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t was almost comforting to have someone finally—finally—act like an abuser in a story. Comforting in its pain and fear, comforting in its honesty and familiarity. Whoever this woman was, she was hitting all the marks, saying all the Right Words, and for someone like Aix, that was a relief. Worse was the usual gentle denial, the gaslighting that was hard to communicate to other people.
But this woman was not doing that. She didn’t bother being charming, she didn’t bother even attempting to disguise her violence; she had grabbed Aix, and Aix, terrified of nothing so much as more injury that wouldn’t heal right, hadn’t fought back. She hadn’t given her name, she’d gagged them, she hadn’t spoken; she was smart, and when they saw the very distinctive scar on her neck, the one she couldn’t hide, the one Michaela had told Aix about, they had known.
This was her. This was the most dangerous of things in the world, a Hunter that had turned bad. She’d taped their mouth shut, and Aix had tried to let their muscles loose so she wouldn’t dislocate their jaw, which was already prone to it.
‘You don’t have to play helpless,’ she hissed. Aix had been terrified then that she’d hit them, but she hadn’t, she just left them in the back of the van, taking Aix’s purse—and their phone—with her. If she was as smart as they thought, she’d leave the whole thing somewhere, or turn it into a lost and found, where civilians would keep anyone else from finding it—or Aix.
Aix had grown up on mysteries and their anxiety had been cheerfully building up worst case scenarios for years; it was sort of vindicating to finally have it be proven right, even though Aix knew it was even as they thought about it going to leave them further traumatised. And they’d just started working through the agoraphobia… at this rate, they’d never go outside ever again.
But their old spite woke up, woke up from where it had been sleeping; because now, now they were in the company of someone that hated them, didn’t care if they lived or died. The last time that had happened, Aix had been living on the street, staying at the homeless shelter, and realising nobody there cared about them, not really. Realising their own mother didn’t care, not enough to come save them from further assault, or further abuse—that, like always, Aix had to face Death alone.
And that had made them mad, so very mad, so much so that it had broken through their suicidal self-destruction, because nobody was allowed to be so callous and cruel to Aix except Aix themself. Because if nobody was going to care, then Aix would take care of themself out of spite, just to make them angry.
Rebellion was the only motivation Aix had ever known. And the comfort, the comfort in this woman being so objectifying, being so evil as to assume Aix was faking being helpless or frightened… the comfort was that it made them mad. And anger… anger got shit done.
She’d taken Aix’s voice, and she thought she was safe.
Aix closed their eyes, and breathed, and tried to remember the way it felt, that one time that Cthulhu had contacted then pulled back—because simply falling asleep wasn’t an option. Even drugs didn’t knock Aix out without a fight, their vigilance was too strong. But Cthulhu didn’t need it. And Aix didn’t need it either—Aix tried to believe that, and tried as hard as they could to make their will into something tangible.
Cthulhu, Cthulhu, Cthulhu!
Aix saw the world flash by like they were a bird taking flight, or pulling spacetime toward them all at once, and held on. It was easier than they’d thought—their belief snapped back together all at once, and they held on, their imagination, their power, having its bearings once again, having foothold.
But it wasn’t Cthulhu they had found. They were in a colourful world, something out of a candy dream, drawn by a child. There was a house, with a tree, with apples.
‘Hello!’ Aix called out, trying to smile—if this was a child’s dreamscape, then they wouldn’t scare the child.
‘Hi!’ said a voice, and there was a small clown, dressed in stripes, with a sort of deep fake look to her. Luckily, that had never unnerved Aix much.
‘Hi there,’ Aix said. ‘Um, I’m a little bit lost, could you help me?’
‘You say “help” why you scare?’ The little tails on her head moved, multiplied, and Aix realised with a start this wasn’t a child pretending to be a clown in their dream, this was a clown’s dream.
Why had Aix found a clown’s dream?
‘Conenate!’ the clown said, putting little hands on Aix’s cheeks, and pulling their face down to look into two big black eyes. ‘Why you scare? You need Mommy come?’
‘There’s a bad lady, she wants to hurt me,’ Aix said. You could trust clowns. Clowns were kind, always.
‘She bees a human lady?’
‘Yes.’
‘I get Mommy. Mommy no scare of no things! Mommy big!’
Aix had no idea who this clown thought of as Mommy, but anything would help. ‘Thank you. Get everyone you can find. I’m the Duck Witch.’
‘Duckie witch!’
Several ducklings appeared around them.
Aix smiled. ‘Yeah. Like these kind.’ They imagined a male wood duck, and one appeared in their lap, silent because Aix had never known what they sounded like. The clown sat down on the crayon lines of the grass around them.
‘Waow. Famcy duckie.’
‘Yeah, he’s a fancy boy. Like me, I like to be fancy too.’
‘Okay I tell Mommy. Bees a courage, Duckie! Mommy comin!’
The Dreamscape fell away, and Aix tried to hang onto the thread. ‘Cthulhu!’ they called out into the fading light. ‘Cthulhu! Victoria!’
‘Not here!’ said a familiar, fictional voice. ‘Gone! Gone. And you too, if you’re not careful!’
The darkness dissolved all around Aix to reveal the world that had shown him the word ‘Dreamfasting’. And though the god wore the face of the witch muppet that had been a witch of the first water in Aix’s mind, and a goal for their own old age, Aix knew it wasn’t her. Not really. It was Morpheus.
As soon as Aix thought that, the dream changed again, as suddenly as dreams always did, and Morpheus looked… well, like his most well-known modern image.
‘You’ve never been cross with me,’ Aix said. ‘What have I done?’
He canted his head. What were you trying to do?
‘Call for help.’
And before that?
Aix felt like those camera shots where everything is zooming in while panning out—or was it panning out while zooming in? Aix could never remember—that shot that movies used when someone’s world was collapsing around them, but internally.
