Godhood was beginning to bloom. Morpheus had felt it, in the way the winds whispered, the way his dreams quieted. He traveled less to the mortal lands, not tugged so insistently by the invisible leash that had first yanked him into awakening. When it pulled now, it was barely noticeable – and it happened less and less, as if the god realm was finally satisfied with the mortals that had gathered in its lands.

So he spent his more peaceful days within the god realm once more. Upon first awakening, he had only been able to stare in wonder at the majesty of the place, instinctively knowing it was his home, but awash in wonder at its beauty. Now, more properly accustomed to the perfection of the divine, the awe he had once felt was replaced with a sleepy sense of content, as if he might nap beneath endlessly green trees for the rest of eternity.

He did not succumb to sleep, of course. He prized his newfound memories too much. Slumber, when it came, was fed upon in short bursts, enough to keep him spritely and spry, but never to the point of true sloth. He worried, secretly, that descending too deep into his dreams might once more rob him of his memories and his time – and that he might next awaken anew with all his memories absent, all his mortals gone, and only the shadows of what had been in their places.

The thought frightened him more than he cared to acknowledge.

So today he sought out the distant corners of the floating isles – though he knew instinctively that the godly lands were without end, would only shift into a different landscape with the press of his will upon the place. But he liked exploring, mapping out lands he had undoubtedly traveled when he first ripened with godhood. It was a way to remember what he had been, without the messy feelings that accompanied his occasional flashes of remembrance.

He didn’t have many clues of his past self, but what he had been able to piece together spoke of a wolf that placed itself first. Which was understandable, he supposed. (Though, really, he did not think it truly understandable; he could not begin to understand how he might have once ignored another’s pain.)

But, so fixated and focused on relearning old trails was he, that Morpheus did not at first realize what he had stumbled upon. The scent of divinity, coated in brine, suddenly flared his nostrils wide, and his horned head rose, ears tipping forward as he peered between a pair of bushes. His eyes immediately settled upon a coat of purest blue, that rippled and wavered like the ocean’s waves, the sharp shine of cutting green eyes making his stomach pang with a knowledge he was withheld from.

The wolf—god, his mind corrected—sat beside a stack of stones, piled almost as high as he. Before him lapped and gamboled a little stream, as playful as a newly-weaned pup.

Morpheus stepped closer, unconsciously parting the bushes with a soft rustle, eyes fixated on that blue-bled coat. He knew it – in some strange, unknowing way that grasped tight atop his skull, squeezing at his brain. He tried to push closer to the memory, tried to grasp at least a name – but it was if a barrier came up, sudden and stout, and Morpheus could only stare at the wolf with a sort of wonder, the same slack-jawed expression that crossed so many of his mortals’ faces when they first gazed upon him.

“Hello,” he said, because undoubtedly the other had smelled him or heard him or – simply knew he was there. He dipped his head in a bow that lacked his usual elegance, eyes still focused on the other’s face. He was too utterly dumbfounded to find his tongue, much less remember etiquette. “You are—," he tried to say. Then stopped, the words dying in his mouth, falling limp.

“Who are you?” he corrected himself at last, only realizing the question was bluntly rude a moment after the words had already escaped him.

A few moments after the words had left his mouth, Morpheus had realized his rudeness. Was ready to apologize, because he wasn’t one for brutish words and lacking etiquette. But as the wolf turned toward him, he was seized once more by that familiarity – and it bloomed in his chest like an ache.

An ache, a warning. And he had only time enough to wonder why he was so out of sorts before the other was raging against him with all the howling, twisting derision of a storm upon a seaside inlet. Morpheus braced as if for an oncoming blow – and then he was blasted with the others words, washing over him like scalding, boiling water. And the river reared behind the god, spitting at Morpheus as if it hated him equally, as if the blue wolf was its master and his hatred was its hatred.

He shrieked out Morpheus’ name, as the Dreamer had never heard it before – heartache and betrayal and a pure note of agony that struck him harder than a blow ever could. Though the wolf did not physically touch him, did not lash out with the water that curled about his paws like snakes waiting to strike, Morpheus found it difficult to breathe, so strong was the other’s emotions.

The air practically thrummed with the enraged god’s emotions, molecules of moisture quivering, the wet upon Morpheus’ noseflesh and within his maw as desperate as all other water that surrounded them to obey the god’s command. The Dreamer swallowed, hard, head bowed before the other’s might.

He tried to think, faced with such wrathful words – but everything was tumbling together, the name Gabriel striking a chord. And yet it fell flat, only another sound amidst the cacophony that had swallowed Morpheus’ mind.

At last, faced with such unyielding hate, he could only fall back, dropping down into a submissive crouch. Some part of him, some deep part of him that only ever brushed against the edge of his consciousness, all cold and remote and horrible reminded him of what he could do. And yet equally at play was the desperate desire not to hurt this wolf, for all that he might rend Morpheus in two.

