigantic wings rustling gave away his presence. __ Pasithea had never really been the sort for secrets, a view that Audrey felt rather entirely justified in sharing. Mystery was largely tiring and lies grew quite rapidly complicated and tangled and hopelessly knotted - and, honestly, she didn't really have very many secret things in her possession to obfuscate in the first place. (Or the second place, if one wished to get very technical on the subject. The third place, perhaps, could garner some consideration.) Not nearly enough to warrant tangles and knots and complications. She kept some, of course. Sparingly. Because it was still important to know how. But even if she kept them sometimes - buried them in quiet, hidden places and only took them out from their dustily unspoken corners when discretion allowed - there was very little reason to lock them up on the inside of her as well. So, like any other dreaming individual, her sparingly sometimes secrets sat with her when she slept. Spilled out in red ink on the myriad of pages and unselfconsciously bold, there were idly scribbled wonderings and curious questions left out and plainly visible. The girl, sitting cross-legged on the flooring, made no move to shuffle the sheets away and didn't startle at the faint, unexpected sound of ruffled feathers. She merely blinked and tilted her head, fingers brushing at the bridge of her nose and leaving behind a streak of shine, before letting her lips twitch upward into a (bright, welcoming) smile, "Hello." __ Secrets were important to Morpheus. Back in the old days, he kept secrets for the gods and delivered them to mortal men so they could think ideas were their own. Even now he had many secrets. For one, he kept his true identity under lock and key, only letting very few select people know he was the former leader of the Oneiroi. And he had so many more beyond that. Complicated, yes, but to him it was needed. Something about the girl seemed familiar and not just in the sense that perhaps he had seen her around campus. Perhaps it was the colors, perhaps the bucket of stars. Morpheus couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though the corners of his lips twinged in an attempt to smile. “Hello.” __ There was something to be said for the fact that children were quite often made for greater things than their parents - more competent, more capable, more useful things. It was - It was lovely. A comfort. A source of pride and accomplishment. (Second-hand, yes. But all the more beautiful for that, she had been told.) She could, with proper motivation, weave herself some stars - could pull them down and tangle them together. Ah, but weaving secrets into ideas? That really was a fine sort of thing, wasn't it? The voice was a borrowed thing, but it tasted soft and grey in the air - like the shadows people blinked from their eyelashes when they woke up - and her nose crinkled, blinking once more and breathing out on a questioning sound. "I don't think that I thought you up," she murmured, gaze narrowing slightly, smile gone crooked and curious. "I'm not nearly that clever." __ Perhaps that was true of human children, but Morpheus didn’t think so for figures such as themselves. Their parents had great gifts just as their children had great gifts. Or at least in the case of most of them. To this day, he couldn’t really see the point in some gifts. Priapus he was looking at you. Tilting his head to one side, his lips curled into a smirk. This familiar woman was possibly the first person since he had arrived at the school that knew right away that he wasn’t just a figment of their imagination. Morpheus, who was usually a secretive person, actually welcomed this turn of events. “And what makes you say that?” His wings ruffled once more as he asked the question before stretching out for a moment. Sometimes it seemed as if they had a mind of their own. __ Perhaps. Though she reserved the right to disagree. Her children were much finer things than she had been - each and every one of them. It wasn't a matter of gifts. Not really. Perhaps, for her, it was more a matter of desire. Of intentionality. Her children were wanted. So very wanted. And each of their victories - no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant - set alight some buzzing contentment within her. The stars glittered, largely ignored, on the floor before her as she watched him - steady gaze briefly sliding into the vague disparity of hazels, indecisive flecks of everything all at once, before she blinked them back to blue with a laugh she hastily shaded behind her fingers. "It's the wings, I think," she replied solemnly. "Not that you have them. People are welcome to have wings if they should like, of course. They are just - They're heavy. Like real things are." Then, inquisitively, "They are real, yes?" __ Wanted. Morpheus was a man of many secrets and that simple word was one of them. No matter the incarnation, a multitude of siblings seemed to follow him as some form of a trademark. He was quite used to being one of many, though being wanted was a completely different story. In his home back in West Virginia, between the dinners that were eaten in shifts and the never ending supply of hand-me-downs, he had never once felt that word from his mortal parents. Such a simple word, yet so elusive to him in this life up until now. “They are real.” Dropping his shoulders, he took a moment to allow his wings to move out and stretch to help reveal some of their size. And though he knew it was only a dream room, he was careful as they stretched, only allowing them to move so that they wouldn’t hit any of the dream valuables along their way. “Or at least in here they are. Things have changed in the waking world.” __ It was one of her favorite words, really. Wanted. To be wanted. It ranked high up there with the ever-hungry |why?