Control (Tag: Hypnos, Morpheus, Phobetor) [638 A.D.]
Eight hundred years. ...No, that wasn't true. A half-truth, but a half at most. Moros had thought of her much during the eight hundred years since he'd dreamt of her last, but those thoughts were always during the day, resigned to his conscious mind. Every day. Far from every moment, but slipping between the cracks of one thought and the next, refusing to be ignored for long. It was in his mind, a place for no one else to ever see. The thoughts would be for Styx, the emotions, the feelings, the heartache, the moment she felt ready to rejoin the world from her age-old slumber, but between then and now they were private thoughts to be kept by Doom, and Doom alone.
He hadn't dreamt of her in eight hundred years, yet moments ago he'd awoken in a cold sweat, unable to think of anything else. A dream turned into a nightmare, turned into a dream, and turned into a nightmare again. A vicious back and forth that had the normally strong, immovable Doom quivering in his bed, trying to make sense of it all. Styx had woken up and returned his love for her in full, and from there their mad passion had lasted for so short a time before she found love in the arms of another. In the arms of Hades.
The nightmare had been short but powerful, as nightmares often were. Yet it had not stopped there. At the height of his heartache, left alone with his sorrow she had then returned to him, realizing the folly of her choice. She returned to him then, to his arms, and for a time the world was right again, the nightmare fading back to a soft, pleasant dream. And only minutes later the feeling was again gone, again replaced with a tight knot of fear and pain in his unconscious body when she cast him aside for the arms of Zeus.
The last thing he remembered was Styx laughing in his face while he clutched at her arms, sadness in his eyes, asking her why. Why. She grew, grew to the point where she was towering over him, to the point where she was a hundred feet taller; or he had shrunk. He remembered being little, being insignificant, grasping at her and looking up as the laugh echoed in his mind.
When Moros woke it was with a sheen of cold, sticky sweat covering his entire body as he sat up suddenly on the bed in his temple. His eyes flashed open and his head whipped around, long ebony hair sticking to his neck and chest, his heart racing against his skin. Disorientation set in for several seconds, followed by a slow, gradual realization. It was the feeling of his own bed that calmed him initially, and at his desire for the sconces along the walls to light a brief puff of flames ignited the torches. A flickering light filled the room, calming his mind, bringing it back to reality. ...Reality. The reality that she did not love him, not as he did her. The reality that she was still asleep, and would remain so for as many more centuries as she wished.
A flurry of thoughts filled his mind as he sat there in the flickering torchlight, trying to make sense of it all while hopefully calming himself. It was a dream. Just a dream. ...No, it was a nightmare, yet at times it felt like both. It had felt like a tug-of-war between the two, a constant back and forth; either that or an especially twisted nightmare, one that had allowed parts to feel dreamlike simply to break him down further with each hard, unexpected blow. Like his mind was some sort of plaything for the amusement of another.
Eight hundred years... The attempt to calm himself with rational thought was quickly having a reverse effect in the god's stressed, agitated mind. The sneer curling at his tired lips quickly reflected this, as did crooked fingers gripping the sheets and blanket of the bed. He thought of Styx every day of every week, every year of every decade, but this... not like this. Not in his dreams. He'd made an effort not to specifically, not just her but not anyone. Not anything. He'd been aware of Hypnos now for a long time. Far too long. Sleep came in short, constant spurts, too short to dream, and only after trying to partition off as many parts of his mind as possible. It was a place others had no right to be, to know of his thoughts, of Styx or of anything else.
But especially of Styx.
Or anything else. It didn't matter what else. It didn't matter if it was a well kept secret or not; it wasn't theirs to have. Hypnos, or any of the gods who held domain in the world of dreams.
He didn't know of the God of Sleep's temple well, but he knew of it. Well enough to find it in less than a minute. Well enough to not bother dressing before he appeared at its steps, standing at its base with only one thing on his mind. What that was Moros wasn't sure, not exactly. Revenge? No. Ill intent, perhaps not even that. Merely a desire to be left alone, a desire that his mind was his and his alone. To delve into it as they did, to toy with him like the Oneiroi did was no accident. He was not theirs to play with, not when the result left him fearful and weak. No, not when the result was anything at all; there was no excuse for it, ever.
Drastic measures would not be preferred here, but in his anger it was a solution that would not be ruled out.
Moros hefted up a large boulder that appeared in his palms as he stood at the base of Hypnos' temple in the Underworld, long ebony hair clinging wildly to his bare, sweat-slicked body. Chest rising and falling with a barely bridled fury. The boulder was quickly hurled up the length of the stairs, crashing through one of the columns at the front of the temple. Whatever happened from here Doom's eyes made one thing clear - that he would not regret any means to this necessary end.