“I don’t know what you’re saying! I don’t know who you are!” He beseeched the wolf, voice cracking, a dream shattered beneath the harsh weight of reality. It was as if he had been slumbering and was suddenly faced with the breaking of the unreality he had painted for himself. He’d wondered, of course. But he’d never looked too deeply, afraid of what he might find within him. And yet this wolf was here now and forcing him to face the fact that he had not always been the Guide Morpheus – that he had once been traitor and bastard and—

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut as if he might force the other wolf to vanish just by wishing it so. He didn’t want to hear this, he didn’t want his memories back. He was sick and thrown into disarray and there was no one to help him.

He was all alone.

((ooc: a brief note for ray if you read this; there's puking lmao)))

The god would not be dissuaded. He stared Morpheus down, his green eyes slicing through Morpheus’ flesh, skinning him alive, depositing him whole but skinless, all muscle and fat and capillaries threading across meat. He shivered at the other’s words, more hissing snake than blessed divinity, only vaguely aware of how the water behind the wolf quieted itself, no longer threatening to surge over the banks and – and what? Drown him?

Again came that cold part of him, achingly deep, begging to call upon his powers because he was not defenseless. And yet he was. He knew this wolf would unmake him – was already unwrapping his heart and laying it bare. Morpheus could almost picture it upon the ground between them, pulsing and throbbing and shivering, naked and alone and so easily crushed.

The wolf spoke of Gabriel, and Morpheus felt his eyes close. A wolf could not cry, not in the true sense of the word, but he felt his sockets burn with some indescribable emotion. Why did he hurt so much, to hear that name? What had he done?

The thoughts were banished with a sudden, insistent pull – in body, in his blood, in his bones, in his cells, as the wolf took hold of some piece of him and yanked. It was a cruel thing to do, and Morpheus whimpered and flopped forward, body briefly undulating as he struggled against the pain. He panted and keened, paws scrambling uselessly at the dirt – and the cold inside him said, Stop bearing this.

And yet he knew, inexplicably, that to give into the voice was to acknowledge the death of his current self. He almost thought he might – if only to ease the pain that drew his black lips back in a grimace, ears pinned to his skull, teeth bared with the pain of it.

“L-let me go,” he hissed out from between his clamped jaws, his own blue eyes focused on the god that stood over him, a deeper blue than the sky above but no longer as beautiful. “Or you’ll be the murderer.”

His eyes squeezed tight again, and he ground out, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who this Gabriel is. I don’t remember anything!” The last word tore free of him, a great heaving gasp following in its wake before his stomach rebelled and he pushed himself up onto his front paws long enough to arch his neck.

Stomach acid surged up his throat, burning and sour, and splattered upon the green turf, marring it with frothing white bile. The water within still pulled toward the blue god, drawn by some invisible force, and Morpheus slumped there, gasping for breath. His throat stung, his eyes watered – but the burning that had taken hold in his stomach, acid pulled flush against the side of his belly, was gone now. Was there, sizzling on the ground.

As swiftly as the pain had come, so it receded, withdrawing with the suddenness of a raincloud drained dry. Morpheus trembled, exertion and pain singing through his veins. His very insides ached, as if just those few moments had been enough to permanently displace some of his more important parts. Of course, even if it had, he was immortal. He would heal.

He breathed hard, each swallow of air a fresh scorch across the raw flesh of his throat, the lining burned off with acid. Another whimper wrung itself free of him, and he shivered, head dropping down in weariness.

He was dimly aware of the water rushing up from the river, running rivulets around the blue god, and he briefly closed his eyes, certain his death was ascertained – a cold, watery death, water wrung through his body, pummeling his insides into submission. But, no, it only swept near enough to carry away the contents of his stomach, leaving in its wake shining droplets on each blade of grass. As if it had newly rained.

He blinked, blue eyes filled with a fatigued anticipation, as the wolf moved closer once more. He crouched before Morpheus, assuring their eyes would align, and Morpheus was once more forced to meet the other’s gaze. He spoke to him, a quiet promise not to kill the Dreamer.

Before today, Morpheus had not thought of death. Not truly. Even against the boar, against the bear – what was death to a god? And yet he had known that divinity slew divinity as easily as blood slew blood. But he had never believed his kind capable of such a thing. Had not thought there were enough of them left, that one would seek to rid the world of yet another god without fear of retribution.

Of course, if he was as this wolf said, then certainly he deserved death, didn’t he?

Ice lanced through him, as he remembered Pepper suddenly. She had asked of her worth, and he had calmed her fears. But he had never thought, beyond a few uncomfortable moments, that it might be he who was unworthy.

Ah, but the watery god was speaking again, voice soft and kind.

Like the sea, Morpheus thought. Violent and tempestuous one moment; as gentle as a babe’s cradle the next.

“I did nothing,” he croaked, voice scratchy and half-broken still. “My life began only a few months ago; I remember nothing from before then.”

He still lay there, crumpled and defeated, making no effort to raise himself still further. If the other wolf was seized by yet another wave of wrath, Morpheus would have no choice but to be drawn in by the riptide and pulled deep until the chilling fingers of death brushed against him. In denying the decision to fight, he was at the utter mercy of the other wolf, blue eyes sober with the knowledge his fate lied with the other.