| Control (Tag: Hypnos, Morpheus, Phobetor) [638 A.D.] |
[27 Apr 2008|09:54pm] |
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. )
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