A/N:
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The path that leads into Destiny’s garden does not twist through space, but through intention.

It unfurls under the weight of inevitability, cobbled in stone that hums with old truths, bordered by vines that whisper forgotten names. Time does not move here. It coils. Observes. Waits. Above, the sky hangs still—neither day nor night, painted in shades of ink and parchment, stitched with stars that have not yet been born.

At the garden’s center lies a great stone table, long enough to seat a family not bound by mortality. It is carved from the fossilized spine of something divine and dead, worn smooth by eternity. Silver vines coil along its legs like serpents in slumber, and the roots beneath it glow softly, fed not by soil, but by the truths of the Book.

Destiny sits at the head. Cloaked in grey, faceless beneath his hood, his hands resting on the open Book upon his lap. He does not turn the page. He never needs to. Everything that will happen is already written, and yet still he listens.

The other chairs are filled.

Despair sits hunched, her robes like torn cobwebs clinging to her skeletal frame. Her hands twitch against her cheek, her fingers wrapped with a barbed ring that draws no blood. She doesn’t speak, but she is present. Watching. Feeling.

Delirium dances without moving, her legs tucked under her in her chair, her gown shifting through colors like oil in water. A goldfish swims lazily through one of her eyes. Her fork is lodged in her hair, and she hums to a tune only she can hear.

Destruction leans back in his seat, a broad-shouldered figure in volcanic red, trimmed with tarnished gold. His beard is braided with copper rings, and paint lingers on his cuffs. There is laughter in his eyes, even when he is quiet. He is the only one who left—and yet here he is, answering the call, as he always does when it matters.

Desire, radiant and merciless, lounges like a cat at the edge of mischief. Their outfit is gossamer and red, sheer fabric clinging to them like seduction itself. Their smile is beautiful. And sharp.

Death sits quietly, dressed in simple black, her silver ankh gleaming faintly at her collarbone. Her eyes are the gentlest of them all, though they have seen every end.

One seat remains empty—until now.

A ripple folds through the garden. Not a sound, not a wind, but the hush before a great cathedral door opens.

Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, steps into view. The Dreaming clings to him like a second skin.

He is dressed in layered robes darker than the night between stars, adorned with threads of argent mist, shifting like ink in water. His long black hair falls like a veil over his shoulders, tied only at the nape with an obsidian clasp. His gaze is starlit, endless, and entirely focused on the woman beside him.

Her presence draws more eyes than his.

Ravenna, his wife—the Queen of the Dreaming.

She walks beside him, but not as a subject. She walks with him, equal and luminous. Once mortal, now something more. Her body cradles the future: their son, nestled within her like a dream not yet spoken. One hand rests on the gentle swell of her belly, the other holding the crook of her husband’s arm.

She wears flows like dusk turned to velvet—midnight silk dusted with stars, sleeveless, the train trailing like dreamstuff in her wake. Her long black hair tumbles free, unbound and wild. Her feet seem to barely touch the ground. She is radiant. She is glowing. She is cradling the future of the Dreaming.

Dream is always at her side. Ever watchful. A hand at the small of her back, guiding. When she steps, he steadies her. When she breathes, he listens. And when she speaks, the world quiets.

They are one Endless now—twin aspects of creation and reverie.

He is careful. Gentle. Attentive. As if she is a cathedral carved from glass and starlight.

He has known loss. He will not lose her again.

From his seat, Destiny speaks—his voice like parchment folding. “You are late. But time was never master over you, brother.”

Dream’s lips curve the smallest degree. “We arrived precisely as we meant to.”

Ravenna’s voice is soft and sure. “And it seems time has been kind to us all.”

There is a pause. Then movement.

Death rises and circles the table. She does not speak at first. She simply places her hands on either side of Ravenna’s face, her touch light but full of warmth. “You’re glowing, sweetie,” she says. “Literally. And metaphorically. Is my idiot brother treating you well?”

Ravenna laughs, low and warm, like rain against windows. “With more care than I ever thought possible. He treats me like a cathedral built of glass.”

Dream answers her with a look, soft and bottomless. “As I should.”

Destruction comes next. His presence is large but not overwhelming—like a hearthfire in winter. He takes Ravenna’s hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles, and then draws her into a bear hug. “You’ve grown even more beautiful, tough one. There’s a fire in you now—soft, but fierce. You remind me of sunrises in lost worlds.”

She grins, teasing, “That may be the hormones, Olethros.”

