note:Listen to A nostalgic dream by Peter Gundry while reading this chapter for it is the music that is happening in the background
The Realm of Dreams was ever-shifting, ever-drifting, stitched together by the strange, wandering minds of children and the occasional nostalgic adult. In one direction, a mountain of stuffed animals wept marshmallow tears into a river of root beer. In another, a school of floating pianos played music that made even the clouds sway with rhythm. The very sky blinked between hues—lavender, gold, emerald—while trees grew upside down and whispered lullabies when the wind passed through their story-paper leaves.
Into this symphony of dream-stuff walked two figures, both unmistakable in form and presence.
Mother Goose, in her rare human guise, wore a storm-gray cloak with feathered hems and a shawl that subtly shimmered with the ink of a thousand bedtime stories. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned up with quills and tiny baubles shaped like moons and teacups. Her expression was wary and dignified—a noble queen caught between exhaustion and curiosity.
Beside her walked Father Hearth, a stoic silhouette of warmth and stone. His coat looked like stitched dusk and soot, with embers glowing faintly beneath the fabric. His gait was steady, his presence unmoved by the nonsense around him, though the air itself seemed to relax in his wake.
They had come here reluctantly.
Leaving Gunther and Gideon in charge of the House of the Hearth was not a decision made lightly, and certainly not one made without a good deal of backup plans, emergency notes, and fireproofing spells. There had been warnings, many warnings, and one long, accusatory stare from Mother Goose as they closed the door behind them.
"If the house burns down while we're gone," she had muttered at Father Hearth, "I'm blaming your trust in lovebirds and their shared three brain cells."
"They are learning," Father Hearth had said evenly.
"They are chaos wrapped in lace and smugness."
"Balance," he'd answered, as he always did.
And now, here they were. In the Realm of Dreams. Wandering among the absurd and the surreal.
They followed the soft tune of tea cups clinking and half-remembered melodies down a slope made of velvet petals until they reached it—a pavilion made entirely of oversized toy bricks, red and blue and green, stacked high and impossibly balanced in an architectural style that defied both gravity and common sense.
There, seated with regal poise and sipping tea from a cup shaped like a sleepy kitten, was Lorien.
The ruler of the Dreaming. The weaver of slumber.
Today, he had chosen the form of a child—but not just any child. He wore a perfectly pressed butler's outfit with a pocket watch far too large for his size. His hair was white and soft as cloudstuff, his eyes dark and unreadable, like wells of starlit silence. He did not blink as they approached. He merely sipped, then said, in his mild, ageless voice—
"You're late."
Mother Goose narrowed her eyes. "You didn't give a time."
"I always give a time," Lorien replied, motioning toward the table set before him. "Just never in hours. Time ruins tea."
Father Hearth gave a small bow of the head and seated himself across from Lorien. Mother Goose sighed, hiked up her skirts, and sat down with a mutter about riddles and metaphysical punctuality.
The chairs were dream-forged and utterly personalized. Father Hearth's was carved from old hearthwood, soft and warm to the touch. Mother Goose's resembled a throne built from stacked storybooks, many of them hers. Her name flickered across their spines in a dozen languages.
A pot of tea poured itself into animal-shaped cups. One was a sleepy fox, another a dozing owl. Lorien drank from the kitten, naturally.
Mother Goose reached for the owl.
"So," she said, "are we going to talk about impending doom, or are we pretending this is just a lovely garden party in the middle of a fractured subconscious?"
Lorien took another sip.
"…A bit of both."
"Lovely."
The conversation drifted, at first, through lighter things.
Dream gossip. Surreal news. The usual.
"The Wind Sisters fell out again," Lorien said blandly. "East accused South of hoarding monsoons."
Mother Goose raised a brow. "Didn't they promise to share weather rights this century?"
"They did. But East is—how do the mortals say?—a dramatic gremlin."
Father Hearth sipped his tea without comment.
"And the Night Steed and the Golden Mare?" Mother Goose asked. "Still refusing to admit they're in love?"
"Oh, it's worse now," Lorien said, lips twitching faintly. "He tried to give her a shooting star bouquet. She bit him."
"Romance," Goose said, sighing. "Still more violent than war."
"And the Council of Lost Toys has elected a new ruler. A plush dragon named Kevin."
Mother Goose choked on her tea. "Kevin? The one with the googly eyes?"
"He won by a landslide. Promised universal bedtime rights and naps without judgment."
"Madman," she whispered, awestruck. "A revolutionary."
They laughed, even Father Hearth letting out a breath that could be generously interpreted as a chuckle.
But eventually, the conversation stilled.
The songs drifting through the air grew more distant. The stars above the dream-sky dimmed slightly.
Lorien's teacup paused halfway to his lips.
"They're waking up," he said softly. "The Children of Chaos. One by one."
"We know," Father Hearth said.
Lorien looked to them both. "It's already leaking into the dreams. Things that were never supposed to sleep are whispering again. And there are new doors. Doors that don't belong to me."
Mother Goose's grip on her cup tightened. "What kind of doors?"
Lorien didn't answer directly. He rarely did.
But he said, very quietly, "Some dreams lead to things that were never imagined. Only forgotten."
They sat in silence after that. Listening.
Until Mother Goose leaned back in her chair, eyes watching the dream-stars spin lazily above.
"…Kevin better enjoy his reign while it lasts. Because if we end up fighting ancient chaos and nightmares with plush dragons, I am retiring."
"I think he'd make an excellent general," Lorien said, deadpan.
"I'm not joking."
"I am."
"Stop that."
"Never."
And for a moment, in that strange toy pavilion under the folding sky of dreams, laughter returned.
Even in the shadow of what stirred, there was warmth. Old friendships. A shared pot of tea.
And that, for now, was enough.
The tea had just been refilled—steaming gently in the sleepy fox-shaped pot—when the sky over the Realm of Dreams shattered.
Not literally, not in the way a window or glass pane might. But the illusion of stillness, of whimsy, of calm—that broke.
A light tore across the dream-sky, screaming. Not with rage. Not with pain.
But with fury that bordered on divine madness.
The sound was unlike anything else—a sound not meant for ears, but for memory, for instinct. It pierced through the melodies, scattered the drifting lullabies, and made the very clouds ripple as though they were frightened.
The scream came from a figure of pure light—brilliant, blinding, unshaped and yet distinctly feminine. A body forged of golden fire and burning snow. She moved with the force of a comet, trailing heat and judgment in her wake.
The dream realm itself bent as she passed.
Trees folded like origami. Toy castles melted into sand. Entire landscapes reconfigured themselves in a desperate attempt to avoid her path.
She didn't stop. She didn't pause. She didn't see them.
She screamed once more—a wild, furious, frantic sound—and vanished beyond the far hills of dream, leaving a streak of burning light that lingered in the sky like a scar.
Silence followed.
A long, deep silence.
The melodies did not resume. The wind dared not blow.
Even the tea had stopped steaming.
Mother Goose was the first to find her voice.
"…Was that who I think it was?"
Lorien didn't answer right away. He stared at the sky, still childlike, but his eyes had darkened. His grip on the porcelain teacup had turned white-knuckled. And still, the teacup did not crack—because this was his realm. And yet he was shaken.
"It was."