Chapter 1: The Descent of the Nameless,Dream..
He was Dream. Not a mere regent, nor a whimsical wish-granter, but the very embodiment of the concept. He wove the tapestry of mortal and divine aspirations, a being of incandescent glory who had, across countless epochs, witnessed the immutable futility of man. The strong, the weak, the indolent – all alike dreamed, all yearned for that unattainable horizon. He called it delusion; they, hope.
His gaze, ancient and profound, swept beyond the confines of his celestial Keep. Clad in an armor of seamless night, adorned with the captured light of distant galaxies, he was a monumental figure. A dark Crow..A living essence of dreams, rested upon his broad shoulders. His skin, pale as fresh snow, was a stark contrast to eyes of an infinite, star-drinking black. His hair, a cascade of obsidian, flowed like a dark river, framing the entirety of his colossal throne.
Beyond this ethereal cathedral lay a realm of perpetual twilight, a canvas of ever-shifting auroras and eternal night, sprinkled with stars of every hue. Time held no dominion here, no wind disturbed the barren serenity, no life stirred. Only a single, colossal tree pierced the heavens, its branches heavy with orbs that pulsed with contained galaxies. Within these spheres resided the collective dreams and wishes of gods and mortals, angels and infinites – all sentient beings capable of thought. This was the Vortex of Everything, all-expanding, all-encompassing.
He shifted his gaze to an orb materialized in his hand. Within its shadowy depths, a knight stood before a rapt audience in a sun-drenched park, a vibrant banquet of cheering faces. The knight knelt, a priest in priestly white bestowing upon him a sword, its blade silver, its hilt gold. "I hereby dub thee, Knight Lord over the Province of Valen." The crowd erupted in cheers as the dark-haired knight reached for his accolade. Then, the orb dimmed to pure darkness.
Another dream. Another fleeting, futile hope from a child nestled safely in sleep. How insignificant.
It wasn't their fault. It was the fault of the One Above, their Creator, who had fashioned them in His image, destined to yearn and to wish. And for that purpose, he, Dream, had been born. He existed before them all, before even the Creator had wished for creation. Yet, here he was, a silent arbiter of his creations' incessant desires. A bitter jest.
But not all was futile. The orb in his hand glimmered again. Within it, the image of another sleeping child surfaced, long dark hair tousled against his pillow. Mephis Meredith. Why don't you dream? No wishes, no nightmares. This mortal had captured his attention, far more than the predictable naiveté of the mortal realm. The boy who never dreamed. The first being to truly pique his curiosity. A living paradox.
A shriek from the crow on his shoulder echoed through the silent cathedral, a sound that reverberated across the emptiness. The sky above fractured, a bright fissure of crimson erupting, bathing the realm in a cataclysmic glow. He heaved, closing his eyes, the image of the boy fading within the orb, which now pulsed with an amber light. Resting his back against his dark throne, he opened his eyes. His one-time companion had arrived.
He opened his pitch-black, aurora-laden eyes to behold a familiar visage. A being of perfect, man-like form, hair a pristine white cascading down his shoulders, eyes a deep, unfathomable fusion of chaos, glowing with an incandescent amber. His wings, in stark contrast to his hair, were dark and magnificent, six in their splendor, adorned with six concurrent, dark halos. The Fallen Archangel of Time, Change, Imagination, and Chaos. Lucifer Dominos.
"It seems you have fused with the Devil, O Fallen Archangel," Dream's voice resonated, not from his lips, but from the very fabric of his realm, a testament to his will. Speaking, he found, was a waste of sentience. "What brings you to my realm, the Vortex?"
The Archangel shrugged, settling into the air as if it were a comfortable seat, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Drop the cold attitude, Dream Lord. I journeyed across the Rivers of Time and the Desert of the Non-Existent, all the way to you. And this is the welcome I receive? Utterly chilling."
"I possess no emotions to validate my claim, O Lucifer," Dream's eyes flashed dangerously, and the very fabric of his realm seemed to convulse, the eternal auroras flickering. "It is known to all existence above the mortal sphere that you drag chaos and ruination with you. And that I bid no welcome."
"Listening to gossip already?" the Fallen Archangel mused, a low chuckle escaping him. "I thought you preferred solitude, Dream Lord, in this…boring realm of yours. Does not the Lord of Wishes possess none? Does the Dream Lord not dream of far greater things beyond?"
A sigh whispered through the realm. "I possess no dreams of consequence, no wishes in my deposition. O Lucifer, the Dream cannot be a dreamer, nor can the Wish become the wisher. It is the law that balances all things."