They hadn’t really spoken to the gods about Cthulhu. Not once.
‘…How much trouble am I in?’
It depends. Why did you do it?
‘He called out for help. He was in pain.’
And after you found out he wasn’t?
‘What was I supposed to do, leave him there? Don’t say yes, dammit, you should know me better than that. He’s a person. He’s not a god, no matter what humans say.’
“We create gods so we can create ourselves” and “Gods are powered by belief” only apply when you feel like being philosophical?
Aix paused, and gave that some thought. ‘Okay, fair. But—hear me out—would you rather he just stumble around until he finds some of those cults that will use him, or would you rather he ask me his questions about human nature?’
Now it was Morpheus’ turn to think. So long as you don’t forget the nature of godhood—or whom you worship.
‘I don’t think I could stop worshipping any of you—I think my spiritual crisis from a few months ago kind of proved that. And,’ Aix paused, pressing his lips together, ‘To be clear, I’m not going to try and control him either—I want to introduce him to my community, have him talk to as many people as possible so he gets a lot of perspectives. Like a good scientist.’
‘And maybe,’ Aix added, ‘if he’s curious, maybe I will… I will teach him my worship. If he wants. If…’ Aix trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Even after all that they’d been through, the joy they felt in their own faith, and wanting to share it, hadn’t gone away; but after what their ex had done when they had, it was difficult to trust that such appropriation and theft wouldn’t happen again. Yet Cthulhu had one large advantage, which was that he wasn’t Christian, and he also had said nothing cruel or dismissive about Aix’s opinions regarding the power of Stories. ‘Anyway,’ Aix said. ‘I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve never done magic that wasn’t divination. Um… can I ask about the clown’s dream? Why her dream? How… how did I mess up?’
A fond smile, and Morpheus sighed, taking Aix’s hand. I’m surprised you didn’t ask who “Mommy” was.
‘Any help is good help,’ Aix said with a shrug, squeezing Morpheus’ hand gently. ‘I’m mostly worried about having messed up the fabric of reality or something by mistake.’
You did not, not yet. But your… here, Morpheus paused, a slight curl on one side of his black lips. …young man has taught you how to bend my realm. He did not intend to, but his concept of the unconscious translates in your mind to my realm.
Aix hissed through their teeth in a grimace, ‘Ooof, and mortals should definitely not be doing that, no.’
It is gratifying you know that without needing to have read the stories this mien is from about it.
‘Mortals thinking they can wield the realms or tools of gods is hubris. I don’t need Neil Gaiman to tell me that, I’ve read the old tales. But… how should I be doing it? Only I’m kind of—I’m kind of in mortal peril right now, and was trying to communicate with someone.’
And who is in charge of communication?
‘Oh is it… is it really that simple?’
For you. I believe a metaphor you would find useful is to use divine rather than arcane magic, next time.
Aix hugged him. ‘Thank you,’ they said, ‘for helping me learn, rather than punishing me for being wrong.’
Dreams are meant to be instructive.
‘I still need help. Can you get a message to Victoria Blackwood for me? Tell her I’m in trouble, in Baltimore, that the bad hunter has me. That’s—that’s all I was trying to do. Was tell her or Cthulhu. I don’t want to die—do you—you know how important it is, that I don’t want to die.’ Aix impatiently scrubbed away tears. ‘Please.’
Morpheus looked down with eyes full of stars, and was reassured that this trespass had been the stumble of a child, and not arrogance. And he had much to tell his family, about this stranger from the stars, the one whispered of in mystery cults as an Elder God. Allow me to bring one of your dreams of Cthulhu to the other gods, so they understand he is not his reputation.
‘Can I have it back when you’re done, or… can you make a copy of it?’
There is no copy machine in the Dreamscape, he said, pursing his lips to hide a smile that danced in the stars of his eyes. But yes, you may have it back when I have done this.
‘And in return you’ll get my message to Victoria right away?’
I am not a djinn, nor a fae; I will not twist your words for sport. He kissed Aix’s forehead. You are safe. I love my oracles well, and her meeting you was a day I had been anticipating. It will be done. Now, the dream that would best help us understand…?
‘…Oh you’re—you’re asking me which one?’ Aix said, after a pregnant pause. ‘Um, oh! Okay…’ Aix stepped back, closing their eyes and taking a deep breath, concentrating on remembering, and pulling the strand up out of the rolag in the bowl of their womb, spinning the strand of memory with little motions of their fingers, winding it into a skein of yarn that shone violet like a nebula cloud, the spindle as sharp as a fairy tale. Aix offered it, carefully, to Morpheus, who took it with a gracious bow of his head, holding it carefully.
It is gratifying to know that there are those who still work their magic with the old crafts. Now, I think it is time you wake up.
When Aix opened their eyes, they were still in the van, and wondered if it had only been a few seconds, because of how time worked in dreams. Without their phone, it was impossible to check the time, and they cursed again their lack of ability to wear a watch on their wrist.
All they could do was wait. There was a solid, reinforced wall between the back of the van and the front seat, and no windows, but there must have been vents somewhere, because it wasn’t as hot as it should have been, nor as stuffy. Still too hot for the amount of clothes Aix was wearing.
They were the most upset about their rollator, really. They could get a new one, obviously, but it was the principle of the thing. The fact that this woman assumed they were faking disability just because she’d judged Aix to be a Bad Person or whatever. That stung. But then again, Aix thought (there was nothing to do but think, back here), that just helped them not fall into the Experienced Abuse Target trap of justifying their abuse in some fashion by excusing the perp.
Hermes, Loki, Hugin and/or Munin, I could really use some help right now, whether that’s telling Michaela and the others I’m in trouble or messing this woman up with bad luck….
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