27. Would a blanket fort help?

Chapter 27

Would a blanket fort help?

NYXION

"Shattered" by Trading Yesterday

"Angel of Small Death and Codeine Scene" by Hozier

"Born Without a Heart" by Faozia

" W hat's with all the little sheep?" Phantasos asks, having entered Zenya's room shortly before Morpheus and I.

Dozens of small sheep float about the room, taking the term ‘counting sheep' to a new level.

Hecate drapes a wool blanket over our little dreamer's shoulders as Zenya rubs her eyes before burying her face in her hands. "Counting them didn't work."

Phantasos chuckles and pokes at one sheep, which bleats. "At least you didn't weave wolves in sheep's clothing, too. Then, we'd really have a mutton problem."

Zenya yawns and shakes out her purple hair. "I'm so tired, but I can't sleep."

All she wears is a thin silk slip with one strap falling down her shoulder. I won't deny how hard I get at the outline of her breasts and the stiff little nipples prodding the sheer fabric. Or how her worn state and need for sleep stir a primal craving to help her, protect her—even in this simple regard.

Morpheus approaches, his shadows curling around her in soothing tendrils. "What do you need, sweet weaver?"

"I don't know." She lifts her knees to her chest, curling in on herself. "It's just…the bed is so big, and I don't have the energy to do more right now. And the fear that I'll never sleep is getting to me."

My breath hitches as I take stock of the surroundings, the abundance of blankets and pillows along the sofas and the bed. Would a blanket fort help?

Every eye in the room turns to me. Zenya stares at me, tears glistening as she swallows a hard knot. I hold a thousand breaths as I wait for her to chastise me for suggesting something so childish. Or having the audacity to speak to her.

"It would," she says softly.

Hecate smiles down at her and leans down to kiss her head. Morpheus arches a brow.

"A blanket fort sounds positively lovely," agrees Phantasos. "Should I morph into some objects for this?"

I shake my head. No need. I set to work, constructing the necessary frame, getting the bones down—literally—until I've fused all the femurs into a worthy fixture for our little dreamer. Morpheus and Phantasos do the rest by propping mounds of pillows along the sides of the structure—Morpheus's shadows holding many in place—while Hecate handles the blankets.

Per Zenya's request, Morpheus and Hecate join her inside the fort, one on each side to offer their comforting presence and warmth.

Phantasos stabs his chin at me, leveling with my gaze. "I'm going to spend some time with Ivy and make sure she stays out of trouble, especially if Daddy sends any more storms and reavers."

I will stay here and ensure no harm comes to Zenya while she sleeps. No reaver will penetrate this room …I expand my bone dust to frame the room—much like a tripwire to signal me. Morpheus does the same with his shadows.

Through a small gap in the fort, I find Zenya settling down, curled into the fetal position with her back to Hecate and facing Morpheus. Hecate kisses the back of her bare shoulder and weaves a strong arm around her. Morpheus plays with her hair and strokes her cheek while singing a dark and deep lullaby—simple and delicate but haunting with its minor, melancholic tone.

I form a chair of bones and remain close to the door, alert for any shift in the environment.

Since the territory of nightmares is often accompanied by a lack of sleep, remaining awake has never been an issue for me. Morpheus prefers to get lost in dreams. I prefer to observe.

"Hmm…" Zenya sighs contentedly, her head deepening onto the pillow as my brother continues the dark and mystical tune.

At the barest pause in his singing, Zenya whispers into the darkness, "Thank you, Nyxion."

A wave of emotion crashes over me—as powerful as a stormy ocean surf thundering against a cliff side.

The sound of her voice—soft, grateful, and full of trust—pierces through the layers of bones forming a cage that has long encased my heart. A sensation strikes me, one I haven't known in eons: a heartbeat. The rhythmic thump echoes within my chest.

The cadence of the slight pulse sends a tremor to rattle my bones. And shivers through my soul.

Delicate and sincere, her whisper feels like a thread of light weaving through the dense fabric of my existence. I say nothing. I don't deserve her gratitude. Beneath all her wrath and witty verbatim is the heart and soul of a lonely wanderer. A lost soul seeking a home, belonging. She brings enough light to radiate a beacon through my entire Realm of Nightmares.