"Do not speak to me of laws," the Fallen Archangel retorted, leaning forward. "After all, I made them all."
"Then why this debate?" his realm questioned, the auroras flickering with his impatience. "If you know it is futile, why persist?"
The fallen angel materialized before him, not by movement, but by ceasing to exist at his previous position and recreating his being anew, a glorious transition between existence and non-existence. "Mephis Meredith. A beautiful mortal, indeed. One who never dreams. His thoughts are hilarious. Why do you watch over him, O Dream Lord?" The Archangel's eyes locked onto Dream's, with a conviction that could have swallowed an entire reality.
"He's no more than a flaw," Dream's entire domain responded in a tremor, a low rumble shaking the cathedral. "My desire, no more than curiosity. Do not impose on me, Lucifer."
"O Dream Lord," the Archangel muttered, already resuming his seated position, his eyes locking onto Dream's again. "Your words are laced with contradiction. For curiosity itself, the quest to know, is no less than a wish of your own."
Dream fell silent. The Archangel's words struck a chord he had never perceived. The Dream... a dreamer? The thought was a paradox that unraveled his certainty. This creature's wisdom was... formidable.
"If you wish to know why he doesn't dream, you'll have to be him," the Archangel proposed, crossing his legs. "Become Meredith, Dream Lord, in all his persona and mannerisms."
"And if I do," Dream's voice, a beautiful whisper now, flowed across the serene auroras and the ethereal realm, "what becomes of the Vortex? And the Dreaming?"
"Do you falter against the consigns of fate?" the Fallen Archangel questioned, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Do not jest, O Archangel of the Beyond," Dream muttered, his voice dangerously subtle. "My omnipotence transcends fate. I fear not the Creator, but the Author. Not the consignment, but the consequence." He clenched the orb in his hand, which flared, displaying the all-encompassing Vortex of Dreams. "Should no one govern the dreaming, the dreams, the thoughts, the wishes, they shall all collapse. It will be the unraveling of all that there is."
"I see," the Archangel mused, stroking his chin, lost in thought. "Then what if you become the vortex? The Dreaming forever bound to your subconscious. In the mortal realm, you might exist as a mortal, but still, your imagination governs the dreaming. That way, the concept you govern would be retained. I shall aid in your descent, Dream Lord. I shall bend the laws."
Dream's eyes narrowed. Coming from the Lord of Deception, such an offer was too gracious, too tempting. Beneath those veiled words, something else lurked. He rested his head upon his gauntleted palm, his arm vested upon his throne, his gaze fixed on the unperturbed Archangel. "What do you wish in return, O Fallen Archangel? My alliance against thy Creator? Or against the one above?"
The Archangel snuffed an imagined smoke from his lips, replaced by a serious expression. His figure now stood gloriously before Dream. "No, Dream Lord," he murmured. "My eyes gaze upon what is to come, the Unmanifest. When the words become a blank sheet, at the zenith of its reckoning, you, O Dream Lord, would be all that matters." He added, venturing his gaze beyond the Vortex of Dreams to the very lower strata, where a cacophony of dimensions dwelled, unraveling worlds of multiple orders, bending space-time until his gaze landed upon the world of mortals he desired: Valen.
"I pray, O Archangel, I shall be of help when it unravels. The endpoint of epochs, as you have predicted." He closed his eyes, his pale, perfect face resting on his palm. For now, they would bask in the glow of the present, as discerned by the Author.
"Then it is a pact, O Dream Lord," the Fallen Archangel spoke, his hands plucking one of his halos. The entire realm shifted to a tremendous shade of crimson, the sky a vast, circular streak of red, burning with an intensity that dwarfed countless suns, convulsing and shrinking the realm. He was bending the laws.
He gestured to pet the crow on his shoulder. He didn't need to open his eyes; it was his domain. And he didn't want his eyes to gaze upon the awe of another creature within his realm. It was diminutive.
After what felt like an eternity, he felt a surge of tremendous divinity within him, a convergence being birthed, and the draining of his essence, a shift in existential spheres. The Angel of Deception was done.
"Open your eyes, Dream Lord," a cold, beautiful whisper of the Fallen Archangel ran through his consciousness, something not possible at his initial existential level. Which meant…
He opened his eyes. What stretched before his gaze was night, laden with stars, not his auroras. His body lay on something soft, not the feel of his throne. A room, different and diminutive compared to his glorious cathedral. It seemed it was a success.
Dream, the Nameless, was now a mortal.
Mephis Meredith.