| with whispering with - Oh, with several other words beginning with the letter W. (Wings, for instance. Another very fine thing. And applicable, even! Which was always nice.) "That's why things are nicer here." Her fingers set themselves to motion again, dipping back into the bucket for a bright handful of shine, light of them casting her face into strange shadows. "The world works just the way you want it to." The walls bent to better accommodate him. It was never a disadvantage to be polite, least of all to company. Unexpected or otherwise. "You could sit," she suggested and the room shifted itself further to serve the invitation. A subtle fading or furniture that, by all rights, would have been strange without the crookedly illogical logic of dreams. "One does get weary after so much time spent wandering." __ And walrus. That was a fun word, though not as good as wanted or wings. “That’s why I like them,” he whispered as he watched her, no, stared at her and her stars. With every movement of her fingers, Morpheus was transfixed. Dreams of others hardly interested him like this, but she was different. “That’s why I prefer them.” The appearance of furniture did nothing for him and within a few moments, he had lowered himself to the floor so that he was directly across from her. “It could be worse. I could be physically wondering rather than just mentally, I suppose.” __ Wishing too. Or walnuts. (Unless one was allergic, of course. Those things were important to pay proper attention to.) Now that her hands were moving again, it seemed as though they saw no clear reason to stop. An object in motion, some scientific saying went. And so it was physics. Mechanics. Newton, she thought, and her hands carefully pulled each star together, meticulously twisted and strung and tugged them into a neat row. Like some slowly-forming, shimmering chain of daisies. "Do you think that you've found what you were looking for?" she inquired, smile widening as she glanced upward to find him sitting across the way. "Or are you just resting?" __ Or wheeple. To whistle feebly. Physics. Mechanics. None of that really interested him. Those were all concepts that put limitations on the Real Word and frankly, Morpheus found it boring. In the world of dreams, Newton was nothing more than a name and all his little laws meant nothing. Laws of physics were constantly being bent in dreams, which was something that made him feel very much at home. “I think I inadvertently found what I was looking for.” He knew his mother was here, but hadn’t exactly sought her out this way yet. “I suppose I can stay for a bit.” __ Oh! Or worsification. The composition of bad poetry. Though, honestly, where one drew the line for such classifications was a bit wobbly. (And another, right there.) Bent and broken were all very well and true when a person had their eyes closed - Oh, but rules were still important. Fantastic, impossible things would hardly be impossibly fantastic if there were no rules to break in the first place. The rules had existed long before scientific men had written them in books and the gods were fantastic (brilliant, extraordinary, unnatural) because they could cast them aside with such ease. It was in how the established rules were bent that rules were made important. "You are more than welcome to, of course." Pasithea gave one final twist to her now looping halo of lights, surveying it with a critical eye before her chin dipped in an approving nod and she leaned forward, reaching up to place the crown upon his head. "And what were you looking for?" __ Worsification wins the battle of words starting with W. And rules were definitely made to be broken. Leaning forward slightly, he allowed her to put the crown on his head and rolled his eyes up in an attempt to see it. All he could make out were blurry tiny halos of light that resembled something out of a van Gogh painting. It made him smile. “You.” Among other things. __ Had it been a battle? My! (Though, one might consider : Warfare. For the road, as it were.) "Oh," the sound made its way out of her mouth on a pleased exhale, a half bitten-back breath of delighted laughter. (They suited him fine well, the stars. Caught up in the dark tangle of his hair, they struck her like history might - all dusted over, far-off and flickering.) "Then I am yours. For as long as you would like to stay." |