I remain seated, a silent sentinel in the dark, yet her words reverberate into me, stirring emotions I thought were long buried.

I glance at her, a fragile figure nestled between two powerful beings. The realization that she thought of me, even in the comforting presence of Morpheus and Hecate, is almost too much to bear.

My heart may be faint and hesitant, but it beats with a new purpose. It's as if her simple whisper, along with her tears, has ignited a spark within me—a flicker of warmth in the bone-cold expanse of my soul. If love can exist in the realm of nightmares, then perhaps she has awakened it in me.

Through me, you will dream. Through you, I will awaken.

I never imagined it would manifest this way.

I sit here, surrounded by the dark and eerie serenity of the night, and silently vow to uphold this newfound feeling. For her, I would face any fear, any darkness.

Her whisper is my heartbeat.

In the morning just before dawn, as much as time is measured in this dimension, Zenya wakes. No, her eyes are too dark.

Beastie quietly and subtly slips out of the blanket fort. Hecate and Morpheus undoubtedly stir from her movements, but they won't interfere.

I don't move from my seat. I don't blink when she weaves a blade in her hand and presses it to my cervical vertebrae before tracing it across the gap of my missing hyoid bone.

"I considered weaving razor blades onto your dick," she confesses.

Everything inside me winces, but I don't blink. What stopped you?

She rolls her eyes with a heavy sigh but does not remove the blade. " She likes it too much."

A slight gap in my teeth forms—not a smile, but the admittance weaves a warmth inside me.

"Zenya is?—"

Naive, wild, and impulsive, I repeat in unison as she narrows her eyes. You will not allow the darkness to devour her. Nor will I.

"If this is some trick, some manipulation tactic to deceive her or hurt her, I'll snap all your bones, then shatter them before I rip out your spinal cord." A dangerous glint flashes in her eyes, and I have no doubt she would make good on her promise. The blade chafes my vertebrae, shedding bone dust.

I'd rip out my own spinal cord and give you full license to whip me with it until you shatter all my bones, I vow, my voice deep and grave.

She screws her brows low, flips the blade, and stabs the handle beneath my jawbone. "Tell me now, Phobetor. Why?"

Her tears. I curve the phalanges of my hand over the femur armrest of my chair. Not the tears of rage or fear, but the ones she shed in awe as she read the flower language in her journal. Language you wrote for her. Those tears were more beautiful than anything I've ever witnessed. The first tears I've beheld that were not shed for me or because of me.

Beastie presses her lips into a tight, skeptical seam.

I pause, feeling the memory wash over me. There was a moment when she turned the pages, her eyes wide and shimmering, and I saw something pure and untainted. Those tears were like drops of silver blood from her heart. They gave me a gift I could never be worthy of, something I never expected to feel. I don't expect you to believe me, I add softly. I vow to protect her, not just from the darkness of nightmares, but from everything that threatens to harm her.

Her grip on the blade doesn't waver, but I continue, For her, I would endure any torment, face any fear.

The room remains tense, her eyes locked onto mine, searching for any sign of deceit. But I hold her gaze, steadfast in my resolve. I may be the God of Nightmares, but even in the deepest shadows, there can be a glimmer of light. Zenya is that light, and I will protect it with everything I have.

If this is what it means to have a heart, then I am willing to let her hold it, fragile as it may be. She may do with it what she wants. Break it. Ruin it. Crush it. I would let her crush it and feel the blood running down her arm while my essence fades away. If she places it back in my unworthy chest, I would give it to her again and again. For eternity.

Silence hangs between us, heavy and charged. Neither of us blinking or breaking. Finally, she steps back, the blade still poised but her eyes reflecting a flicker of consideration.

"Dacryphilia," she confirms my preoccupation and arousal from tears. Zenya's tears have clawed far deeper. Each one is a needle piercing my very alchemy.

My vow is my truth, I confess. I will show her, in every way I can, that my words are more than mere promises. They are a commitment, as binding as any oath, to cherish and protect the one who has brought a heartbeat to my existence.

After more threads of tense silence, Beastie finally lowers the blade. "You will have the opportunity to do so."

Eyes glimmer with aquamarine once more, the switch prevalent.

Zenya glances down at the blade before shivering and dropping it to clatter on the floor. "I'm really glad she didn't put razor blades in your dick."