Baby blue lightning, carrying the power to destroy thousands in one, struck blindingly close. Just barely colliding into Morpheus, it lands into colossal waves of furious fire breathing lava. Near enough to feel the strength put in behind the throw, it distracts him long enough and turns his smooth flying into an unsteady fight against the wind. Why would he strike so close? Down far beneath is a raging mad river of red, formerly the Lethe, the beautiful, twinkling river of forgetfulness always consumed in power. It is now taken over by what demon Morpheus presumes can either only be one of the Gods, Hephaestus or Vulcan. Looking for the surrounding horizon, there is none to be seen. Only an ever crying, moaning and thrashing storm, painted misty blues, damp greys, and pouring out heavy acid rain. Scouting the grounds, he sees that lining the flowing, darkly powered pandemonium beneath are huge, cracked, steaming coals. From there, miles upon miles of piling and crashing soot mountains. Up high, soaring through tiny, floating flakes of golden fire and deathly hot ash, his own King’s vibrant weapon and the terrific heat wave below being the only product of illumination for his path to nowhere in this God forsaken land of his. His long-known home has been turned into a work of his own creation…a thing of nightmares.
Preparing his wings for one more dodge and dash from Zeus’ fast, angry blades, they sound like quick loud whips as they swiftly push against the force of the full clouds. Morpheus searches frantically for what might be the cause of all this terror and destruction in The Land of Dreams, only to be left with everlasting confusion and fear. Fear is something Morpheus is very alienated from. He does not fear, he is to be feared. Confusion means vulnerability. If vulnerability had a form, he would crush it and spit on what remained of it. He had to take a split moment for one ruthless grin before all of his lost glory. It was a joke. He despised confusion birthed from dullness, pitiful vulnerability…and for him to be snatched in such a personally wicked trap was so far out of reach from a true reality that it had to be fake.
He looks down at the boiling lava and knows the only way to end it. It has an evil stench of long lost blood, kept warm with steaming sulfur. It has a thick, running flow. Slow bubbles proceed out of it, as if someone beneath had gasped their last breath.
He’s made up his mind, has decided it right and will not go back. Taking one swift glide, the burning air grows thicker and hotter. His destination beckoning him to come flow in its sick rath; he could be the guest of honor! An exquisite sacrifice to the Lord of Hell.
Just before he takes his dive, Morpheus becomes overwhelmed by an icy pain that he has never felt in all of his life. Flailing, he’s lost in consuming lightning with a tingling sharper than the worth of a million warrior’s blades, over every inch of his core. Mind taken to a place of war and agony on death’s very own front door. In all this, he can’t realize himself caught, almost too late, in strong arms with other plans for him. Arms that are taking him out and away from black clouds of smoke. Somehow, even on the battlegrounds, he knows for sure that his wings are gone, and now belong to the Volcano King. Floating little by little back up to the surface, he can see no more storm, only a ridged dark cover. As his icy insides flow from his shoulders dark, thick, and burning (a reminder of what he had just unwillingly escaped), he is laying on a bed of grass. Through a quick blink of blurry eyes, he can see a large cave filled with a forest of giant trees, a hazy lake leading to darkness, and wildly spread, bright red poppies: none other than his very own birthplace. He lies soaked in agony, the mysterious guardian not to be seen – a ghost.
Morpheus remains in a puddle of his own blood, hopelessly paralyzed to the smooth, cold ground. He looks up at the old, slightly familiar home with unusual curiosity. What a strange terrible dream. He bleeds, fears, and in general acts like a numb brained idiot. Wait, it is a…he’s dreaming? Impossible. At that moment, the edges of his vision start to become dark, and a harsh wind cycles through the cave.
Suddenly, he catches the gaze of two wide eyes just above a nearby rock and squints, realizing that there are various wide eyes watching him in the shadows: from under the translucent shade of greenish blue water, behind the tall, wide, thickly rooted trees, hanging from curved over branches, on the ever reaching, arched cave ceiling high up. With his pain growing and growing back again, these unknown figures seem to be just as fast become irrelevant. The warrior son now cries out loud and trembles. It’s as if he is being stabbed from every angle, his figure being shaved and carved into someone else. He can feel himself changing, but into what he does not know. Eventually it is all too much. Whatever is happening to him is going to happen, so to save him from giving up to the end, his consciousness drags him to a better place where he cannot feel. The surroundings shrink away and are replaced with a darkness, that shortly thereafter is followed by a gift of mercy from his father. Deep, unknown to worry, undisturbed from the chaos storm zone and the edge of death – sleep. Hypnos is here.
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