He walked through his realm under a searing sun, never raising His head to contemplate the devastation it had taken upon His land. Never looking at the fields that used to bask in glory of emerald summer, of which even the ashes were ravished by the sudden drought; leaving only wasteland, ashen and shriveled like ancient skin, with cracks like gaunt veins stretching all throughout.
He continued walking, His robes of dancing fires fluttering slightly with each step, his head crowned of night, bowed as in silent prayer. His walking gave him an air of an apparition, or a mourner of a faded image from a time long dead, rather than the creator He was. But He continued walking, each step taking Him further away from the heart of His land, until the blistered sky was woven with threads of jet and purple night, which embroiled into the sea.
He stopped, and stared into the sea; His eyes, black pools like the sea, became lost among the ebony. Of His entire realm, He was most pleased with the Shores of Night. Because it was the only area that had suffered no change, that still reflected the period when The Dreaming was nothing but black and desolate. Because in a way, it resembled its creator, a void of lingering night splattered with many stars, some that twinkled dimly and others that glowed like hell's fire, all which were eternal.
He could have told her he still loved her.
He reflected He could have told her that He would continue to love her. That He had always, and would always love her.
If He loved her so, then why did He damn her soul into the fallen one's world, to eternal suffering.
Because she'd wanted it that way, He told Himself. He had offered her a gift that could not be measured by anything that any other mortal would not be honoured with.
His love.
He could have given her gifts beyond the bounds of imagination. He could have created worlds as offerings, and he did not ask for much in return. Just her love, for her to be His queen, to rule together for infinity. But she denied it. He only did what she requested.
(His pride had been hurt). He did it because He loved her.
Nada had not been the first one to suffer such consequences.
There had been Eshe, His first and only queen, who had ruled at His side, when humans worshipped voiceless gods with wordless prayers. Who was benevolent, like He would never be, who filled The Dreaming with life when it was only a patch of night. She had been his equal, a figure carved from the same ivory as He. His love for her engulfed all of His senses, the touch of her skin, soft like blossoms in spring, filled Him with maddening passion. (Had he created such a fair and pale being for them or for Himself, whose loneliness needed to be alleviated? He did not know).
She had started as a dream, the image of perfection demanded by dreamers. Created to His own image, created by the very sand on which he now stood on. He remembered what He felt when He stared at the finished dream for the first time. He realized such simplistic beings could not appreciate such an adeptly crafted image. Nor did they deserve it. He kept her for Himself.
Numerous epochs went by before He realized He did not love her anymore. He did not need her. He got rid of her, tossed her away like she was not of importance, like the many relics He collected. And she was never heard from again.
He remembered there was a time, before His younger siblings existed, when He used to tell Himself companionship was unnecessary. His kind had no need for such foolishness.
But yet...
There was a feeling inside of Him. Ancient as He was, hidden among the matted secrecy He was well known for. A feeling that assured him interminable loneliness. That assured ridding himself of it would be elusive, like fingers trying to grasp grains of sand.
He disregarded such feelings, for He was an Endless. Once more he told Himself He did not need anyone. But the feeling could not be ignored for it was like an invisible beast, clawing sharp as nails inside of him, corroding him slowly, and his mind had already been stained with them, the loves that would not be consummated, that would always remain in His thoughts.
He dropped his gaze from the night and walked further into his land, where the ghosts and shadows of old memories and forgotten dreams scurried.
©Lamia. Morpheus is such a whore.