Morpheous part I

They called him Morpheous. No one knew where he came from or how he came to be. The lack of knowledge about him coupled with the fear of him fuelled speculation, and only added to the myth of Morpheous. When he came for you, it was over. He was the most feared person. At least in the few circles that knew of him. The very few circles. He travelled by himself, kept to himself, and spoke to few. He spoke with purpose. Each word delivered like a nightmare, like the ones he brought to people. The few lucky ones he let sleep at all. Or maybe that was all part of the mythos. Not many actually had met him. And lived. Mythos? No one knew of anyone who knew the man called Morpheous.

Which is why he was bewildered that they had found him at all.

It was dark where he was staying for the night, just as he preferred it. He was in his element. This was where he did most of his best work. Dark was not the absence of light, it was the other way. This was his motto, it was his creed. Let men never know light, never have something to love at all. Light was the absence of dark. Emptiness, to never be filled. The air smelled of lavender, it calmed him, soothed him. The machine letting it off hummed slowly, peacefully, misty air releasing powerfully scented lavender everywhere. He felt his way around his work, nimble deft fingers flying through the air as if there were no darkness here at all. The cloth was thick and firm in his hands.

The fact that they had found him spoke volumes about their legend. He had heard whispers on the streets. Some of the most hardened men, he saw it in their eyes, were terrified of them. Others were driven to madness. None denied their existence. None denied their mythos. But then again, none denied his. He knew all too well how mystery can help propel an act into legend. 

His forehead was lined with creases, age, and something new. Worry. Tinged with fear. His hands kept moving. In and out, around and around. He was sewing his torn cloth. He had narrowly avoided death.

He did not build the legend. The legend built him. And then he stepped into those shoes. He became worthy of them long after everyone else thought he already was.

But as to how they found him. He had refused to believe, always the skeptic, until he saw them. He got his wish.

He wished now, grimly, that he hadn’t.

But he got his wish. They had found him. They hadn’t needed to say who they were. Their attitude, their posture, that design on their clothes. Said it all.

There had been a book once. He had glimpsed it briefly. The old man had been lost in forgottenness, but when it came to the book, he was as sly as he had ever been. Morpheous wondered what happened to his old friend. The book had told the story. He had known they would come. The book had the same design. This was one of the three.