Delirium giggles, twirling the spoon in her hair. “OR MAYBE IT’S THE BABY. BABIES ARE LIKE POCKET UNIVERSES. FULL OF GOOEY STARS.”

Ravenna chuckles, rubbing her belly. “You’re strange, Delirium. But kind.”

“I TRY!” Delirium beams.

But the moment cools.

A shadow moves within the firelight of the table.

Desire leans forward, their smile blooming like a poisoned flower. “And what of me, sweet Ravenna?” they purr. “Do I not stir something in you? A flicker? A flutter? Tell me what you desire—and it shall be yours.” Their voice is smoke, honeyed and venomous. Their gaze flicks toward Dream, daring.

Desire tore them apart, not just once but many times. Broke Ravenna’s heart and twisted Dream’s silence into cruelty.

Ravenna stiffens, her body subtly drawing back—but she is not afraid. Not anymore. Never again.

The tension does not last long. Dream steps in like a tide crashing against rock. His arm curls around his wife’s waist, protective and unshakable. “There is no need,” he says, voice quiet and glacial. “I am very much capable of giving my wife all she could ever want. Or need.”

Ravenna leans into him, her hand settling over her belly. Her smile is sharp and velvet-edged. “What my husband says.”

Desire’s lips twitch. For once, they say nothing. Their defeat is small, but it hums in the air.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Despair speaks. Her voice is rough silk. “It suits you, this… life. This peace.” She offers something that could almost be a smile.

Ravenna’s expression softens. “Thank you, Despair. That means more than you know.”

Dream guides her to her seat—careful as ever, lowering her gently, smoothing the folds of her gown so they won’t catch. He brushes her hair from her shoulder with a tenderness the universe may never fully understand. Only when she is seated does he sit beside her.

The table shifts. Something in the universe sighs. The family is whole.

Above, the twilight sky is stitched with stars like ancient embroidery. Glowing fireflies the size of teardrops drift lazily across the garden like forgotten memories. The trees are heavy with silver fruit, and the air tastes like prophecy.

Each plate reflects the sibling seated before it.

For Death: warm bread and ruby pomegranate seeds.
For Delirium: rainbow-colored soup that shifts with every blink.
For Despair: salted bone-fish and still water.
For Desire: a single untouched fig, and wine the color of blood.
For Destruction: roasted meat, herbs, and baked root vegetables.
For Dream: silver shapes, like the idea of food, glowing faintly.
For Ravenna: fresh figs, golden bread, soft fruit, honeyed herbs—and a bowl of oranges.

She eyes them with amused longing. She’s developed a craving for oranges of late, but hates peeling them. The scent gets under her nails.

She doesn’t have to ask.

Dream peels one by one slowly, reverently, his long fingers delicate. He breaks it into neat segments and lays them on her plate. “Eat, my wife,” he murmurs. “You must eat for two.”

"As you wish, my husband." She smiles—and happily eats. For a moment, it is just the two of them.

Then Destiny speaks, still reading. “It is written. The union of Dream and Ravenna was always inevitable. Even when certain forces sought to rewrite the lines.”

Desire scoffs, swirling their wine in a glass shaped like a bleeding heart. “Inevitability is such a bore.”

Dream doesn’t even look at them. “And yet you never tire of fighting it.”

Ravenna’s gaze flickers toward Desire. Her smile remains—but her eyes sharpen like polished obsidian. “Some of us learn to let go. Others… chase their own undoing.”

Death claps her hands lightly, cheerful but firm. “Let’s not do this. Not tonight. There’s a baby coming. There’s family gathered. Can we, for once, eat and not break reality?”

Destruction lifts his goblet. “Hear, hear.”

Delirium bounces in her chair. “I BROUGHT STARDUST PUDDING!”

Despair, flatly says. “I brought silence. You’re all welcome.”

And finally, Destiny closes the Book. Just for a moment. “Then let us eat.”

And so they do.

Not in harmony. But not in conflict. For the Endless, that is enough.

Dream speaks little, and yet says everything in the way he watches Ravenna. Every blink, every smile, every breath she draws is a symphony to him. When her hand drifts to her belly, his follows. When she shivers, he adjusts her shawl. When she laughs, something ancient and weary in him brightens.

This is not devotion born of guilt or duty. This is love, whole and unshakable.

She is his queen. His wife. His salvation. His anchor. His beloved. His dream.

And she glows.

Not just with life—but with love.

And though Destiny’s garden may fade, and the table may one day stand empty, this moment—this stillness—is written. It is Dreamed.

In the space between dream and fate, it is everything.

And he watches her with the kind of love even stories cannot hold.